"Renaissance Lagoon" by Jae Mazer
Renaissance Lagoon
by Jae Mazer
“Will it hurt?” Cleo asked.
“Of course it’ll bloody hurt, you daft minge!”
Cleo ignored the homeless man draped over a nearby bench.
“Ma’am?” the representative said. “Sign here.”
The representative had glowing skin, nary a wrinkle or foot of crow on that perfect fucking face.
No thoughts in one’s head result in no creases on the skin, Cleo’s mother used to say.
But her mother was dead now. And Cleo’s husband was gone, run off with some slit much tighter and wetter than her own. Just like Cleo’s dad had before spurting out any siblings.
Cleo was all alone.
“Ma’am,” the representative said, her voice a staccato scold.
“Y-yes, sorry,” Cleo said.
Cleo signed. The rep rolled her eyes, her falsies fluttering in the warm, tropical breeze, and tapped the next screen. Cleo had to click a button to transfer the money.
All Cleo’s savings, and the money from selling her land, house, and vehicles.
She clicked.
Renaissance Lagoon was unaffordable to most. If it weren’t, overcrowding would be a problem.
The representative handed Cleo a filleting knife, which she took with trembling hands.
“Like scaling a fish,” the salesperson had told her over the phone. Cleo imagined glistening scales like flakes of rainbow fluttering through the air. Now, she imagined blood. Pain.
“It ain’t what it seems,” the homeless man heckled. “You’ll never leave the beach, and you’ll be—”
A wet laugh thick with smoke and rot belched from his throat. Cleo had a mind to use the knife to excise his tongue. But she had more important things to do.
Cleo peered through the gates, the bars like fingers blocking an uncomfortable movie moment. She spied lovers fucking on the sand, their smooth bodies gliding, pulsating in perpetual orgasm. There was a tiki bar with endless drinks, surrounded by a cerulean moat, waves lapping at tipsy, serene patrons. Everyone was perfection. Skin smooth as glass, hair thick and luxurious, nary a scar or blemish in sight. Cleo became acutely aware of the cellulite puckering her backside and thighs, of the paunch of her tummy.
A beep, a clank, and a golden gate opened, granting Cleo access to Renaissance Lagoon. After she passed through, the gate clanked shut, barring her in like a life sentence.
Cleo shed her sundress, exposing every nook and cranny to the elements. The sun blazed, crinkling Cleo’s skin. It didn’t matter. No more would Cleo concern herself with sun damage. Soon, there would be no more sunburns, no more pain, no more shame. Only powdery sand, crystal waters, peace.
The beach lounge chairs were lined up beneath a nearby cliff in a too-blue lagoon, each occupied by a Slate—mannequins with no joins, solid figures that lacked features or definition.
Cleo didn’t hesitate. If she did, she might indeed chicken out. She trekked across the beach and waded into the ankle-deep turquoise water. Purple was her favourite colour, so she chose the Slate on the lavender lounger.
Cleo knelt.
“Hello,” Cleo said, her voice barely a whisper.
The Slate did not respond. Of course it didn’t. It had no ears with which to hear and no mouth with which to speak.
Cleo fondled the knife in her hand, its gilded hilt catching the sunlight and glittering. She yelped as she plunged the blade into her forearm until it scraped against bone. With a scooping motion, she carved out a hunk of meat.
One for me, she thought as she placed the ribbon of flesh on her tongue. She hadn’t eaten in a full day, knowing she’d have to get through this, but she vomited regardless. Bile filled her mouth, coating the meat. After the heaving subsided, she sealed her lips and bit down. Her meat crunched, juices squirting over her tongue, coagulating with the bile. Cleo gave up on chewing and swallowed the chunk whole, gagging it down like rancid semen from a repulsive lover.
With a waterfall of tears pouring form her eyes and drool pregnant with blood dripping from her lips, she sliced the knife below her collarbone, mewling as she sawed off her entire breast.
Cleo held out her tit to the Slate.
The Slate stirred.
Lips like bruised labia bloomed on its face, parting in folds, jagged obsidian teeth lining the inside in circular rows. Its grey tongue circled the nipple once, twice, then it slurped down the breast, gulping it like a snake.
Cleo straddled the Slate, her vulva resting atop its lack of sex, and breathed hot, bloody breath into its newly birthed mouth.
That was all it took. The Slate heaved as if in the throes of climax and latched its lips over Cleo’s. Its teeth gnashed, ripping off Cleo’s lips, her cheeks, her wrinkles. It chewed her teeth like broken glass. Cleo’s eyeballs popped between the Slate’s teeth, their jelly oozing down its throat, yet Cleo still saw everything, though through a haze of red mist and yellow ichor. She heard everything too—bones splintering, intestines gobbled like sausages squelching with the remainder of fecal matter in her body.
It was pain and euphoria all at once. Then it was over.
An exhale forced itself from Cleo like a punch, her eyes peeling open, blinded by the sun. Her hands fondled her body, her face; everything was smooth silk and supple fruit. She was on her back on the lavender lounger, the remains of her old self swirling in the turquoise lagoon like menstrual blood down a toilet. She plucked a piece of floating gristle out of the surf and placed it on her tongue, savouring the rich flavour.
“Everything is fine now,” she said in a bitonal, guttural voice through an uncomfortable smile—a gash that stretched across her face from ear to ear.