Scrub Raw

Fiction, Natalia Serrano-Chavez

Amidst the dirt, a snake eats its own tail, coiling like an old vine. I watch its brown scales slither with each labored breath, and despite the teeth sunken into its body, it does not draw blood. A bouquet of women is kneeling against the riverbank, the water distancing them from the snake and me. They are too consumed by task and talk to witness the snake’s undoing or notice me observing them. They scrub bars of pink soap against the clothes in their hands and wash off the suds in the river, their arms moving like well-oiled petroleum machines, made flesh. 

My husband is starting to irritate me, one says, smacking a striped blue and white shirt against the rugged rocks with force. Despite her large belly, she manages to avoid bumping it as she wrings out the clothes. 

Nothing new, no? another responds. It’ll pass.

No, no. I mean, like, he’s really starting to become bothersome. He's constantly praying out loud: I want a boy, please, I want a boy, God! I have no issue with his faith, but his prayers? Pshht. What if I have a girl? she says with a scoff. Then what?

The current picks up, almost dragging the shirt in her hand with it. When she notices, she sighs and grips the shirt harder, rubbing the bar over with larger force. 

Just don’t feed him, a low voice says, and she giggles softly to herself. I laugh with her because this seems to be the right answer, though I’d prefer it if she fed him to me. She’s hit on the back of her neck by an older woman, and her giggles transform into throaty laughter. Like an eruption—everyone joins her. 

Out there, there is a version of this story where her husband is praying for a girl as beautiful as his wife, as coffee-brown, as patient. A version where he’s at the river instead, scrubbing away grime and complaining that his wife’s food is so delicious, he cannot manage to finish it all without orgasming. 

It feels like hell today, another woman says. 

Watch your mouth, one responds in a sing-song voice. Because of you, it’ll be hotter tomorrow.

She splashes a handful of water at the other woman and is met with a forceful splatter. The two women put down their soap and fabrics and revel in the mess. 

Quit acting like girls, a woman says, wringing out a shirt. Much older, less tolerant, she shakes her head in disappointment. Wash your clothes. 

The women pat down their faces with their blouses and smile at each other before they begin washing away the dirt and juvenilia. With each washed item comes another one filthy. 

The first time I washed clothes, I couldn’t get any of the stains out. It seemed unfathomable, really, to be able to scrub something raw and give it a new life again. But my mother did it with ease, using her hands like a weapon and fighting off the dirt, oil, and the previous night’s pilsener, telling me that if I couldn’t make something clean, I’d be tainted my whole life. What should have been moments of guidance quickly turned into resentment. I'd stain my clothes on purpose, trying to see if she would be able to take it out. Made that woman’s life harder than it already was—having to wash my brothers’, fathers’, and my clothes.

I’m almost done, another one says. The comment cuts through the memory, and I focus on the group again as my stomach begins to grumble. It's been a week since I last ate. But maybe it’s the thought of her that makes my stomach cry. 

One of the women spits a small, green mango seed into her hand and throws it 

forward. When it strikes the head of the snake, the daze is broken. It scatters away into the forest 

towards me, its body leaving a dent in the dirt. As the day goes by, the heat pounds down on all of us, and when the women leave, another batch takes their place. This new bundle is full of youth, and their shins peak out of their skirts. I take some steps back as they arrive, wary that they might want to caress my hair or worse, ask me which house I belong to.

At dusk, I roam over the dirt roads away from the forest, into the more residential areas of the cantón. The sun dips and the stereos become louder, the lyrics more salacious, the bass upbeat, and the people rowdy. I continue walking alongside the rows of colorful houses and the street dogs begging for scraps. Older women sit on their porches sipping rum and chewing on steamed sugarcane; a counterpoint, if you ask me. Why not just chew on the cane instead of taking three measly sips? My mother used to swat me in the head if I ate her cane when I was younger. She knew I hated sweet tastes but that I wanted to get intoxicated. And she ended up sitting on the porch in her later years, just like these women, sipping rum while she waited for her daughter to come back to her. 

