a-waischint

[a-waischint]

proud to say that i stretched these marks.

i began as all daughters do—small and soft. a blank book written over by various accountant’s analysis. they told me i was going to be rich as long as they can balance me with numerous conditions: flat stomachs, smooth thighs, fair skin, obviously no room for error nor imperfections. i inherited these illusions dressed as compliments and for a while, i tried to be their definition of whole—STILL, PRISTINE, UNTOUCHED. but, girlhood was never meant to last. with a few scratches of inevitable itches, my edges cracked and the skin followed suit.

Girlhood Illusions 20

               Mycaoivess, Capital 20

as time pass by, i grew into myself awkwardly. like a vine with too many directions and no wall to cling to, i’m growing taller, with longer legs. my skin pulled tight at the seams, unable to contain the stretch of change. i also watched lines bloom across my sides—silent witnesses to moments i couldn’t name: a growth spurt in hips, a first love heartbreak, a week of never feeling enough, a month of red flowing pain. days of tugging myself in a big shirt, nights of silent tears and doubting mirrors. i blamed my body for doing what bodies are meant to do, to E     X     P     A     N    D.  but resistance was never sustainable and neither was shame.

Growth Expense 12

               Bodily Resistance 12

i used to trace these silvery streaks like they were cracks, fractures in porcelain—clearly showing signs of unattractiveness. but this porcelain had already shattered long ago, what remained was flesh, lived-in and honest. the “ideal” was a myth sold to me in a perfectly balanced book and filtered entries. i began to unlearn what i had once budgeted into belief—that to be worthy, one must first be flawless, glossy, and silky. instead, i saw: my stretch marks formed symmetry, like tectonic lines, beautiful, mysterious, and captivating.

Accumulated Change 10

               Smooth Skin Ideal 10

there was no single revelation, no dramatic awakening. just one evening, under a warm florescent light and a peeking moonbeam, i caught my reflection laughing. i didn’t flinched, i saw softness and strength. a softness that had survived, that had held pain and still remained. the shame i once carried in silence slowly lost its value. i stopped covering, stopped apologizing, and accepted these marks, because they were mine. all of these are mine, my body is mine and i began to let them speak.

Shame Expense 38

Acceptance Revenue 38

each mark became not just a scar but an entry—a ledger of survival. when love didn’t arrive, i gave it to myself. when validation felt short, i looked inward. i STOPPED reducing myself to inches and started measuring in depth. my body did not betray me, not once and for some reason, it just recorded me. now, in every line drawn down my thighs or wrapped around my waist, i read the story of a woman who broke through silence and named herself ENOUGH.

Self-Doubt Drawings 10

Resilience Revenue 10

i remember, they used to say “hide what makes you real, because it highlights imperfections.” but now, i realize realness is the only honest wealth. 

      “I       OWN       THIS      SKIN,       WITH       ALL

      ITS      SHIFTING.       ALL      ITS       CHANGES.

      IT’S   NOT   STATIC,  IT’S   NOT   A  CURRENCY

      FOR      APPROVAL.     IT’S     A   CANVAS   FOR

      MEMORY,   FOR  MOTION,   FOR   BECOMING.”

the world still whispers that i’d be prettier with less of myself—but i no longer buy what they sell. i carry my marks like inheritance. i stretch and i stay whole.

Body Integrity Asset 10

               External Validation Liability 10

       

   MYCAOIVESS’ BECOMING

          Unadjusted Trial Balance

as of the moment i chose to accept my body full

Account Title                               Debit                       Credit

Body Integrity Asset                       10

External Validation Liability                                          10

Mycaoivess, Capital                                                        20

Acceptance Revenue                                                      38

Resilience Revenue                                                         10

Bodily Resistance                                                            12

Smooth Skin Ideal                                                           10 

Girlhood Illusions                             20

Growth Expense                               12

Accumulated Change                      10

Shame Expense                               38

Self-Doubt Drawings                       10

TOTAL                                             100                          100

this is not just a body.

it is a record, a balance sheet of survival.

and i—

stretched these marks,

yet i didn’t break.

[a-waischint]

petals shattering in silent bursts

ㅤㅤㅤ 

ㅤㅤㅤ ㅤㅤㅤ ㅤㅤㅤ PETALS DO NOT TEAR—

ㅤㅤㅤ ㅤㅤㅤ ㅤTHEY SHATTER IN SILENT BURSTS,

ㅤㅤㅤ ㅤㅤㅤ ㅤㅤ SOFT WRECKAGE OF GRACE.

