This was the shelf life; the husk of Cosima’s biggest loss.

She was perishable. Idling emptily in the eclypse of her room, she wasted away in the sickly purple skin that she knew wasn’t hers.

To the winner went the spoils; she seethed at the prosperity she once had before the world seized it. For five years now, she has been spoiled: redundant, misshapen, and rancid. She shunned the sun behind dingy drapes; she couldn’t fly too close anymore. The grass on the other side of her noxious nook was bristle, but as she washed her eyeless eye sockets with the dreary domain of her apartment bedroom she’d never left, a fleeting thought told her that the other misfits from all walks of life were leading more verdant lives.

Her weathered fingers clutched vehemently at the seams of her sweatpants, keratin branches scraping the fabric in crooked motions. She couldn’t cry; she could only imagine the downpour of tears from the drought of her hollow sockets. She couldn’t sweat; her worries were whisked away to accommodate despair. She couldn’t think; her mind was blank, and—out of defiance—she once again wandered to thoughts she was warned not to entertain.

She clasped the chaotic bedsheets, her spindly figure shaking as she whimpered dryly in a once pristine voice savaged by radiation.

Believe it or not, this was the only thing she could do. The only thing she wanted to do.

Could she brandish herself to the world? Could she smile with her sallow teeth and arid lips that glitter and gloss couldn’t fix? Could she grace the magazine covers with flaky hips?

She hated answering truthfully.

Then, scornfully, in the sooty atmosphere of her room, she imagined unimaginable arrays of lights. She pictured the longing gazes of cameras. Then, to stab herself further in the wound that was her rotten body, she dreamed up action that she would never experience again. Flashes, accolades, hoots for poses—all of these are now directed at men and women alike, who remain digestible eye candy in a world where every form of life has degraded.

Gone are the days when she could fit lustrous apparel; gone are the days when she could fit the bill.

So, in line with her schedule, she took a beauty shot of the irretrievable past and continued to weep, her failing heart bleeding eternally on her sleeve.

Then, there was a click—a metallic one—that sounded from the bedroom door. She snivelled but softened slightly as the doors of her mind unlatched themselves. As the first droplets of light pooled into her room after countless hours of absence, she attempted to salvage the remnants of hope left trashed as she steered the thin of her neck towards some sort of saving grace.

The clutch on the silky bedsheets loosened, awaiting the only thing she looked forward to every day.

“Cosimama,” a bald man hummed endearingly, slumping against the doorframe with sloppy grace as bloodshot yet pacific black orbs stared out towards the expressionless woman. “Taking a break from a commission—I might just die if I have to draw another hand.”

A winsome chuckle chimed from his throat, a sound that didn’t diminish the pit in her stomach but illuminated it. A comfortable silence lingered over them, with Cosima’s grip tightening subconsciously as she watched the man fall smoothly into a grave expression. His inflamed eyes became focused as they flitted across the room, pinpointing many different trinkets.

He double-checked the white walls, devoid of any photos. Nothing else was added.

He noted the colourful iPhone that sat facedown on a decorated office desk. Untouched.

He peered at the ornate windows near the bedside, curtains obscuring the daylight. Still covering the glass.

He finally landed on Cosima, creeping into the gloom of the room for a better view. No open magazines. No remote in hand for the TV opposite the bed. No object of physical or mental harm in hand.

Everything tangible looked fine; the intangible worried him. So, as routine as it was, he would pry.

The man approached the purple woman slowly with an inquisitive look.

“Have you opened the curtains?” he’d ask, his round face tilting.

“No,” Cosima hoarsely replied, all her attention and mind focused on him.

“Hiding any beaut’ mags?”

“No.”

“Any pains?”

“No.”

They both found that answer difficult to swallow.

Silence took over, and Cosima grew impatient. He was taking his sweet time to sit down next to her.