I spend hours gaping, waiting for the night to begin. Farmers finish rounding up their cattle, and the old women stumble into their home, singing alongside their static radio. 

A man appears in the middle of the road, jogging just enough to kick up dirt after every step. He walks up to a rose-colored house where a garden bed overflows with flowers and a metal rod dangles meat hooks. He calls out for a neighbor through the window. When there isn’t a response, he runs a rock over the metal door like soap to a washboard. 

Damn, maje, can’t even let a guy spray some cologne, the neighbor says, stepping out the front door, rubbing his wrists over his neck. His collar is undone, his shoes half on. Outside, he adjusts himself with ease, dusting himself off. He fixes his collar, and a gold chain slips through, shimmering like fireflies. The other man watches the trees and fixates on an abandoned wagon, like he expects everything to jump out at him.  

We gots to keep moving, I want to get there before the girls, the man from the road says, clapping the other man’s back. 

Pshht. I hope you brought your best game, the neighbor says to him, now well-adjusted, handsome, ready. I guess you did, since I’m with you, no? 

I cling to his every word, the sounds flowing out of his mouth like honey. Under the moon, his freckled face is narrow, sharpened at the cheekbones, and his mouth bares a toothy smile—a familiar smile. One that shows he’s on the hunt, looking for someone to sink his tongue into and come out satisfied without having to say anything more than, Hey Chula. But maybe I’m overreacting and playing God mistakenly. As if I have room to make judgment, I’ll make everyone the bad guy before I admit I was wrong at some point, too.

When they begin walking, my breathing thickens, and I take a step forward—as if I’m meant to accompany them. But I stop. I have to. If I follow him, if I let myself be pulled towards him, I risk finding out what I already suspect. 

There’s a song that’s stuck in my head, the neighbor says.

Oh yeah?

I don’t know the name, just the chorus.

I stop following them, afraid of my interest in the beautiful man. If he turns out to be evil, I'll have to end him—strip him of life and dignity. With a face that pretty, I’ll feel guilty. I turn around and walk in the opposite direction. 

A group of women comes into view, wobbling on the road and laughing. When they see 

me, one motions for some rope on the side of the road. I gallop away before they can attempt to 

tie me down or ask whose house I belong to. When they realize I won’t let them tie any rope around my mouth, they strut back, and I follow them from behind.

Are we almost there yet? a woman asks. My feet are starting to hurt, and ugh! I’m not even drunk.

That’s the real tragedy, another responds, stumbling over a rock. The girl next to her takes a flask out of her burgundy purse and hands it to the others to ease the time. 

If only that horse would have let me ride it, the girl responds, and she takes a heavy sip, then sighs. 

You’re crazy, a girl says, shivering. I know we aren’t our parents and shit, but even I get nervous around wild horses.

Do you think I’ll meet the love of my life today? another girl interjects, giggling. 

If you meet him at the discoteca, I don’t know if it’ll last, someone says. 

Can we hurry up? I hate walking at night. My grandma used to tell me way too many stories about—

A whistle sounds from an older woman with a basket on her head in the distance. The girls scurry, stepping aside and hiding behind a random barrel. Squatting, they wait until the sound and silhouette fade, and they hop out, one by one. 

Was that your neighbor? aching feet asks the group, forgetting the previous topic. 

Oh God, it was. I really hope she didn’t see me. This is the one time I decide to sneak out! I’ll be damned if it’s the last.

Isn’t her daughter pregnant? 

Yeah...by the guy who sells meat with his dad. He's so ugly!

And weird. They all agree and nod. 

They continue walking, and I follow them, unsure where they're headed, but I know I want to be with them—soak in their vivacity. The view shifts from rows of tin-roofed houses with large yards and loose hens to a more condensed neighborhood, with apartments on top of each other and people smoking thick cigars outside the closed produce markets. They finally stop in front of a deep, red-colored building, pulsing with colorful lights that spray all over the walls and floor. 

