I’ve never had anything of my own just for me. Something that family or colleagues or time wouldn’t meddle with. I’ve had to give up playing the guitar as well as masturbating because whenever I attempt either, one of my flatmates will bang against the wall and shout to “keep it down”. Whether I wear my hair a new way to my job in the pharmacy, take a boyfriend to see my parents, or try just about anything new—the court of unsolicited opinion is always in session. Worst about it is that they’re all right. Once the rot of time sets in, the novelty wears off, I can see that I look stupid with shorter hair, and that Peter, whom I adored just hours ago, annoys the hell out of me with the constant clicking of his teeth and the habit to make all conversations about either his start-up business or the fall of the Roman empire. Everything and everyone rots. So I’ve had to push everything and everyone out and away. Until now.

I met my date on one of the apps. I’ve forgotten which one, and, to be honest, the date’s name, too. We went to some fancy new place in Old Town, likely already closed down again. Nothing lasts long these days. I soon sussed out that my relationship with the guy with the coiffured beard opposite me—admittedly a snack—holding forth on crypto-currency podcasts wouldn’t last longer than one ultimately forgettable night, either.

But then came the food, served by a waiter whose snootiness matched the prices. Little lively spiced cakes, possibly containing some live ingredients, wriggling slightly. The movement underneath the crust made me think of miniature versions of those sandworms from Dune. Just as a tiny molehill was forming, the waiter shouted:

‘Quick, eat! Don’t let it breach!’ Both of us instinctively reached for cutlery, only to be loudly corrected: ‘One cake, one bite!’

They were just the most delicious thing. Actually, “delicious” might not be the word. It was not about taste, more about the feeling in my mouth: like an explosion, not of flavours, but an actual explosion, entailing pressure and pain. Definitely the most filling food I’d ever had. Even after I’d wolfed all of the cakes down, they kept doing their thing inside my gut, expanding, tentacles writhing in agony and ecstasy.

I leave my date’s place in the morning. He’s already gone so I’m having a look around the flat. Lifeless like a show-room, like so many apartments, and so many guys. No matter how nice they look or rich or intelligent they are or pretend to be, it’s still the same old. Not exciting enough to do it again, not fulfilling enough to last for more than a night. The second act of the night had been nothing special, especially compared to act one, those amazing cakes. But I did get a glorious finale, once the guy was fast asleep. This makes it sound like it had all been planned out, like there needed to be a third act, but it wasn’t. It’s just when all the excitement inside my stomach was fading, I needed another taste of it, and tucked right into the sleeping beauty.

I arrive back home during the morning rush to the facilities, and by the time everyone has done their business in the bathroom and left for work at the call centres and accountancy firms etc, I’ve made my peace with not going to work today. I need to digest the previous night, and fall asleep instead.

That’s when the idea takes form. Not consciously; it’s all gut feeling. I’m still feeling the best part of the night inside me. The once-spongy mass in me has had all moisture drawn from it and hardened into a solid brick, heavy, centering me, not moving as hectically anymore. I will keep this with me, deep inside, where my body puts everything I’ve ever gone through. I’m not just going to let this go through me.

The decision is the easy part though.

Clenching my insides with sheer willpower to keep things inside only works for a few days, during which my body periodically cramps in waves radiating out from my bowel. When I can’t hold on much longer, I insert a physical stopgap; a nice reprise of pressure and pain. But that makeshift solution won’t hold forever, so I resort to some help from my day job. There are tons of medications with the side effect of constipation, and I know where to find them. I throw in a few whose primary action is to slow down digestion, too. How often have I pushed things down only for me to later explode all over the place? Not this time.

It’s liberating to no longer need to use the shared toilet; so much so that I decide to also do away with the need for urination, using similar mechanical and pharmaceutical methods to before. But liberation isn’t what I’m after. Nor is commitment. I’m growing, finally. Even John, the most oblivious flatmate I’ve ever had, has told me he finds me more attractive. At the same time, I’m getting less oblivious of his charms too—he might not make a good mate, but a fine meal.

The overall process is far from being finished. Everything and everyone I ingest will continue to be compacted inside of me, made denser and denser. The gravitational pull of the black hole forming inside of me brings the world closer to me, and time moves more slowly, less frantic. I’ve always known one thing: when I go, I will not explode, but implode.

Or maybe I’m just rotting inside, and the rot of time that everything and everyone is subject to outside is claiming my insides too. That’s fine too, now that I’ve at least had something of my own for a bit. Who says you cannot eat your cake and have it too?

Gregory Lawrence is an autistic translator, writer and student of medical humanities. Before he was confirmed as autistic, he was known only as proudly weird, and that sense of weirdness has also seeped into his writing and interests. Apart from horror, speculative and weird fiction, these include various varieties of heavy metal music, linguistics, constructed languages, disability/neurodiversity advocacy, films and history. Originally from Germany, he now resides near Edinburgh. His socials and words can be found here: https://linktr.ee/gregory.lawrence