Though, when he finally did, at the drop of a hat, she clung to his arm with urgent delicacy, mindful of the overflow of boils and rashes that bubbled from his hairless skin. Shifting her grip to the linen of his short-sleeved button-up, she embraced him further. She took in all of his musky scent and drowned herself in his chest. Tepid and courteous, the man took her bony figure into his arms, wrinkling his nose at the rank air she exuded. Though he persisted, thumbing her dull brown head of hair with care, minimizing the strands that came loose with little to no effort.

Love what you're reading? Discover and support the author on the platform they originally published on.

“Sin…” she murmured, his nickname being the only name that rolled off her tongue nowadays.

“We’ll talk in a bit. Just… calm down a tad for me—”

“Hmm…”

He blinked, then gave her a small smile that felt strained from exhaustion yet still held so much love that she pined for.

Hiding in her lover’s shirt was instinct; she had no shame in her greed. Sinjin was always within arm’s reach. His warmth was everything but reflective. She couldn’t see herself in him; he was opaque.

She became a monster at the whim of the universe, and that’s when she realized that all the mirrors were whimsical. They pulled at her leg and ridiculed her, but she knew what she saw in the glass wasn’t true. The abomination that stood on the other side wasn’t her; that’s not what she worked for.

It was a five-year running gag she wished would end. She was worn out but somehow continued to tug at the string of life because her lover would be the shield that made sure she lived out what she believed held no worth.

She didn’t want to be eaten. The reflections would devour her, so she evaded the truth that glass would show her and bent to her boyfriend’s touch.

Mirrors were now malevolent, so the blankness of his shirt and his silence was better to hold.

“Cosimama?”

“Hmm?”

“Let’s talk now.”

Cosima didn’t let go. She was used to Sinjin’s daily attempts to get her to speak her mind. The times when she had abstract thoughts—like all human beings—were lamented by her. Every time they had these introspective sessions, her emotions were linear and to the point. She’d even think that the man she cuddled with was silently picking her brain through telepathy. It was terrifying because it was possible in this day and age.

She stared up at Sinjin, who looked out into space with an empty expression. She didn’t fret; she knew he would come back to her in seconds, as per usual.

He blinked out of his stupor, turning to her malnourished face, where small violet wisps lingered weakly in the holes in her head. She knew she wasn’t the best sight at all, but the man was always able to give her a steady and soft smile every time they saw eye-to-eye like this. She felt safe.

“State of mind?” Sinjin questioned, furrowing nonexistent eyebrows.

“Uh… well…”

Cosima shyly looked to the side, Sinjin tilting her face back to him gently with a reassuring gaze.

“Eye contact, remember—”

“Right… right, yeah—sorry—”

“It’s fine; you can tell me anything.”

Cosima tensed but nodded, relaxing as his face lightened up more.

“I suppose—”she exhaled wearily—”I’m…doing same old, same old.”

“Any thoughts?”

“They… don’t change—sorry, Sin—”

“Hey, no… don’t apologize. If there’s something we can’t control, it’s where our minds wander, y’know?”

“Hmm…”

A comforting silence ensued once more, the only sounds being the late day's car horns on the street, the low squeal of police cars and ambulances, and then the dry cough she made against him.

Sinjin patted her back accordingly.

“I’ll get some water—”

“No. Stay. I’m fine—”

“Ok, then perish,” he’d grumble lightheartedly, rolling his droopy eyes with exaggerated swagger as he tore away from her sharp grip and stood up. He heard her attempt a throaty laugh, but as expected, she just hacked more and more.

The man rushed out of the room and returned with a lukewarm bottle, spinning the cap off and carefully sitting back down. Her hands were still airborne from the brief disconnect, but once he sat back down, they tugged at him again as if she were some child.

“How long am I going to have to spoon-feed you?” Sinjin jested, putting the bottle near her lips. He secured one hand under her chin to tip it up lightly, allowing the water to go through. She gulped it down; she had almost forgotten its taste.

“Sorry—”

“You’re also more touchy and feely today—”he aimed the empty bottle at a nearby trash can—”so I know there’s something else you’re worried about… and I know what it is.”

Cosima couldn’t truly hide anything; she always seemed exposed. No matter where she was, she was an open book for judging. That part of her life hasn’t changed for her since.