Oh God! We’re here! Finally, aching feet yell.

This must be the discoteca. I stay back as they walk towards the building, and I head over to a group of trees, hiding in between the trunks. I can still see the discoteca from my spot, and a wave of desire hits me. I should be in there dancing until I fall over. 

At this, I run towards the apartments with clothing lines on their front porches and snatch a red dress from the line. I doubt anyone will look at my feet or question why I’m barefoot. I can say I’m from the deep countryside—we don’t wear shoes and can’t afford them. 

I shift into a full human form and my vision gets blurry as it adjusts to the new set of eyes. Humans have a more limited field of view than horses, one of the small details I’ve become grateful for. The wider perspective lets me see so much more. My nose shrinks and shrivels like a dried-up yucca root and folds into my skull. My face begins to tingle and singe all over my cheeks. I pull the dress down onto my body, and the fabric feels unfamiliar and rough. The last time I wore clothes, I attempted to befriend a girl who was alone at the river, washing clothes. That didn’t bode well. But I’m more hopeful for tonight, it’s easier to converse at night. The dress fits tightly, and I stretch my legs out to break into it—get a feel for it. I shake my body off of any excess hair and run my fingers through my hair, combing out the tangles. Using the window in front of me, I take in my appearance, staring at the characteristics that I was once so 

familiar with. 

I arrive at the discoteca with adrenaline biting down on my body. As the music spills out with the people, a game of dice begins among a group of men and women. The players bet on kisses, chickens, pilseners, and sex.

Sweet, sweet sex! Everyone whistles and claps their hands against their thighs.

You want in? a man asks me.

No. I’m okay just watching, I say.    

The game begins. The dice clash against each other. The first roll earns a low cheer, the next, a roar. 

Where’s Chepe? a man asks the group. 

Maje… you didn’t hear? Chepe died. 

Damn. My bad, I’m sorry. Mi mas sentido pesame, he responds, marking a cross over his body. I follow his motions, and he smiles. 

How’d he die? a woman asks, taking the dice and shaking them in her hands. 

He supposedly drowned.

Drowned? Nah. Nah. Chepe knew how to swim. I’ve been swimming with the dude since we were kids! 

The water has a mind of its own, I say. Everyone looks at me and some nod their heads. The woman rolls her eyes.  

No. Listen. Don’t make fun of me, but I think it was the horse lady from those stories.

They all guffaw, clapping their hands against their thighs and each other’s chests. 

You’re not serious, one says. You need to get out of the house more. Those are legends—sayings from the old times.  

I’m being so serious. Watch that shit happen to you, he says, pointing to the men. 

You’re talking about the woman who kills unfaithful men near the river? I ask. 

Yes! It has to be her. They haven’t found his body and the last place he went to was the river to smoke. He knew how to swim; there’s no way. Plus, Chepe was cheating on his woman.

But how would she know he was unfaithful? the woman asks. I smile at her question, thinking about Chepe, whose actual name was Fransisco; his last word was the name of his mistress. Such a shame. 

I mean, how do you cheat on a god, get cursed by him, turn into a horse, and not get some mystic powers from all that? he responds. 

The two men from before appear during the conversation, and I stare as they walk past us. With beers in their hands and engrossed in their conversation, I watch the way the neighbor’s arms move with every sway. They enter the disco, dancing to the song playing and my breathing gets heavy. I feel a pull towards him, drawing me in. We haven’t spoken a word to each other, but I need to know everything about him. I’ll wait a couple of minutes before making my way in. 

 Is that what your grandma told you? a woman asks. That’s she’s cursed? You don’t think that a woman who kills men is more a blessing? 

