Condition Report by Fantine Banulski
Condition Report
The voices came through the speakers at first, a crackling fuzz that interrupted heavy bass and scratched vinyl. Then they started whispering through the faucets. The mould-ridden shower would spurt on, and before the water had time to evaporate, a hissing moan would slip out. Easily attributed to rusty pipes. Not that the sharehouse residents cared to listen. Nor did they notice the patches of damp that began to resemble watching eyes, or the hairs of various colours—always longer than any of the residents'—that tangled around hinges and door handles.
JANUARY
The first time I entered the crumbling Victorian terrace, I had been seeing the boy for three months. ‘The boy’ is what my friends referred to him as—a lovingly condescending comment on his perceived averageness, which I dutifully ignored. They didn’t understand that he often messaged me first and listened when I spoke.
He was studying psychology and philosophy and could explain why I sometimes got so nervous I couldn’t leave my bed. The root of the issue was my father. I’d never before considered how his stoicism, his emotional distance, was as damaging as if he had not been physically there. My overbearing mother was also a contributing factor but to a lesser degree.
When he mentioned an upcoming party his house was throwing, then, for the first time, invited me, all I could do was hope he didn’t notice the blush creeping up my neck. His friends would be there. I would meet them. He wanted me to meet them.
His inner-city sharehouse had become a fondly thought of character in my life, taking on an unreachable, imposing quality, like a campfire legend.
Labyrinthine alterations had been made by the previous owner in order to accommodate a dental practice, resulting in hallways that felt changeable and difficult to exit. The boy told me that it was a common occurrence to be burst in on whilst naked, as the locks never seemed to, well, lock. Every room (aside from reception; now a beanbag-filled living space) had its own sink. The sharehouse residents filled porcelain with plants, books, and dirty laundry—sometimes all three. After particularly rowdy evenings, at least one sink would be discovered filled with frothy, chunky vomit.
I gave up trying to keep track of names mentioned, as bodies were constantly flowing in and out; a semester abroad, a DJ gig in Berlin, a stint at the psych ward, back to the family home after being let go, and, of course, irreconcilable personal differences. One too many packets of ramen missing. Three weeks with no clean spoons. Cat shit overflowing in the large stall divided bathroom. Some just can’t hack it, the boy had proudly told me.
The night of the party he was waiting at the station, typing on his phone. His dark curls glowed blue, obscuring his face and rendering him anonymous. As I descended the escalator, nervously fiddling with the gold hoops that I had bought specifically for the occasion, my heart began to pound. When he looked up and was himself, I stifled a sigh of relief.
‘You didn’t have to meet me.’ I said, hoping my heated cheeks weren’t noticeable.
‘Don't be stupid,’ he replied, slinging a heavy arm over my shoulder, ‘it’s getting dark. Better safe than sorry.’ He punctuated this with a chaste kiss and lightly caressed my earrings. Pleasure rippled down my spine at his approval.
Then he was guiding me out of the station and down the street, giving me a summary of who was invited, who wasn’t, and why. I was happy to let my body go limp, to be taken this way and that. The warmth of the kiss had spread to my stomach. I imagined this is what it felt like to be high. This was going to be a good night.
JULY
‘With his 18-year-old coworker,’ she whispers, eyebrow arched and smirk barely concealed. ‘Josh—do you know Josh? You know Josh right? I love Josh, everyone loves Josh, well, anyway, he walked in on them, and everyone was at that party. Everyone knows.’
I glance in the direction of her tilted head. To the corner where a short, bleach-blond dude—in what is possibly an ironic trench coat—gesticulates to a small gathering of similar-looking men. Haloed by a floor lamp, his curls shine translucent yellow.
Despite his disciples' bodies being turned towards him, rapt, nobody seems to notice when red wine arcs out of his glass. The droplets disappear behind him—no, into someone behind him. A woman, invisible until that moment. Her revelation is startling.
She wears a luxurious orange jumper, so soft that the fuzz dissolves in the warm glow, blurring her at the edges. A shameful bitterness that I find often accompanies want, rises in me. I sip my wine and watch as she raises a hand—elegant in a way my sausage fingers could never be—and wipes the droplets from her cheek. Her gaze is steady on the man, movements vague as if scratching an itch or moving a stray hair.
The story must be reaching a climax as the man's jerking grows more sporadic.
‘And it’s, like, no, that makes it Freudian!’
The group erupts into laughter and the woman’s dark hair falls like a curtain, body twisting towards the shadows. At the same time a drunken raver stumbles before me. I crane my neck over his mousy brown mats, annoyance bubbling. He interprets my looking anywhere but at him as interest, and bobs his head to catch my eye. I dismiss his gaze with a curl of my lip. By the time he stumbles off, muttering something that sounds an awful lot like bitch, the woman has turned back. She is, oddly enough, winking. A struggle plays out on her face, between a spasming eye and wide smile, twisting her expression into something surreal. It is only when she pulls her sleeve down past her knuckles, and draws it up to her cheek, that I recognise her wink as a wince. Dark clouds bloom in the white of her eye.
