Parasite

I'm a parasite. We all are.

I’m a parasite. We all are. Humans.

Once, we weren’t. Once we were animals, living off Gaea like any other animals. At some point, we changed. I can’t pinpoint that exact moment, none of us can, but at some point, we evolved into parasites, living off each other. We stuck tendrils on those close to us, then based our beings on their emotions. Then when it’s all said and done, when they don’t have anymore to give, we move on to another food source. Whatever we say to justify these actions, it’s ultimately that: a justification for survival. We’ve reached a point where emotions sits atop the food pyramid. Money provides this, but there’s a diminishing return. Those without money used guilt. Those with too much money find different ways to feed. Those with just enough to live through the day, those are the true apex. We are also ultimately lazy. Our mediocrity feeds on our partner’s mediocrity, and the fear of losing that easy food source scares us from moving on, despite the food source having been tainted. Toxic. It’s food at the end of the day.

—-

I hate it, the morning, when the kitchen woke. The various beeps of the washing machine, the microwave, my husband’s alarm… then there’s the TV announcers, the sizzling oil, the incessant hum of the refrigerator, the rattling and banging my husband made when he got out of bed. All of it, ceaselessly assault my eardrums.

- Sorry, I overslept. Let me finish those for you. - He said, the toothbrush dangled outside of his mouth.

It was a Wednesday, his turn to make breakfast.

- It’s already done. But it’s egg and pancake again. - I said. The sentence came out as apologetic, which I didn’t mean for it to be, but it turned out that way and I couldn’t help it. I wanted to show him anger, or at least annoyance. Alas…

- That’s all right. - He just accepted it. Of course it wasn’t all right. I arrived home only 10 minutes ago and already had to do the cooking. Alas, there was nothing to do about it.

He put bread in the toaster and returned to the bathroom to finish. By the time he came out, the bread and eggs were cold, the pancake spongy. I asked if he would like to heat them up first, again sounding apologetic. Again he said it was all right. I asked if we could get a washing machine that didn’t beep so much. He said no, and commented how I was like a hamster, so sensitive to sound I could die from a loud noise.

- Had that actually ever happened?

- My uncle raised some who died from a fire alarm. I like hamsters. They are never in the way.

We got married through our parents. An arrange marriage, where a random friend said “I have a son of age,” and my Mother said “I have a daughter of age.” I said “I wanted someone quiet and clean,” and my Mother said “Then he’s your man. He’s looking for the same thing.” We met, and when our parents were out of the room, he repeated what he said in the kitchen:

- I want someone who I can get along with, but can also get out of the way. The ideal family for me doesn’t involve love of any sorts, and certainly no love-making.

I was hooked, and we got married not long after. Truth is, I’ve been with several men, some for years. But after a while, it always fell apart. I thought myself performed well, the role of a woman. They wanted more. If I cook once, they expected me to cook again, even though I’ve only come back from work. They failed to understand chores and duties and promises have to be put in certain contexts. Even sex. They expect me to always comfort them for their shortcomings, but to be turned on whenever they wanted. I would rather live with my parents, at least they would share the chores.

- That settled that then. Let’s start, not a marriage, but a partnership. I shall ask of you nothing unless I can give you the same in response. 50/50, as it truly should be.

And we shook hand. Since then, the partnership went well. We earned roughly the same, he a bit more to keep his ego intact. We had separate bank accounts, but share a spending account where we put in the same amount each month for food and rent. Unlike money, however, housework cannot be split equally. So we devised a system, and if one felt unjust, the other shall volunteered for more the week after. The sore spot was always Wednesday, when he had to go to work early, and I came back from work as dawn broke. Naturally, he had to cook those mornings, so I had food after a long shift. But of all the things great about my husband, he wasn’t a morning person. He would compensate by making dinners and washing the dishes, but by then I wasn’t tired anymore.

Then, there was a matter of having a child. We didn’t want sex, but our parents wanted kids. We wouldn’t mind IVF, but how is my husband going to compensate the burden of childbirth. The issues heavily breached our 50/50 arrangement. He proposed a compromise: his salary for the next year will be used solely for any cosmetic surgery required to make my body as close to the same as it was before. There was still the pain and emotional stress, but that was unreasonable and unquantifiable. So I reluctantly agreed.

- Do you want a boy or a girl?

- A girl will be less in the way.

- We can always hire a full-time nanny.

- Or give them to our parents. It was them who wanted the kid. They should be the one paying, for the IVF and the post-birth cosmetic surgeries.

- No, we had an agreement.

- Just… thinking about a child… - He said, and suddenly, he put his hand over his mouth, as if to prevent throwing up.

- Maybe I could even keep the child. After all, I gave birth to it. - Instead of putting a hand out to comfort him, I rubbed my own belly. I imagined the test tube that contained my husband’s semen, then the semen being sucked into a syringe, and pumped into my eggs. I remember it being transferred back into my uterus. I can feel the changes in my body, the subtle tingles, the warmth, the movements. My skin crawled, and I retched, alongside my husband.