Sparagmos

Sparagmos (2026) by Arthur Hovenkamp
The soft creature is emanating a harmonious hum.

My cat, which I have named Agave, is purring on my chest with short, creaking intervals. Her whiskers are directly in my face. Her eyes are closed, she is feeling safe, while being so close to a pit of despair.

Yesterday I went out again. Some of my friends invited me to go to a terrace in town after dinner. They had dinner together beforehand. I was not invited. Instead, I took a walk through town. I did not enjoy the walk, nor did I enjoy sitting on the terrace. I wanted to. But, once I got there, the seats filled with my tipsy friends, I couldn’t.

“We haven’t seen you in weeks! We walked by your window often! With your curtains closed! We must’ve holed yourself up to write again! That’s the life of an author for you! Always lonely! But you know you can talk to us, right?”

Sure, I can talk to them, but every time I have done so I have pushed them further and further away. Up until the point that when they do invite me to join them, I seem to push them away even further. Talk is not what I need.

Throughout the evening and night, I sank into my chair and into ennui just as I had pushed my friends away. At nine o’clock my ennui and I decided to go home.

“See you again soon! It was fun! You know you can talk to us, right?”

They said they would share photos, but I did not receive any. They must’ve sent them to the other group chat, the one I am not in, the one that doesn’t exist. One message was indeed sent in the old group chat, four hours after midnight.

“It was fun!”

To which everybody but me immediately responded with a red heart.

Right now, I am sitting in my apartment, on the seventh story, with Agave on my chest, purring softly while moving her back and paws when I pet her. She feels the strokes of my fingers, the claws of her paws extending in the lovely ecstasy of this little moment.

I am reminded I am all out of bread, it is already time for lunch. I want to get off the couch, but Agave does not seem to agree. When I try to sit straight up, she moves and loafs up on my lap instead. I reach for my laptop, uncomfortably typing in my password.

I open the only folder on my desktop. I see the six stories I have completed already. I open up the seventh file, the story I am currently working on. There are only a few notes.

“City of Seven Hills, of which there are seventy-seven.”

“Familicide, preferably filicide, by dismemberment.”

“A king, or a hunter, and a god, or a goddess.”

I do not know how to derive a story from this wasteland. I have published stories before, on various platforms and in various magazines. A publisher reached out to me, urging me to continue writing so that I have enough short stories to publish as a stand-alone debut. They have already paid me in advance, allowing me to focus on my writing. My previous job was a nine-to-five, not meant for someone with my degree, which I eagerly quit.

As I lean more and more into my laptop Agave decides to leave my lap, walking across the keyboard. She goes to sit next to the cat bed in the windowsill. I decide to go to the bathroom, staring deep into the mirror.

I see my face, with blood-filled bags under my eyes, my complexion ten times as pale as during my happier years. It is void of any emotion, happiness or sadness, shock or wrath. This figure is nothing. It cannot be me.

“Indeed, it cannot be.”, says the figure in the mirror to themselves.

I don’t know who they are, or if they are anyone.

“Who are YOU?”, they respond.

I am an author, of course, with greater colleagues praising the style, symbols and themes of my works.

“A few short stories on some petty websites? A few more on a medium that should have died off already?”

I am proud of my works, of my six stories and the seventh to come. If only there was a way for the words, sentences and paragraphs to flow again.

“What do you have to offer in return?”

“More of what I have given?”

“You offer more of your despair? More of the soil and toil that makes your writing come to fruition?”

“I do offer as such, willingly and wholeheartedly.”

“Then we have struck a deal.”, the figure says to themselves, now staring blankly at me with its bagged, pale face. Void of anything but ennui.

“I do.”

Opening up the bathroom door I hear a hiss and a growl. Agave ambushes me. She is staring into the empty room behind me. Her back is arched and her tail puffed up.

I let her be and walk out of the front door, she glances at me when I close it behind me.

I see a man sitting on the sidewalk next to the entrance of the supermarket, quite clearly boozed out of his mind. He is singing a frog’s song. I pass the supermarket, with its abyssal aisles. There is a bakery next to it, where I buy my artisanal sourdough.

The owner of the bakery is a friend, or at least an acquaintance, of my father. As he is a poet of some renown. The authors praising my work and the publishers paying me in advance only did so because of my father.

“Say hello to your father for me!”

Walking back to my apartment I see the drunken man being removed from the supermarket by two community service officers. Taking him to their car. He doesn’t seem to mind the ordeal. Free bread for him I suppose, although I do hope he can turn water into wine.

And then inspiration strikes me. I finally know what to write. I rush home. Open the door. Seeing Agave still keeping watch I launch myself on the couch and immediately start to write.