ㅤㅤㅤ 

they say petals are fragile things, too soft, too sweet, but i've learned otherwise. a clean tear suggests intention, precision, something doable. but shattering? that's wild. it's honesty and that's what happened to me. 

ㅤㅤㅤ 

                                i used to think i had to be soft. i wore politeness

                                        like perfume, captivating the hearts of men

                                                          longing for someone who's obedient. 

                                                                       i smiled when i was uncertain, 

                                                                         or frightened, or full of rage, 

                                                                   whenever i am in front of others.

                                                                        i shrank myself to fit into their

                                                                         corsets, premade just for me,

                                                          shaping the woman i should become.

                                                                                  i let the world name me,

                                                                              before i ever asked myself

                                                                                                      WHO I WAS.

                                                                                      for years, i moved

                                                                                    like a flower presented

                                                                             in a vase; shaped, graceful,

                                                                             captivating, scented, silent

                                                                                                       and unseen.

ㅤㅤㅤ 

but one day, i broke. not because someone inflicted pain to me, nor someone intentionally pushed the vase i am in, but because i had been hurting myself. hiding behind expectations, behind obedience, behind the word "nice." it wasn't a collapse, i was shattered. a loud, glittering undoing. and in the aftermath—those sharp, glittering petals—i found something real. I FOUND ME. not the version everyone loved, not the girl who was easy to carry, they believed that is fragile. i found hyacinth. not the flower—in the garden of fairytopia, freshly picked to be arrange in e-laruns shop—but the root, the dirt, the wild.

ㅤㅤㅤ 

i am not fragile. i am not meant 

to be preserved in a vase. 

i was always meant to

grow wild

in open fields, with dirt

under my nails

and the sun in my mouth.

i wasn't torn,

i was shattered and

remade.

[a-waischint]

unburying the blades.

17th of April, 1969

dear mother,

i'm digging up the knives.

these are the ones buried in the garden of my girlhood, the FAIRYTOPIA—each one a freedom you fear I’d wield. i did not forget where they were kept, only forced myself to walk gently around the soil, pretending that the ache beneath my feet was something holy. something men will find worthy. you referred it as womanhood, i call it mutilation by manners.

these knives are not weapons of harm, they are my sacred tools: my right to speak, to choose, to break the chains you made me believe were pearls. you called disobedience as a sin, you made me believe that my existence is to satisfy the standards of men. you baptized me in the church of E-LARUN to silence me. but here i am—blood at the lip, truth on the tongue—reclaiming what was always mine. 

and now mother, if you'll allow me to speak:

mothers mold maidens, murmuring morals, mapping meekness.

masks made of memory, martyrdom mistaken for mercy.

my mouth, muted. my mind, monitored. my mistakes magnified.

meanwhile, men move monstrous, masterful, missed.

marrow marked with myths—mother-knows-best, martyr-makes-blessed.

midnight murmurs: make noise. make war. make me matter.

monsters made me. but unfortunately, so did you mother.

so, i will no longer mistake obedience for love, no longer allow these inherited beliefs that women are figurines molded to obey and nod their heads in every word spurted by their husbands. i cannot be the quiet girl you polished like silver for predators to admire. i am no longer the mirror reflecting your dreams. i choose recklessly, righteously, rebelliously. I CHOOSE ME.

you mothered me into silence.

i will woman myself into shattered glasses.

i have my blades now,

and i am not giving them back.

— your daugter,

     mercilessly, finally, mine, 

     mycaoivess.

[a-waischint]

in a never-ending loop of fiction and reality

TRIGGER WARNING !!! R18 CONTENT

i flipped the book to page 106, a few more pages to finally end this book. i’m savoring my red wine before finally reading the last chapter.

--- --- ---

The lantern’s little glow flickered against the mossy stone walls, barely cutting through the suffocating darkness. Elias sat beside the bloodstained table, the scent of iron in the air. A body lay sprawled across the rough wood—skin wide open, ribs thorn apart like a grotesque offering. His hands trembled as he traced the butcher’s knife along the exposed muscle, the rhythmic tick-tock of the rusted clock on the wall the only sound beside his own ragged breaths.

A whisper echoed through the silence, curling around his ears like a ghost. “Eat, Elias. You must.” The voice, soft as dying embers, coiled inside his skull. He clenched his jaw, staring at the raw, glistening meat before him. His stomach twisted, not in disgust, but in hunger. He hadn’t meant for it to go this far. The first time was an accident—a desperate act because of starvation. But the taste was sweet, rich, and intoxicating.

