Post taken from r/rejoice_CROATIA
Posted by u/thegoodshepherd85
Tuesday, 19th of August, 2027
What Really Happened in Split Last Week
Yesterday I received an email regarding last week’s rumored incident in one of the medical facilities in Split. My guess is that most of you haven’t even heard of it, since the facility in question is supposedly a renowned private clinic, which made sure that there’s little to no coverage of the event. But despite their best efforts, the topic has become a subject of debates and speculations online.
You guys know that I’m not one to stick my nose into matters that don’t concern me or our community. I believe that only God can judge us, and that the only thing left for us to do is to love the sinner and hate the sin. However, after reading the rather disturbing content attached to the email, I think I can no longer be silent regarding certain topics. Heavens… I think that we as a society have let some things slide, have become too lenient, and are now paying the price.
It has become apparent to me that now is not the time to indulge in unconditional empathy, for giving grace to those who have clearly strayed too far. Now I believe that it’s my responsibility to try and shed some light on that worrisome and frankly appalling matter, especially if the contents of the letters shared with me are legitimate.
The anonymous sender, who introduced himself as a source close to the family, hopes that this disclosure will serve as a warning to individuals who might suffer with the same unfortunate proclivities described in the letters. He also pleads that the family forgives him for this transgression.
Considering the identity of the patient involved in the incident—the assumed author of the letters—is still unknown to the public, his name, along with the name of a nurse employed at the clinic, will be censored from the text.
So here it is, folks—the whole tragic tale transcribed by yours truly. Following are the letters of a young man, presumably the patient being treated in the clinic, in what is assumed to be chronological order, likely spanning from June to August 2027.
Read at your own discretion.
Dearest,
I know this whole thing’s silly. I’m aware that writing this is futile, that its only purpose is to silently witness and commemorate my current misery. I realize, of course, that this letter will never be sent out or be read by you, but something compelled me to write it anyway. I was never one to overshare, let alone chronicle my feelings with ink and paper, but I think it’s this place, this fucking nightmarish institution I’m stuck in, that’s pushing me do it. It’s messing with my head, making me feel as though there’s something wrong with me, and I seem to be bursting at the seams that took years to fasten.
And it’s not that I’m unfamiliar with this feeling of inadequacy. People used to call me all kinds of hurtful names, imitating the way I speak, the way I walk. I may not look like it, but I’ve got thicker skin than some random, prejudiced idiot would like to believe. But the thing is that it’s been three weeks since I’ve come here, and I’m slowly starting to realize that I won’t be leaving this place anytime soon.
My parents say that it’s for my own good. That I’m sick and deluded and that the doctors here are going to make me feel better. That this life I choose for myself will lead to nothing but destruction and loneliness. When they visited a few days ago, they could barely stand to look at me. It’s a good thing I couldn’t talk, because I wouldn’t know what to say.
It didn’t come as a surprise, their disgust. It was always present, a feeling that almost manifested itself in a corporeal way between us. I can’t remember the last time they hugged me, or even gave me a pat on the back, and now it’s likely they’ll never touch me again. Their son, their only son, succumbing to this “lifestyle”, giving into the perverse desires that must’ve been propagandized into his poor naive head, hidden away in some fancy private clinic they pay a fortune for.
Yet in a way, I’m the freest I’ve ever been in my life. In a way, I want to scream with joy. There’s no need to hide anymore, to stifle my feelings into a rigid, taut ball and bury it deep inside of me, somewhere in the darkest corner of my body. Nestled between my organs, where no one could reach it. It used to make me so terribly unhappy, when I thought about that thing inside of me, festering and languishing in my insides like some rotten thing, never to be seen or touched or absolved.
You see, I’d already given up when I met you, because it appeared that love was impossible for someone like me. It seemed to be the general consensus: my parents, my classmates, and later on, my colleagues and acquaintances. All pinning me down with a knowing look, silently branding me a freak. That’s what they thought of me. A freak who’s meant to be alone, carrying his ugly growth of hidden freakishness until the day he died.
I often thought about the way we met, and how I was at the time. I wish we’d met at a different stage of my life, in which I’ve somehow evolved into a different man, someone better and stronger and prettier. Someone more deserving of you. But that would have been impossible, of course, because I know that the very best version of myself is the one I became when I was with you.
My love, I know you’ll never read this letter, and I know it’s most likely that we’ll never meet again, so forgive my sentimentality. But please, please know that meeting you was the brightest point of my life, and the time we spent together, albeit short, was the happiest.
Take care, my darling. I love you so fucking much.
Forever yours,
[redacted]
My darling, my sweetest,
You might’ve guessed by the sappy tone of my prior letter that I truly intended for it to be the last. There would’ve been no use in writing another, as it only brought out memories that were too painful to relive. I’m ashamed to admit it, but I’d already prepared myself to think of our romance as some sort of a fever dream, a reverie I could peer into from a safe distance. It sounds awful, I know, that my heart needed to protect itself in such a cruel way, but surprisingly, my dearest, I have been wrong, so incredibly wrong!
Turns out, one of the nurses here is a bit of a kindred spirit. I couldn’t believe my luck as she slipped into my room and told me she was going to help me as much as she could. If I’d been able to, I’d have asked her to stop joking around, to stop toying with my emotions in this vulnerable state I’m in. But she seems to be serious, and what an immense relief that is, having someone like that in a place like this.