“Yeah…it’s weird.”

“It’s something that I—no, we may just regret but—”he kept the bottle down to focus on the conversation and tapped it against his swollen wrist—”I feel like this may be the only way to get closer to… y’know, some actual answers.”

“Hmm… who’s this person we’re meeting with tomorrow?”

“I have the slightest clue what parents name their child ‘Theta’, but that’s our lil’ dealer tomorrow, I guess,” Sinjin huffed in disbelief, gaining a softer hug from Cosima to make sure he doesn’t overwork himself regarding their life decisions. “He lives here in Long Beach, fortunately, and… uh, his LinkedIn profile said that he was a Bio professor—so, like, I mean, we’re getting mutant animals from someone that knows his stuff, right?”

“I think so, yeah—”

“But most importantly, are you comfortable with this?” Sinjin asked, a stern overlay to his low voice as he stared deeply at Cosima’s agape mouth, pondering the question. The smell became much clearer to him, so he waited for her response with bated breath, watching her fiddle with the buttons on his shirt.

Moments passed as she contemplated because, until now, she had never stepped out of fashion. She was so used to this new clockwork life of doing nothing that she even let this incoming appointment—which may lead her in the right direction—slip her mind. They’d discussed this idea for weeks now, but as she waded at bedrock level in her mind, restoring herself to normal seemed as much of a pipe dream as her leaving the apartment more than once a week.

Though, she couldn’t ignore the call. It wasn’t the call for adventure; it was the casting call that would pull her back into the atmosphere she cherished. She despised the thought of stooping to this voguish ordeal that was the Harmonization culture, but on the brink of expiry, she relented to the ‘if’s.

If there was truly a method to the madness. If there was truly a rare remedy out there to obtain. If there was truly a way to reverse the damnation she received.

If she had no intrinsic value, did she have anything to lose?

No.

“I’ll be fine.”

Sinjin squinted suspiciously at her response, causing her to divert her gaze away from him, only for him to once again put themselves on the same level.

“Contact—”

“Yeah yeah—”

“Tell the truth—”

“I said I’d be fine, Sin! You’re stingy as fu—”

She broke into more gravelly coughing fits, prompting Sinjin to adjust himself slightly so he could pull her into him more. The man bit his lip as he held back a smirk.

“You’re more expressive when you say more than one sentence. Almost like that’s a good thing, don’t you think?” He finally chucked the bottle towards a trash can, missing it completely and hissing. “Crap.”

Cosima didn’t reply; she just buried herself as much as she could into his chest. Sinjin’s mouth straightened, and he reverted to his usual deadpan look.

“We’ll do this, but if at any time you want to back out, make the call and I’ll comply as well,” Sinjin assured, twiddling a loose strand that dangled from her hair. “This decision isn’t very conventional, but—”

“If many are doing it, why shouldn’t we? I want my identity back, Sin—I can’t keep living like this.” Then her throaty voice became throatier as she fell into gruff hiccups and sobs once more. Sinjin’s expression became darker, his droopy eyes staring at the floor with disdain for the world as he soothed his mutant lover with gentle hands.

“Ah… so you’re sure. Fine by me.”

He fell into silence once more and stared into nothingness, allowing her to let it all out. Just another component of his daily routine.

In an act that he knew was humdrum, he took hold of the remote from the bedside table and angled his hive-infested hand towards the TV. He clicked the power button with drab expectancy and was proved right as the TV flickered on, mute headlines bombarding the screen:

‘IMMUNITY OUTBREAK ALERT! RAMPAGING MUTANT FOUND TO BE A VESSEL FOR RADIATION IMMUNITY!’

Expected.

The sirens beyond their apartment bedroom were in discordant symphony with the small wails of the woman in his arms. He looked at her once again, making sure she was still turning away from everything behind her. The flashing TV, the windows, the mirrors, the world—any reflection possible would wolf her down in a heartbeat. So, despite her odour, he allowed her to sink closer to him—sink into something hazy. He teared up.

Could she leave it?

Could she leave the shelf life—the husk of her biggest loss?