A gust of wind banged the lumber-made windows, making the lantern flicker. Shadows dancing and playing across the room, laughing over the mangled remains of what had once been a man. A friend, maybe. The details had blurred, lost beneath the haze of gnawing need. The clock chimed—a slow, deliberate sound, like a death knell.

Then—footsteps. Soft, hesitant. Someone was outside. His pulse hammered as he turned toward the door, licking the remnants of his last indulgence from his lips. The whisper returned, almost pleased this time. You won’t have to wait long for your next meal...

A knock. Gentle. Almost polite.

“Elias?” A voice called from beyond the door—familiar, hesitant. “It’s me, Jonah. Are you in there?”

Elias swallowed hard, his fingers tightening around the knife. Jonah. Another friend. Another possible feast. He could almost taste the marrow, the warmth of fresh flesh between his teeth.

He exhaled slowly, steadying his voice. “Jonah... it’s late. What are you doing here?”

A pause. Then: “I was worried about you.” A shift of movement. “People have gone missing, Elias.”

His lips curled into a mirthless smile. “Yes. I suppose they have.”

Jonah hesitated again, the wood creaking beneath his shifting weight. “Are you alright?”

A chuckle slithered past Elias’s lips, low and hungry. “I’ve never been better.”

Another gust of wind shrieked through the gaps in the window, and the whisper returned, this time singing—soft, lilting, sweet as a lullaby but soaked in malice:

Hush-a-bye baby, don’t make a peep... Or else in the cellar, your bones I shall keep...

Jonah’s breath hitched. “Elias... what was that?”

The lantern’s flame sputtered. Elias stepped closer to the door, running his tongue over his teeth. “Just an old song,” he murmured. “One my mother used to sing.”

Jonah’s hand scraped against the wooden frame. “Let me in. Please.”

Elias grinned, pressing his palm flat against the door. “Are you sure?”

Another verse slid from his lips, his voice a whisper against the heavy silence:

Ring around the roses, a pocket full of knives... Slice them down, watch them fall, see who still survives...

Jonah’s breath came quicker now, shaky, uncertain. “Elias... what’s wrong with you?”

The clock struck again. The whisper inside his skull hummed in delight.

Elias inhaled deeply, savoring the scent of fear. “Nothing at all, Jonah.” His fingers curled around the doorknob. “Come in... dinner’s almost ready.”

--- --- ---

i smiled as i finished the novel with a cliffhanger. i sipped the remaining blood on my fingernails as i savored the final chopped human meat, then suddenly a knock awoken my hunger once more.

“Elias?” a familiar voice behind the door. “It’s me, Jonah. Are you in there?”

[a-waischint]

these dishes didn't dirty themselves

the radio dial turns, skipping muffled voices, snippets of music, and overlapping chatter,

[bzzt zzrrrttt...] [krrrrsssshhhh....]

LISTENING: THE 3 O’CLOCK FILTH REPORT

“bringing you the dirt, the nasty, the truth—THIS IS 69.5 FM, the scrub!”

INTRIGERO: good afternoon listeners! this is your host, INTRIGERO, broadcasting the 3 o’clock filth report, where we scrub down the greasy underbelly of society and rinse away the filthy poltics! today’s breaking story, A DISASTER AT THE KITCHEN SINK! one that unfortunately mirrors the state of our government. let’s go live to our field correspondent, do you hear me mario?

[a quick transition—bzzt... blurp!! clink!!—followed by the splashing of running water, clatter of dishes, and an exasperated sigh]

MARIO: [phew!] good afternoon intrigero! you’re right, the scene here is [blorp...] catastrophic! a sink is overflowing with dirty plates, each stained with the unfulfilled promises and shady under-the-table deals. the forks are all tangled like a red tape, their tines clogged with gunk—like a forgotten investigation about political fraud.

MARIO: [clang!] a pot crashes into the sink! it’s disappointingly black, beyond recognition. the cups? [scrrrtch..] opaque with filth and when we asked the responsible party how these things got messier, all they can say was “it’s not my mess, the last guy left it this way.” what a classic excuse!

