The longest corridors

My name is not important. My name could be any other.

They say I'm obsessive because I collect tacks and nail them to a huge wall, then make murals; I stud my shoes, frozen food, velvety and imported from France skins, I stud them all and hang them in my equally studded closet. They say that when I was little, one day I purposely pricked my hands, and they also say that two days ago, I studded my breasts. First, I used a red tack, and little by little, I finished with the last yellow tack; that's the color I like the least, so I left it for last. That's what they told me.

I found out because they watch me sleep, being a sleepwalker, they record my breasts at night. They come out of the closet with a new box of tacks, eager to see my blood come out and spill over my bruised skin. They record me, and in the morning, they leave a little white envelope containing the tape next to my breakfast.

When it's morning, they hide from me or go out to buy new tacks. Meanwhile, I insert the tape into the player and turn on the plasma screen. The video begins.

I chew my sandwich dry. I observe my body on TV.

My face remains inexorable, but my eyes, which once stopped to analyze this, ended up shining with joy.

After all this time, I have overcome the doubt that has always plagued me since I moved to this place. I finally guessed right: they record for me.

I finish my sandwich, the video ends. I head to the room where the wall is studded: today I must put a new tack.

Finally, my mural is complete! It's a perfect replica, almost monumental, of my body; tacks here, tacks there, forming the curvilinear drawing of my person. Red tacks, and the ones on the edge are yellow.

Now everything of mine is in parallel order with the universe. There are a million videos, two million tacks, and a drop of my blood in each one. They... they... they!

I smile. Now this studded drawing, which I have created with drops of my lustful suffering, will be my nocturnal companion; it will be my wedding gift: what they will give me in return.

My jasper-red tacks will unify, they will do it finally, they will be mine now, and I will not be a sleepwalker anymore. I will live the nocturnal passions and will not have to experience them through videos.

They will be part of the being I have created.

It's midnight, the window opens, the closet opens, the holes in my studded skin open. The cold wind mixes with the warmth of my room. The door opens.

I'm not asleep, and out of the corner of my eye, I see a vermilion silhouette, between mist and darkness, approaching me. Its long arms made of tacks, its ghostly presence now coming to life. Finally, a red soul that detached from the walls