I must have been writing for hours, as when I look up the entire room is dark. Almost entirely dark. One shiver of bleak light can be seen to cross the floor, hit the legs of the coffee table and reach my feet, emanating from under the bathroom door. I had forgotten to turn it off in the afternoon.

I stand up with ecstatic and famished steps, tripping over watchful Agave in the process. I pick her up and go to sit with her on the couch for a while. After having turned on the cozier lights around the apartment.

Forcefully she sits on my chest, but she doesn’t purr or knead. Her pupils are large, with the white of her eyes visible. Her ears are twisted and twitching. Her body feels tense.

I have to go to bed. I make a quick dinner for myself and Agave. I turn off all the lights, turning on the light on the nightstand.

Lying in bed I decide to read a little, from a book I have started reading time and time again. This time has been lost and rediscovered an equal count. While lying there the ecstasy within me seems to subside, ennui strikes back yet again. I let go of a few tears.

Sounds are coming from the living room. I hear Agave’s little paws tap on the floor as she crosses the bleak light still looming from under the bathroom door. I am falling asleep again.

‎

It is seven o’clock when I awake to the stagnant smell of still water. Usually, I linger in bed, wide awake, for hours. Now, leaving Agave asleep at the edge of the bed, I rise at once to check where the smell of silent decay is coming from.

In the dark of the bathroom, I can smell it coming from the drains of the sink and the shower. In the bright living room, the same can be said of the drains of the kitchen and washing machine. Something must be wrong with the plumbing.

I have not been up so quickly and early in a while. Usually Agave wakes me up, begging for food. Now she is still asleep on the bed, although she repositioned her head to have a better view of the apartment.

These curious things have inspired me, as I am drawn to the couch and my laptop yet again.

Hours do pass as before, but not as many. Agave has arisen from the bed. I make food for the both of us, preparing coffee for myself. After which I decide to write again for a while, although the first sip of my coffee proved to be cold, the clock already pointing out it is way past noon.

I have decided on what city of the seventy-seven the story will be about, on the familicide, the god, and king. My soil and toil are making my next story come to fruition. It will be the last story I need.

Agave is sitting in front of the bathroom door again.

With each breath my lungs have been filling with rot. I decide to go for a walk.

I must go to the supermarket. I am all out of kibble, coffee, as well as the ingredients for my breakfast, lunch and dinner. Coming back from my walk it is almost closing time. I have to go now.

Unwillingly and doubtfully, I enter the gates.

Inside, amidst the empty aisles, no one is to be found. Except a clerk at the second-to-last of the eight checkouts. They are dealing with the drunken man I saw the day before, with an unlabelled bottle of wine held high up.

“Have you ever felt a sudden lust for soup? I do! Both to the rich and poor, wine is the happy antidote for sorrow! Take it!”

The clerk seems unsure what to do. I decide to pay for the man’s soup. I suppose it is better for him to drink cold soup than dubious wine, or bread and water at a police station for that matter.

The man darts away into the night, thanking me for the bountiful gift. The clerk gives me their gratitude as well, for saving them from the antics of a lunatic.

Back home I am greeted by the rot. Agave is still sitting in front of the bathroom door, but she does meow when I pass her. She brushes against my legs. I wish I could cherish the moment, if not for the pit in my stomach.

I fall back again, during the walk from the supermarket to the apartment complex, through the stairwell and hallway, to my home into the rot.

I made dinner for both of us and went to bed early.

I could not help but think of calling my mother. More and more I am slipping into despair. Thinking of how, at this moment, my friends could be walking past my window. Going out for a night of shenanigans. I would very much like to join them.

“I do.”

Instead of reading I seem to have been scrolling on my phone.

For the first time in two days, I decide to turn off “Do Not Disturb”. I have been forgotten and ignored, apart from the forty-nine missed calls and messages from my mother. I turn “Do Not Disturb” back on and put my phone on my nightstand.

My mother is an artist herself, a painter of some renown. Growing up while living with her, her connections proved to be beneficial. Painters tend to meet each other more than poets do, or at least in more intimate circumstances. This led to me being well aware of the vanity of any artist.

My own vanity is like a rot.

Stripping away the self-mythologization few things are clear. The story I am working on is worthless. All my stories are worthless. My debut will be a failure. My bank account will dry up. The still water in the pipes will make my apartment rot. It will make everything rot. I will pass away. Agave will starve or will start hunting the rats oozing from my carcass.

Agave is sitting at the edge of the bed.

Such are my thoughts, as I am drifting away into sleep.

‎

I wake up at the same hour as the day before. I am too afraid to think to myself. Lying in the same position. There is no scent of stagnancy, although the sense remains.

As if trying to surprise myself I jump out of the bed. I appear to be content, thinking happy thoughts. Agave is still sleeping. I pet her, she chirps and starts to purr.