[beep... fzzt....—a sudden interruption because of “technical difficulty,” then a baritone voice started speaking]

TOLSIMOSO: [ahem!] look, let’s be honest, this is not just a mess; IT’S A FULL-BOWN CRISIS! we are witnessing the result of YEARS of NEGLIGENCE, filth builds up layer by layer, continuously being ignored until someone else has to deal with it. [splash!! scrub.. scrub..] your average citizen? they are soaked, trying to make things right.

TOLSIMOSO: but the poltics? THEY LET THE FILTH SIT, pretending it isn’t there. sometimes convincing and manipulating people that it’s clean, when it’s clearly not!

TOLSIMOSO: and finally, let’s go to the drain folks—because this is where all the DIRTY MONEY and EMPTY WORDS go, swirling in circles [glug.. glug.. glug] never to be seen again.

INTRIGERO: [whoooshhh] woah! powerful stuff! but let’s not forget everyone—these dishes didn’t dirty themselves. the hands that prepared the meals? the ones that piled the plates? SOME OF THEM BELONG TO US. we CHOSE the CHEFS, ELECTION AFTER ELECTION, believing their promises of gourmet feasts. but instead, WE GOT THE SAME OLD GREASY SLOP, SERVED WITH A SMILE, SOMETIMES WITH A LITTLE BIT OF MUSIC AND DANCE.

INTRIGERO: OKAY! we’ll keep you updated on this developing story, but early reports indicate this mess—like all messes created by the powerful—will likely be left for someone else to clean up.

INTRIGERO: until next time, keep your sponges ready and your eyes open. you’ve been listening to THE FILTH REPORT on 69.5 FM around Scritf Avenue. this is The Scrub, where the truth gets washed but never rinsed away!

[fade out... static... krrrrrsssshhhhh... silence.]

[a-waischint]

no account is balanced in an uncollected debt

TRIGGER WARNING !!! R18 CONTENT

↻ SYSTEM LOADING...

user: velcezgrouge from: SCRIT department password: nothingcanresistthewrathofpain.

.. processing...

--- --- --- she was presumed dead.

a saint who fell from grace, a martyr reduced to decimal points in an unbalanced ledger. little did they know, saints don’t die—rebirth is the proper term. they reshape, sometimes as something holier, most of the times, something monstrous.

the monitor opened. white light slicing across her face, a digital halo flickering on the edge of collapse. her fingers aggressively typed on the keyboard, each keystroke an audible crucifixion. --- --- ---

C:\velcezgrouge\SINFL\query>the_final_ledger

SOONTOBEUPLOADED.EXE ↖ LOADING...

=SUM(A1: A∞) = ERROR

--- --- --- once the spreadsheet come to life—cells filled with quiet sins written in digits, an error occurred. it’s not balanced. there’s an outstanding debt.

after a heavy breathing moment, a soft chime appeared. the system pings: --- --- ---

C:\velcezgrouge\SINFL\MESSAGEBOX.HGC (1) new message from the auditor

the auditor (2:45 am): do you have the finalized ledger? you (2:45 am): almost. there’s still one uncollected balance. the auditor (2:47 am): the numbers should match, there’s nothing left to collect. you (2:48 am): you're forgetting one, the molest3r. the auditor (2:50 am): execute for final reconciliation.

--- --- --- the gears in her head tighten. the accounts cannot be closed, the book cannot be balanced while a life is still owed.

she remembered his bloated form, grinning before licking his lower lip. his hands wandered young girls and boys before. they asked for mercy, but he laughed before stealing their youth. his breath, rancid with power, moaning their names, imagining an orchestra playing in the background.

as she entered the code needed to kill the molest3r, an unhappy smile curve through her lips. she pressed "ENTER" and the screen glitched. the eye hiding inside the molest3r’s room laughed silently as it capture the sinner. his skin started pilling off, worms started crawling on his bones. he was still alive—suffering with muted screams.

right after the eyeballs pop out of his skull, the sinful saint, velcezgrouge, begin adjusting the formula in the spreadsheet. the cursor blinks in perfect stillness as she types:

“=IF (molest3r_debt>0, Retribution (), CLOSE_ACCOUNT)”

and then, she runs the script. the financial records flicker, a life was subtracted for this year’s debt to be collected. the final payment was made in full. --- --- ---

C:\velcezgrouge\SINFL\MESSAGEBOX.HGC (1) new message from the auditor

the auditor (3:03 am): confirmed, ledger is reconciled.

--- --- --- she leans back to her chair. the numbers gleam in perfect, silent symmetry. she logs out and closed the laptop.

the sinful saint has purged another life again.