THE SPONGE

Before it’s too late, I want them to know the truth: no matter what these people think, I am not guilty of the crimes they’ve accused me of since I was born. I don’t know why they decided, once and for all, to be against me. Which wouldn’t have been so terrible if I hadn’t been subjected to their slander, their aggression, their surly gazes, and their sardonic smiles throughout my whole life, even from those closest to me: my wife, to be precise. How many times did I catch her staring at me, hiding behind the bathroom windows, while I was messing around and making faces at myself in the mirror, or spying on me from the doorway as I yanked the dog’s tail. If I wanted to, I could cite numerous examples that would prove just how hellish my life is.

Lately objects, too, have started to behave like these people: they’ve turned against me. A knife I was using to scrape the dog’s skin after pulling out its hair suddenly cut into my thumb; a pine needle sneakily stabbed me as I was walking naked through the garden; a shutter pinched my finger. Now, out of fear of these objects, I no longer dare move and spend entire days sitting in my armchair in the middle of the room. When my wife comes (I have however forbidden her from entering that room while I’m there), she looks at me inquisitively. But I pretend not to notice until the moment when brusquely I get up and, standing right in front of her, thumb my nose at her. Her frightened face makes me contort with laughter, as does her voice when she murmurs with a feigned tenderness: “Pierre, sweetie, you know I mean you no harm.” “Sweetie.” Those humiliations they inflict on me, day after day, are becoming unbearable.

Especially that sponge that’s been lying in wait for me for three days now (I formally forbade anyone from moving it). This sponge and I, we have a score to settle.

I tiptoe into the kitchen. As expected, the sponge is there, enormous (much too large for a sponge) and round, very round. Too round for me not to see immediately that this sponge is the Earth itself. I decide on the spot to eradicate the sad planet. But I have to be careful: I have to do it in such a way that the sponge doesn’t suspect anything. Noiselessly I advance toward the chair and, sitting down, place my two arms horizontally on the table to form a wall. Then, extremely slowly, I let my arms creep in its direction. My muscles knot beneath the skin. But I hold firm and advance undetected, centimeter by centimeter, toward the insolent ball.

The sun begins to set. The nervous tension created by this slow movement is exhausting. My body drenched with sweat, panting, I continue to inch my arms toward it; soon they graze it. Nausea and a strong desire to vomit run through me. I start to push the earthly globe slowly, slowly, to bring it to that ultimate point, with no way out, when it will have no option but to roll into the abyss. The idea of destroying it makes me dizzy, floods me with an unspeakable happiness. I grit my teeth so as not to let my joy erupt.

The kitchen has expanded. I can’t see the walls anymore. The space around me is immense, infinite, and at the center of that space is the Earth on the table, which now offers a strange resistance to my arms shattered with fatigue; they go flat, are soon no more than half of their original thickness. Toward the middle of the night my arms are meager, useless sticks. Tears of rage flood my eyes. My throat is gripped with sobs. Like a statue, my wife stands immobile near me. Her face is ice. I rush at her and punch her in the jaw. Without a word, but with a deafening sound, she falls to the tile. I sit back down and suddenly see the ball turning, slowly at first, then at a dizzying speed. Flames soar from all sides. Drunk with joy at watching it burn, I want to grasp it between my hands to break it, but it escapes me and as it twirls, it leads me in its wake. My heart bursts. I crumble to the ground.

I open my eyes. What happened? Why am I in this dark cell, lying on a pallet? A key enters the lock. The door creaks open. A man says to me, “Come. Today is your sentencing.” I follow him through many corridors and enter a room full of people. Someone says that I killed my wife. A man on the stand says that even as a child I was mean. A fat woman—my wet nurse, apparently—confirms that even as a baby, a perverse instinct incited me to bite her as she was breastfeeding me. Other people cycle through, burdening me with their dismal, sad expressions, as though regretfully. But implacably. My father and my mother are also present (at least I’m told it’s them; I’ve seen them so few times, practically never), but I don’t recognize them. They explain that they were forced to put me in a reform school very early on because even as a child I had evil tendencies, and then they sent me to a juvenile detention center. The crowd pities them, shakes their heads, and shoots hateful looks in my direction.

I think to myself that it’s a real shame I didn’t manage to topple the Earth while I was in the kitchen. From here, I believe it will be impossible.