Sirena

I don’t remember the circumstances surrounding my initial decision. There are things one loses in the arms of a lover. I recall despair—despair and loneliness—so great that I strove like a madman to remedy it. But such a thing could not be left to fate. Like a fool, I had been searching the world around me until I realized the soul’s truest companion—its mate—could only be found within, where the need is great enough to define the smallest detail.

I had to trace her like a puzzle piece from the impression of its mate—from the impression of my desire. She already lived within my psyche, deep in my unconscious, like an ancient goddess, awaiting my recognition.

I never really had a plan, just a purpose—a passionate, unrelenting purpose. Streams of consciousness flowed through my journal, spiraling down in their focus, in an attempt to summon her nature—how she reacted, what pleased her, and every turn of her personality. Then, as her image formed more completely in my mind, her physical form took shape beneath my pen. I discovered each curve and line, the dark red hair, the sardonic arch of her eyebrow when she smiled… I recreated that image over and over on pages and screens until I knew every secret contour of her body. She was my perfection, my Sirena.

I composed narratives about the two of us, from my perspective at first, but as I came to know her more intimately, she wrote from hers. That is when our relationship truly began, inscribed in the old leather journal I kept beneath my bed. It was our golden age. We picnicked in castle ruins, made love on desert sands, and explored dense jungles and caverns where no man had yet set foot. Imagination was our only limit—but after a time, I needed more.

I suggested a doll, a life size vessel for her to inhabit so that we could elevate our relationship to tangible reality. She was hesitant at first. The thought of being able to touch each other was thrilling, but it would mean a loss of intimacy. She feared we might not fit together so seamlessly if she no longer inhabited me. I assured her that she could never leave my mind completely. I would still be the constant catalyst for her crossover, responsible for seeing and animating her inside the otherwise lifeless body.

In time, she gave in, and I spared no expense. I found a manufacturer that catered to fetishes, with life-size latex dolls, and paid them to follow my specific design. I demanded to oversee each step of the process, making sure there was the right amount of hair here and a slight freckle there and that the proportions were just so. When the process was complete, I basked in the glory of my created bride.

I laid her gently in the back seat of my car and, once home, carried her across the threshold like a newlywed. It’s impossible to describe the exhilaration of that first night—sitting physically next to her, engaged in conversation, yet now able to squeeze her hand for emphasis and brush the hair from her face as I gazed into her eyes. It took some adjustment, of course, but I soon learned to see my dear Sirena in the glass eyes of that doll just as surely as I had seen her in my mind’s eye. We gained new physical intimacies in the separation of our consciousness. I was convinced we had made the right decision. Yet with time, I again wanted more.

She opposed me most vehemently this time. I was so passionate about my idea, however, that she at last gave in. Above all else, she only wanted to please me, and I became greedy. The touch of cold latex and the expressionless face of the doll were no longer good enough. I knew she was truly there—she was inside of me and therefore anywhere I chose to see her—but I craved to look at her alive, to touch and know her encased in warm flesh.

Our plan was to find a suitable vessel, some sweet, lonely girl—not too strong of mind. While I kept her interested with the charade of romance, I would concentrate on seeing Sirena within her, pouring my beloved from my mind into a body whose feeble will she could easily master. Then we could be together in this physical world just as truthfully as destiny had bound us in spirit.

We settled on a young woman named Rosa. New in town, she was insecure and eager to please and meet new people. She longed for acceptance. I gave it to her. Soon she hung on my every word. There was some friction between Sirena and me then. She was scared to lose me to an outsider, but my attention to Rosa was all for Sirena. She had to understand that, I directed Rosa subtlety at first, allowing Sirena’s expressions to play on my own face until they were unconsciously mimicked on Rosa’s. In time, I became bolder. At my suggestion, Rosa began to dye her blond hair the right shade of red, to pluck her eyebrows just so, and to pout with her lips when she wanted something of me. She began to read the right books and, eventually, to think the right thoughts.

She would thrill under my praise. I felt an almost fatherly pride in her progress, but it didn’t matter, for soon Rosa began to fade and my Sirena began to grow within her. It was in small things at first—a glance, a turn of voice. Soon she began to say things—Sirena things and in Sirena ways. It was thrilling to watch, but hard to endure. As more of Sirena became present in Rosa, just as much became absent inside of me. There was a finality to it unlike with the transition to the doll—a loss of control and security. I consoled myself with the knowledge that soon she would wrap her arms around my body just as her consciousness once enveloped mine.

In less time than I had imagined, the process was nearly complete. I moved Rosa into my home, preparing for the full birth of Sirena. I balanced our time together with leaving her alone to read the books I recommended. I knew my Sirena was working independently now. She would be hastening to return to me and would need her own time with Rosa to set in. I hid the latex doll with our journal in a compartment beneath our bed and encouraged Rosa to lounge there as much as possible. In the end, I fear I pushed too hard and only hastened disaster.

I left Rosa in meditation over a poem one day, Sirena’s favorite poem, about death and the conquering worm. I stepped out for longer than usual, and when I returned, Rosa was sitting with the leather journal open in her lap. Across from her sat Sirena’s former vessel. The doll was lifeless, mouth gaping as though in a silent scream, and its arms were strewn out over the sides of the chair. One glimpse at Rosa’s face told the tale.

She was Rosa no more. Staring out at me wildly through the watery eyes of a newborn was my beautiful Sirena. The moment I had longed for was finally there—the moment when I would know my transcendent lover in a primal passion that only the confines of flesh could afford. But it was ruined—ruined by the look of terror on her face. As she stood there in flesh and blood, staring at her lifeless, synthetic doppelganger with the same hair and eyes, the same makeup and dress, it was too much for her. It was one transition too many for her precious psyche.

She screamed, looking from me to the doll and back again. I tried to calm her with my voice, then my touch. She backed away and fell onto the bed. I had to rush to keep her from sliding off the other end and fleeing the room. The sight of her so distressed devastated me. Her pain was all my fault. I cursed myself for not listening to her warnings. But part of me, I’m ashamed to say, simply raged. The transition had taken place at last, and she was ruining it!

All our work—all our careful planning was destroyed! Even the precious times we shared on paper were torn to pieces in the struggle. I needed to make her see, to save her from herself. She needed to stop screaming! I held her down upon the bed, pinning her flailing arms and muffling her cries.

I tried to soothe her. I held her so closely—so tightly— until at length she ceased her hysterics and lay still in my arms. I sat up and turned her over. Her wide eyes stared at me with horror—a silent horror with a silent scream—gaping past me to its reflection on the doll.

THE END