I focus back on the conversation and stifle my laughter. Who would have thought I’d be 

here during this particular discussion? I could tell them the real story and then just run away—or 

act like I’m so stupidly inebriated and say I don’t know what I’m talking about. 

For whom? Women? the man shouts back. If she really were a ‘blessing’, she wouldn’t be 

a fucking horse. Bitch cheated on a god. Of course, she got turned into an ugly creature; now she’s just mad that she can’t fuck the god anymore.  

My grandma said that she was poor and needed water for her family’s crops, so she 

prayed to him, and he literally became a human for her, a man interjects. 

And what does the bitch do to repay him? Cheat. 

Maybe he wasn’t enough for her? I put forth. 

The god of water wasn’t enough for her? Pshht. Enough. This is just some archaic shit that ain’t got nothing to do with us, the man responds.

I walk away without saying anything more and let my laughter pour out as I make my way towards the discoteca. I enter the door leading towards a hallway filled with people stumbling and couples making out. The disco’s humid, laced with sweat and debauchery—a potion made for desire, and the thing about desire is that it demands to be a verb. The air smells of rum and perfume, and I feel it stick to my skin. 

I make my way through the crowd, hoping to find the man. I take a seat on a high-stool chair at the bar and squeeze my eyes narrowly. The room is peppered with bodies moving and people sipping on drinks. The walls are lined with a long, black couch that dons purses and jackets alongside men watching the scene. I see the group of girls that I followed here, dancing on each other, their hands up in the air, their behinds on each other. I finally spot him on the couch with a girl sitting on his lap, whispering something in his ear. He smirks; she smiles. I hurry over, my feet kissing the wet floor, my heart thumping. Finally! Finally, I’ll get to talk to him. 

Have I seen you before? I say. The girl jumps and looks at me, then him.  

Who’s she? she asks.  

His girl, I say, and she jumps off, screaming obscenities. Cheater, cheater, cheater! she 

yells. 

Who are you? he asks, and I motion for his hand. He places his drink down on the 

table next to him and interlocks his hand with mine. His touch sends currents down my body.

He smiles and stares at me, carefully observing every feature before he asks me to dance.

See now a myriad of brown skin, dirty dancing. He places his hands onto my lower back, and I touch his ears, fiddling with his lobes. The bass thumps down to my bone marrow, and the lyrics make a confession. Everyone around us is lost in their own scene and I throw my head back, relishing in the music and his hands wandering all over me.  

¿Qué tengo que hacer pa que vuelvas conmigo? 

What do I have to do so that you return with me? I slowly lift my hands over his face as he sings the lyrics to me. I move around him, and we hold hands tightly as he spins me in circles. Our bodies blur with the music. My behind finds his crotch and as I bend over and move, I imagine it’s someone else singing these lyrics. A low voice coming from the water, the current picking up as he shows his heart beating. He’s pleading for my return, begging for me to go back to how things were. But there is a reason why the words are in a song. Someone is unreachable and now everyone must bear the brunt. Even gods hum. 

That’s what it is, I realize. He has the same charge, the same electrifying force that pulled me in centuries ago. 

We continue dancing, and his forehead sweat falls onto my lips. The song swings all over the room and when I tell him, Let’s get out of here, he follows. I lead us down the hallway, his hand holding onto mine. People cling to the wall as we pass them, and the more people I see, the more alive I feel. On our way out, the music reverberates. Outside, the air is fresh like bread, and we lay against the wall for a bit, catching our breath.   

What’s your name? he asks. 

Sihuehuet. 

He blinks a couple of times and purses his lips: Qué chula. That's nice. Sihuehuet. 

If he has questions about it, he doesn’t ask.

What’s yours? I ask. 

Arturo, he responds and smiles, his lips moving with his neatly groomed mustache. 

What are you doing here? I ask. 

The music. The music sings to my soul, he says.

It’s like letting loose. Being able to dance freely, without judgment, I say.