I pick her up and walk to the couch, putting her next to me as I begin to write again.

Agave returns to the bathroom door.

My elbow hurts. Inspecting it I discover various bitemarks. Agave is sitting next to me, sniffing my elbow and then biting me eagerly. She must be hungry. Trying to get my attention. When I at last give in she chirps again. Slowly blinking at me.

It is noon, we haven’t had breakfast yet. I go into the kitchen, turn off the dripping faucet, which was making a repetitively dull sound echoing through the apartment.

The sound doesn’t stop, the faucet in the bathroom is also dripping. Having turned it off the sound still doesn’t stop, as water is dripping out off the showerhead. The sound does stop, although the repetitive dullness seems to continue in the ticking of the clock.

Trying to write again proves futile, inspiration has subsided.

I need something else to do for the moment. I would like to go to an attraction park with friends. To go into a thrilling rollercoaster while those of us who lack courage stay behind, trying to take pictures of the uncapturable projectile moving along the tracks. Eating ice cream until our stomachs hurt.

I decide to take a walk.

Usually I stroll through the city, but this time I decide to go to the park. The park is close to my home. People call it an urban oasis, even appointing a ranger to keep watch of the wildlife consisting of robins and squirrels. It consists out of concrete footpaths, some recreation fields and perhaps thrice a double dozen, and a dozen more, oak and beech trees.

It is abominable to call it nature.

Reluctantly I pass through the park. People are watching me, but I do not mind. I am watching them as well. One person I come across I do not watch and do not want to be watched by. It is one of my friends. I try to avert their gaze, but it is too late.

“Hey, there you are! How are you doing?”

If only because of etiquette I would have liked to answer, but my friend is pushed away by someone. It is the drunken man from the supermarket. He pushes and pushes my friend until he pushes them into a pond. The loud splash gets the attention of many people. They seem to judge his theatrics.

“What is shameful, unless the audience thinks so?”

Murmuring of calling the police is heard all around. Both my friend and the drunken man are looking at me. One with disgust and the other in praise. The audience follows their gazes until they meet mine. They are judging me.

I decide to leave the scene.

Inside the stairwell I see water dripping, dripping from the seventh floor. It is coming from the banisters. Putting my hand on them I can feel a slight stream, originating from where the banisters meet the pipes. The pipes coming from my apartment, at the very end of the hallway.

My door is wet, turning the key in the lock and pushing the door open water from the doorframe moistens my hair. The floor is covered with puddles of water, reeking of silent decay.

Agave is lying at the edge of the bed.

I open the bathroom door. Water has come from all pipes and drains and faucets.

“My story!”

Quickly I rush towards my laptop, laying on the soaked couch. I try to turn it on. It doesn’t turn on. I press and press the button, but the screen stays dark. Eventually, pressing once again, it does turn on. It is performing a software update.

We cannot stay here anymore. But I do not care at the moment. The only dry place is my bedroom. I jump on my bed and grab my phone.

It is in the middle of the night. I apparently have been scrolling through the late afternoon, entire evening and early night. The only reason I stopped is because I am all out of data. My router must have been damaged by the leakage.

I am subjected to my thoughts again.

A pale light is flickering into the surface of the water. It would be red as blood if it turned to wine. Dripping, seeping, oozing. I turn off “Do Not Disturb”. I have received many messages. From my friends as well as both my parents.

I hear knocking on the door.

It could be any of my neighbours, friends and parents. However, as I am walking towards it, I see it is still wide open. In the opening see the drunken man with something spread across his shoulder.

“Agave!”

He hands her to me. I grab her eagerly. She is tired. He is dancing about, his feet moving rhythmically.

“She sure is dressed in the fur of a sacred panther!”

I am done for the day. I slam the door shut in his face. I hear him giggle and dart away. I decide to make Agave and myself dinner. She doesn’t appear to be hungry.

I fall asleep on the couch.

‎

I am lying on the couch with a feeding bowl in my hand. Kibble has spilled out, soaking up water from the puddles on the ground. It is seven o’clock.

I find Agave lying in the bathroom sink.

We are exhausted.

I feel the urge to write again.

I try to resist.

An hour and ten minutes of writing pass. I look around and see everything covered with mould. Only Agave and I are spared, despite our damp clothing and fur.

I press “Quit and Save”, close the folder and select it from the desktop. For a moment I hover over the “Delete” option. Hesitantly I click. Going to the “Recycle Bin” I click “Delete” again.

My seven stories are gone.

I grab my phone, turn off “Do Not Disturb”. I am greeted by three hundred short of a thousand messages and missed calls. I cannot respond to everyone, instead I send the same message to my friends and parents.

“I am not okay.”

