DEATH BY CONDOMS

The air is stale and reeks of vomit, piss, shit, and strawberries. It will soon reek of rotten flesh, and there’ll be maggots on my sofa.

I’ve watched this apartment grow cobwebs and eat dust; furnished, just the way I left it, but forgotten. Then he moved in. Lanky with a bush of curly hair on a large head and a clean-shaved face, he had light brown eyes under a pair of bushy eyebrows, acne scars on hollow wheatish cheeks, uneven teeth, and a distinct pair of lips.

My step-father was elated to get the apartment off his hands and let it go for a pitiful amount of cash. I suppose it was all this guy could afford, and I was happy that vile man would stop coming by once every few months, showing the apartment to prospective buyers or renters and cursing me when he failed, but I didn’t care for a roommate either. I tried to scare him away the evening he settled in; ruffling curtains, messing with lights, knocking things over—the usual, but he didn’t notice, and if he did, he didn’t care. I gave up and started watching him as if his life was reality TV, a bad one.

The first morning, he spent hours before the mirror fixing his hair and spritzed a hellish amount of Axe deodorant on himself before leaving for work. But he came back alone, which was amusing since he had a box of dotted condoms on his bedside table. I’d assumed he was good with the ladies, like my cheating ex. His enthusiasm and confidence had waned when he walked back into the apartment. He washed up, had dinner delivered, and ate it by himself like I used to. Then he made a call.

I laughed my ass off that first night. But his days and nights, their repetitions, seemed like a time loop he couldn’t get out of.

Every morning, he’d strut out, confident and enthusiastic. Every evening, he’d return a sad lonely man. Every night, he’d call someone new, stutter, and ask if he could ‘do friendship’ with them. Sometimes, he’d send money and they’d ‘do friendship’ for an hour over the phone while he masturbated. Sometimes, his face would fall and he’d disconnect; then spend the rest of the night jacking off to free porn clips of ‘hardcore romantic fucking’ and ‘passionate fuck’ on his phone until he’d tire and fall asleep, his lump and sticky cock hanging out of his boxers.

Months passed. I pitied him.

Then one day, he managed to bring home a girl on a Monday evening. I was surprised; didn’t think he had any friends, let alone a girlfriend. She had a bag pack, wore a Batman tee, and smelled of dewy flowers and sweat; they talked about computers and comic books, ate takeaway burgers and fries from KFC, drank coke, and laughed. When she got up to leave, he hugged her and tried to pin her down, his lips puckered, ready to kiss. She screamed, pushed him away, and ran out the door. It’d rained after, and he crouched in the corner of his bedroom and wept, hitting himself on the head and muttering ‘bokachoda’ to his knees over and over. He reminded me of someone and I didn’t pity him that night. The next day, he limped home with a black eye, a busted lip, bruised ribs, and a sprained ankle.

The time loop was broken, and things changed.

He mostly stayed in; sometimes, he’d leave the apartment in an old pair of shorts and a t-shirt, and return with a bag of groceries. At first, he didn’t work; then he’d work on his laptop once or twice a week, communicating through e-mails and text messages, and receive small amounts of money on his phone. He’d barely shave or shampoo his hair, and he’d eat refrigerated rotis and sabzi for lunch and dinner which the home delivery service brought him on Mondays and Thursdays.

His solo sex life took a turn too. He’d jack off all day to free porn clips of ‘extreme rough sex’, ‘extreme rough gangbang’, and ‘abusive rough sex’ on his laptop. Months into it, he’d do more than just jack off to those clips. He’d hump and strangle a side pillow whilst growling and howling like a wounded animal; sometimes, he’d manage to tear it apart, then go out and buy a new one and it’d meet the same fate.

I worried this time. However, a couple of months later, he stopped.

He stopped jacking off to violent porn or mutilating pillows. In fact, he didn’t watch porn at all. He found a new hobby instead and the apartment was suddenly stocked with boxes and boxes of strawberry-flavored condoms.

I could’ve been relieved but every morning, instead of making tea and toasting bread, he’d boil a saucepan of water, turn off the stove, tear open two or three packets of the condoms, and plop them in. Then, he’d fish out the condoms and throw them away, drink the water and lie down, smiling, eyes glazed. He’d have a condom in hand and sniff it until the scent thinned out or he fell asleep. In the evening, he’d wake up, refill the saucepan, and turn the stove back on.

Soon, he stopped having food delivered, survived on biscuits, and instead of drinking that shit and passing out twice a day, he’d drink it four or five times. And each time, the number of condoms he soaked in the hot water increased by one or two, and eventually, three or four; until he stopped eating, taking a bath, or working, and stopped leaving the apartment, cleaning it, or opening the windows to let in fresh air.

It’s been weeks.

Tonight, his bony hands and legs stick out at awkward angles from the stained and frayed once parrot green sofa on which he lies, naked and covered in dry vomit, and fresh piss and shit. His heart still thumps away, slow and erratic, but he won’t last. As I wait for him to pass so I can say ‘hello’, and introduce him to my side of the veil, I wonder why he chose to die by condoms. Couldn’t he just have hung himself as I did?