Exacto. Being able to dance with a beautiful woman is also a bonus, he says. He lifts his arm up and uses his hand to caress my hair. In front of us, the group is still playing dice. They howl when another player lands a double.

Damn! I’m going home with a chicken! the woman says.

Maybe a cock too? a man says, cupping his crotch and making motions of sex. 

Go home with the horsewoman, she’ll make your night better than me, the girl responds, and everyone whistles again.  

Hell, if I touch her, I’ll be the chicken man or some dumb animal who doesn’t do anything but eat, another adds, and all the men hit each other on the chest.  

Arturo laughs next to me, the sound deep and throaty, echoing off the walls and into my ears.   

Do you believe in those stories? he asks. 

I mean, they’re stories for a reason, right? I respond. He opens his mouth but then closes it, eating his words instead. 

Let’s take a walk, I say. He nods slowly, and I wonder what’s going through his head. We walk towards the woods; I follow the sound of the current. The earth below feels moist, and it mushes between my toes. The music dies down as we walk away, and when the thumping subsides, I lament. We make our way through the trees, and I motion for us to sit near the river. The current is calm and soothing. He places a hand on mine, and we fiddle with each other's fingers. He moves his hand away and shifts it onto my thigh, stroking it slowly. Under the moonlight, his chain shimmers and I wish I could see my reflection in it.  

Where are you from? he asks, drawing a circle on my right thigh.  

Far. My town was flooded.  

Your folks are gone? he asks, getting closer.  

Something like that, I say. A bubble emerges from the river, bursting softly. I touch his face, using my index finger to trace the ridge of his jawline.  

How about you? I ask. 

Nearby. Can I ask you something and you won’t get offended?

Yes, of course. 

Do you have someone at home? he says.  

It’s complicated, I respond. 

It’s my first instinct to say that things are complicated. How do I explain to someone that I was with the god of water, cheated on him with his own son, and am now cursed for millennia? Complicated doesn’t begin to cover it.  

How? You do, or you don’t, he squeezes my thigh.   

I don’t. Or I do, no, no, I don’t. I had someone but not anymore, I say breathlessly. Do you? I ask, fearful of the response. 

I close my eyes, awaiting his confession. Hoping that he says he does not, and we continue talking until the sun rises and the birds sing at us to leave so they can hunt worms. Then we walk around the cantón looking for a nice bench. We spend the day conversing, too. He’ll say he wants to see me more, and I’ll demand that we see each other that same night. He stays 

silent for some minutes, and I feel my stomach churn with regret. 

Yes… Is that OK? 

Yes, I say quickly as light. I immediately hide my hesitation and regret. 

There is a version of this story where I let him make love to me. Where I’m still selfish and careless. He’d whisper how beautiful I look under the moonlight and instead of saying thank you, I would say I know. He still has a partner, and I still find him with a woman on his lap, but I don’t care. He wants me at this moment. What loyalty do I owe to anyone? He's handsome and charming; he’d make an excellent lover. 

But in this version, I am still me. Still cursed. Still hungry. Still paying my debt after centuries. 

Are you attracted to me? I ask.  

He brushes a strand of hair behind my ear, very.  

Why are you unfaithful to your person at home? I ask, shifting my gaze onto him. 

He blinks quickly and lets out a small laugh. He continues to caress my hair, and his 

hands move to touch my cheeks. His finger pads are rough and the callouses on his palm feel

like sandpaper. He stays quiet for some minutes and his silence makes me breathe heavily.  

I used to be you, I say. 

In what way? he asks and stops touching my skin. 

I had someone at home and I still… I still—I stutter over my words, fearful of admitting where I went wrong. That it was my fault—that it is my fault that I am who I am. That I owed someone loyalty at some point.

Who cares? he says. We keep on living. We’ll be fine. 

Will we be fine? 

He probably would have been had I not approached him. He'd go home to his partner and caress her in the same spots he is touching now. His breathing picks up and I crawl onto him, sitting on him like a saddle. He takes hold of my hips resolutely and then moves his hands underneath my dress.   