I mail my rental agency to tell them I have had a leakage and water damage. Immediately they respond, noting that I am not only one in my apartment complex. As others had water dripping from the ceiling as well. Offering me a stay at a local hotel. Pets are allowed.

I grab the carrier, put Agave in, and go outside.

Walking towards the hotel I come across the drunken man again. He is standing in the middle of the street blocking the traffic. Cars are honking. A police car stops next to him. Two officers step out, cuff him without resistance and throw him in their car.

May this be the last of him.

I must say, may this be the last of me. Without him it would been Agave found in the middle of the streets. With cars skiving and hammering her body.

My room has two separate beds, a private bathroom, as well as a balcony. The balcony is out of bounds for me, as I prefer not to let Agave plummet down the distance of the Bayeux Tapestry. The decorations of the hotel very much remind me of it, with the wallpaper in the hallway being the same beige colour decorated with Rustique greenery and birds instead of Norman knights and warhorses.

I feel like I am high in an evergreen tree, watching over the city from an urban oasis.

I put Agave on the bed close to the window. She has fallen asleep again. Finally at ease. After going to some shops, for fresh clothing, cat feed, headphones and a phone charger. After having dinner in the hotel’s restaurant. I am at ease as well.

Listening to some music I seem to enjoy every single one of the natural notes.

“And I’m bleedin’, and I’m bleedin’, and I’m bleedin’. Right before the Lord.”

I fall asleep in the armchair next to the windows. Waking up in the middle of the night I decide to check my phone. I have received no responses to my plea for help.

I decide to go to bed, looking into the nightly sky I fall asleep.

‎

I had a dream.

I was walking through a forest when I spotted heavy machines cutting down trees.

Slicing and tearing them to pieces.

There was one fir tree on the ground that was still intact. I decided to walk across it. When I reached the crown, the tree swung up with great violence.

Bringing me high up into the sky.

I reached Mercury, Venus and Mars, Jupiter and Saturn, Uranus and Neptune. I could not hold on. I fell down and awoke next to Agave.

It is the usual hour of my awakening. Breakfast will be served in an hour. Until then I decide to listen to some music.

“All the words are gonna’ bleed from me. And I will think no more.”

I feel the urge to write again. To create an ending to my final story. The urge does subside rather quickly, after which going to breakfast.

Agave is lying at the edge of the bed.

It is a simple breakfast, but I do enjoy it. I decide to take some ham to my room to give to Agave.

She is still asleep. I put the ham with some kibble in a bowl and put it on the floor.

I am going to listen to some music again.

“And the stains comin’ from my blood. Tell me, ‘Go back home’.”

My phone rings, it is my rental agency. They have assessed the damage in the apartment complex and have come to a conclusion. I am to blame for the leakage. As all damage can be traced back to the the seventh floor at the end of the hallway.

I try to explain how it happened when I was taking a walk, afterwards working for an hour and a sixth. They answer that I must have neglected my home for weeks. Mould doesn’t grow over the course of a stroll through the park and the typing of a few words.

They hang up.

After the call I check my notifications. Some people have responded to my plea. I can only see that a heptad of them sent something.

“Take care!”

My eyes tear up. I am all alone. I curdle up next to Agave. She is still sleeping. I thought she was finally at ease. I thought I was finally at ease. It was stagnancy for the both of us.

Suddenly my body aches in a violent cough. Everything is rot. From the mould found in my apartment to the yeast in artisanal sourdoughs and unlabelled wines to the vanity in my own body.

I decide to take a walk.

“I am not okay.”

My throat is dry.

I am in the park, where I see the drunken man again. Without saying anything he offers me his wine. I drink willingly and wholeheartedly, putting the barely emptier bottle down unwillingly and doubtfully.

I begin to cry again.

I am exhausted.

“Would you like to see the woman on the mountain?”

“I do.”

I cannot walk, if it is due to the sadness or drunkenness, I am not sure. The drunken man supports me. We travel towards what he calls the mountain and the woman, what I call the fir tree and my cat Agave.

He leaves me at the elevator. I thank him sevenfold.

Three times the elevator halts to pick people up and let people go, until I reach the twenty-first floor. I count the rooms as I pass. One. Two. Three. Four. Five. Six. Seven.

I see a bleak light coming from under the seventh door. This must be my room.

I push it open.

Something lunges from the room, an uncapturable projectile pounces at my throat. With large pupils and the fur of a sacred panther.

The furious creature shreds and tears.

Drip.

A warm cloak spreads from my neck across my body.

Drip.

As the cloak spreads my body turns cold and numb.

Drip.

I fall down on my hands and knees.

Drip.

I sense it again.

Drip.

It is as bleak as it is stagnant and dull.

Drip.

It is ennui.

Drip.