My breathing quickens as I take in this scene; the drying drip marks on her neck and the way no one will meet her gaze. The urge to shake her, to scream in her face, overwhelms me; boiling my blood. Then, as quickly as it took hold, the fervour fades. A hollow, white noise sensation washes over me.
I turn away and find myself drifting down a hallway. I peer into rooms that seem endlessly dark. The place reeks as if an entire women’s perfume aisle has been emptied into the vents. What a shithole. My Tinder date is nowhere to be found. Typical. I open a door, hoping for a bathroom, and am instead met with shelves and shelves of wrapping paper. It’s the cheap kind you get at two-dollar shops, covered in garishly sharp gold stars. The neatness of the rows, the reverence of the crisp folds, unsettles me.
I retrace my steps and find that my recent, nameless informant has moved on. Her head is now ducked in conversation with another. She laughs softly before covering her mouth in mock shame and shrugging at her co-conspirator. Their gazes linger on the corner. I don’t want to look. But I do.
The woman is still there, smile as firm as ever. If it weren’t for the trail of mascara that runs down her rosy cheek, and the glint of her gold hoops as she rocks gently back and forth, it would seem as though no time had passed.
A dark, flashing streak curves across her chest. I watch helplessly as it grows, devouring the delicate wool.
APRIL
The first time, he rolled off me and checked his phone.
On the toilet, I stared at the bloody Rorschach mark in my underwear and tried not to think about my mother. It isn’t supposed to hurt, she’d told me. Virginity is a construct; pain a sign that something is wrong; sexual liberation mine.
I had friends who would go out and not return until the next morning, hungover and ready to spill every detail. We’d laugh until we cried. The embellished recounts often gave the impression of going down a waterslide. All slip-sliding awkwardness.
Strangely enough, I did feel like laughing. I certainly wasn’t about to cry like it was the 1950s.
Virginity is a construct, the chorus of feminists chanted in my head. They kept good time with the metronomic throbbing in my lower back.
Underwear around my knees, I crab-walked to the basin. The vanity was open before I had time to register that this house would not likely contain pads. Definitely no tampons—that was probably for the best. What if he wanted to again?
The stained shelves were littered with disposable razors, empty pill bottles, and crusted moisturizers. I was studying this anthropological display of a man in his early twenties when a tap came from below.
I froze. It came again, louder.
Tap
I carefully lowered my gaze. The bloodied cotton glared up at me, unwavering. It was so red. I waited for a mouth to morph and call me Mama. I’d had my period countless times but this was different. I’d never been scared of my period.
Tap.
A heat crept up my neck. The strange knock was definitely coming from below the sink. Of course, it was. Tears threatened to spill, and I silently threatened them right back. Eyes on the door and ears attuned to the strange sound, I lowered into a squat.
Tap.
It was wrong to snoop…
Tap.
The doors opened to reveal old pipes, no doubt rusted through. I sighed. Mouldy toilet paper, bottles with faded labels. The usual. As my thighs began to burn, a glimmer in the shadowy depths caught my eye. The tapping picked up pace. My arm was consumed by the darkness and then a large glass jar was in my hands. It wasn't dusty, or mouldy. It was smooth and cool. Silence enveloped the bathroom.
In the flickering fluorescence of the overhead light, the contents shimmered. A feather here, a heart there. Hoops and hooks. Silver studs and dangling diamonds. The jar was filled with earrings. I shook it slightly, and light refracted through the bounty, sending slivers across the floor and causing the small pool of red below me to sparkle.
I let out a sharp breath. Oh no. I banished the jar from whence it came and hobbled to the toilet. As I wound toilet paper around my shaking palm I suddenly felt very young and very, very small.
Through the wall, came the unmistakable groan of a body lifting off a bed. I unravelled faster, my mummified hand expanding, and glanced at the bloody puddle. I blinked once, then again, harder. There was nothing there.
Slowly, as if not to scare away my DNA, I approached. The tiles were marked. But the stain was faded, absorbed as if I had spilt spaghetti bolognese months ago.
Footsteps echoed in the hall. I shoved the paper into my underwear and turned on the tap.
‘Come in,’ I replied to the short rap on the door.
The boy stood at the threshold. For a moment we just looked at one another. Then he smiled at me—at me. Euphoric relief heated my chest and buzzed through my limbs, stilting my movements and coaxing out an embarrassingly breathy giggle. In his hands, he held the night sky. Gold foil stars in a sea of navy, a nostalgically simple impression of a starry night. A dark silk ribbon held the crinkled paper together. The gift was badly wrapped, endearingly so. I melted towards him, towards his smile and the spoiler of orange fuzz that peeked from a split corner.
