The Drain
Isaiyan Morrison

My mother warned me about this. She told me it would grow like an undesirable fungus and take patience and a little elbow grease to rid my bathroom of it. Her constant nagging, her annoying use of the English language ... I disregarded my mother. She didn't know anything. Usually it was the bottle of vodka that spoke for her. It spoke in tongues that I can easily describe as bullshit. In addition, she was jealous of my drain, which was much thicker, much lovlier and more horrid than hers.

I pinched it. I poked it. I mixed it in with pieces of earth, dead human skin and used toilet paper. It smelled and looked sexually repugnant. I found that it was easier to ignore it in its beginning stages, letting the unwanted hair sink between the metal holes, grasping for attention like a thick string of filth. I let it gather and marinate. I mixed it with old water, warm piss, my masturbated phlegm and blood from my uterus. My daily activity included staring at my creation when it was at its finest, especially when it blocked the metal holes causing me to shiver in disgust and sigh in exuberance.

Soon the matted hair turned colors — from a dark black to a lighter brown. Soon my art lost its radiance. My goddamn mother and her goddamn bleach products, destroying my gathered work because we didn’t agree. All because what she thought was the only solution. Destroying my sublime drain and its flawless grime and soot was God’s will, she said to me. My baby was nothing more than a sordid image to her. So I hid what she could not destroy of my sinless sludge under a newspaper and when that became insufficient, I soaked it in soapy water and locked my bathroom door so my muck could be left alone … to marinate, to gather, to stain and to disgust.

The drain did its job well. I was so proud to regard my work of mixed filth, blocking the metal holes with decrepit micropieces of unwanted flesh stuck between the crevasses of rusted drainage screws and bloodied build-up. It gathered indiscriminately, creating smells of rot and smells of stale water that burnt the air. The smells of old shampoo, conditioner, unknown substitutes and unwanted nothings filled my hairy nostrils. How beautiful this drain was to me. How beautiful it worked for me.

Isaiyan Morrison’s first published story appeared in Whispers of Wickedness. She spends her time in a possessive education environment, practicing martial arts, and cuddling with her cat Pookie while writing and researching about Ancient Egypt. She's afraid to place her pen down, fearing the wrath of her cat. She would recommend you to visit her website but she's too broke to pay for it. Email her at isaiyan@gmail.com.