Here? he boldly asks. 

Here. Right in front of the river. 

Your skin is so cold, he says.

I lean forward, placing my face against his neck, and I suck. He slips out a moan, and I continue pulling on his skin harder. I lift up his shirt and take it off his body, sticking out my tongue and licking his skin from his right arm down to his hand. I place his index finger into my mouth, sucking softly, and his eyes close. No matter how badly I want him, he is still him—a dishonest man, unfaithful to his partner. And I am still me, a dishonest woman, unfaithful to her partner, and hungry. Once I start thinking back to the beginning, it is the end. 

After some seconds, I chomp down on his finger. His eyes open instantly, and he screams out. 

What the fuck? What the fuck are you doing? he cries. He lifts both his hands and attempts to shove me off of him, but my knees lock around his hips. He struggles beneath me, and I let him see my true form. 

My eyes bulge out and my vision shifts. His eyes widen in fear, and his mouth drops. With more clarity, I bite down again, snapping off his entire hand. He’s screaming and kicking and yelling from the top of his lungs, his legs attempting to thrust my body off of his. 

Get off! Get off! What the fuck, he yells.

My teeth crack his bones like clay, and it tastes like cow milk. He watches me swallow his hand and uses his left elbow to back up against the dirt. 

You’re crazy. You…you… he says. 

You look like a fucking cockroach, I say, laughing. 

This isn’t happening, he cries out. 

I strike his face with my own, crashing into his skull with my teeth. His eye bursts with blood, splattering all over my skin and dress. I stand up, my knees now lathered in dirt, and I  quickly change into my hooves. He scoots up, attempting to leave, but I stomp down on his penis, eliciting a vile, piercing cry from his throat. His blue jeans begin to stain red, and I grab his right leg and drag him on the dirt, towards the riverbank. 

It didn’t have to be this way, I say. You could have lied. Or be loyal! Why does this always happen? 

He continues shouting and crying, begging me to stop. His head topples against the rocks on the path, and I see a branch stab his eye. He screams out again, bleeding all over his face. At the riverbank, I tell him to stand up. 

He stands up unsteadily and it makes me giggle. He attempts to run away and before his foot bites down on the dirt, I kick his knee inward with my hoof, and he falls over. He yells out a piercing curse, damning me and God and everything in this cruel world as he drops to the floor. His blood and tears meld together on his face, and for a moment, I think of giving him mercy. Maybe I can break this. Stop this cycle.  

No wonder that god turned you into a horse, he shouts. You’re fucking crazy. You deserve this. 

I stare at him in disbelief. No. Please, no. 

I deserve this? I ask. I swing my foot back and punt his chest. 

Mercy be damned. 

He gasps violently, his lips shaking, and his arm covers his chest. He screeches and moves his body like a maniac, trying to run back. I get on the floor again and kiss him. He bites hard onto his lips, refusing to let my tongue touch his. I bite his lips and tear his skin down from his mouth to his chest, skinning him like cattle. His body goes into shock, and he stops screaming. Stops fighting. He’s shaking and pulsing rapidly all over the dirt. I chew his flesh slowly, locking eyes with him. 

He stops shaking, and I eat the rest of his body, leaving only his bloody penis and head. I feel so alive. Like I’m being born again. I throw his leftover parts into the water and watch the current swallow him. The pieces sink, and bubbles appear at the surface. I change back into my two legs and get on my knees near the edge of the bank. The red dress still clings to my waist, shredded. I dunk the fabric in, and scrub it raw. 

---

Natalia Serrano-Chavez is a fabulist writer from Los Angeles, CA. Her stories focus on reinterpreting folklore legends and bridging the gap between the supernatural and reality. She has been published in The Acentos Review, Euphony Journal, and MemoryHouse Magazine. She is a plant mom and a day-one daydreamer.