She urged me to keep writing the letters. “What the two of you share is something special,” she said, eyeing my throat with something akin to admiration. “It’s a shame to keep it all bottled up.” I nodded in return, cheeks burning, and relished in the way each one of the muscles in my neck burned up with pain.
Nurse [redacted] is the only one in this ward who doesn’t look at me like I’m some foul abomination. The rest of the staff treats me like I have some contagious disease; I’m sure they’d prefer to change my bandages in a hazmat suit, if they could. One of the doctors gagged as he examined the inside of my mouth, like he was the one with a laryngoscope shoved in the aching depth of his larynx.
The patients aren’t any better, with the way they’re scurrying away from me in the hallways and common rooms like I’m some plague-ridden peasant. At least I got a private room, because no one wanted to share. Being an outcast does have some perks, it seems.
But enough about me and my pitiful sob story. Tell me how you are doing, my love. (Yes, I’m well aware of the fact that you can’t actually answer me, but please indulge me. Conversing is no fun when it’s one-way, and our imaginary letter exchange is the only thing keeping me sane right now.) How are things down at the housing? Are they still keeping you all at the same facility? I hope that things are looking up for you, that your status will soon be determined.
What an awful, wretched society we live in, where we’re so swiftly othered, so easily defined by our differences. It seems that the world is only going backwards, and that humanity never learns. I hope that one day couples like us will not have to face this hateful shit we’re facing. I hope that one day people will fix their hearts, and see beyond the preconceived barriers of languages, of cultures, of different appearances and genders and whatever the fuck people decide to hate on next.
I know what we seem like to some average prick. I’m aware of the way we look, of the different backgrounds we come from, of the problems we’ll likely never stop facing. But when I lie next beside you, your body curled up to mine, pressing into me, none of that matters. I’m prepared to be shunned away from society, to be called a freak and a deviant and a goddamn fairy pulp-sucker. You have to know that I’d do it all over again, for another moment with you.
I’ll try to persuade nurse [redacted] to find a way and send the letters to you. She’s a bit hesitant at the moment, and I don’t blame her. There’s a lot at stake, if she gets caught: losing her job, her respectability, her soundness.
After all, I’m the best example of what would happen to her, if she were to go down that road.
Forever yours,
[redacted]
My darling,
I’ll keep it short and sweet today, as the cocktail of drugs and chemicals they got me hooked on has started to make me all fuzzy and weak. So let me just say that I love you, and that I hope you’re doing well.
Jesus. I feel silly writing this down, pouring out my heart on this crumpled piece of paper like I’m some wistful character in a Jane Austen novel, but I yearn for you, my love. I yearn for you so much it physically hurts me, wounds me in the most inviting way. God. My greatest wish is to see your sweet face again, your exquisite face that opens up so beautifully for me, lights up in the most luscious way. Such a shame that it’s hidden away from others.
I’m not a vain man, but I dream of a world where I can show you off exactly how you deserve, of a world where we can love each other freely, the way we deserve.
I miss you so terribly much.
Forever yours,
[redacted]
My sweetest,
I don’t know how much longer I can bear this. I hate it here, hate the doctors, the nurses, the orderlies. I hate the pills I have to swallow and I hate the way they make me feel all sluggish and weak and pathetic, when I’d been feeling nothing of the sort before I was dragged here. Before I was fucking imprisoned against my will like some goddamn nutcase.
I despise the taste, the smell of this place. I steal the salt boxes from the canteen and rub the grain against my skin, smelling it and licking it in the blessed privacy of my room, but it’s not enough. Fuck, it’s not enough. Sometimes I miss you so fucking much, it feels like I’m going insane.
Shit, I don’t want to complain. I know you didn’t come here under pleasant circumstances, that you fled out of necessity. I can’t imagine half the shit you went through. Compared to you and your people, I’m nothing but a whiny, privileged man. I’m well aware of that. But please allow me this moment of weakness, love, because I’ll go mad otherwise.
I loathe the way my body feels here. So inadequate and inept, with that dark mass of shame and resentment coiling inside of me, pulsing and throbbing between my viscera like a nasty, parasitic tumor. God, it seems to be growing stronger by the day, and to tell you the truth, my love, I’m so fucking scared. Which is not something I say lightly, as I’ve been well acquainted with the shortcomings of my nature. My body and I seem to be at war since the day I became aware of how it failed me—or, to be precise, of how others pointed out how it failed me. The way my arms sway as I walk; the cadence of my faggoty voice, as my classmates liked to describe it; the way my body stored fat, clinging on to it like my life depended on it. Everything was just so terribly wrong.
But then you came along, and we fit together effortlessly, our parts piecing together without any resistance. You sank into me, and it was everything I never let myself dream of.
God, all the years we wasted, not knowing each other. I know you don’t use the Internet or social media, and find the concept of dating apps strange, since in your culture relationships and marriages are arranged (which is why I was so honored that you chose me, my courageous rebel). But before I met you, it was the only option for me, and I hated every bit of it—unsolicited dickpics and blurry assholes, taken at an awkward angle; rushed handjobs in toilet stalls (reciprocated, if I was lucky) and a chubby chaser here and there, grabbing onto my stomach rolls before he’d ghost me the next day.
You never made me feel like that. With you, I never felt sleazy or wrong or perverse. You made me feel seen in a way that’s maddingly intimate. Nobody wanted me so much. I still feel you every time I swallow.
God, forgive me. I’m not usually this lewd, but you’ve made me insatiable, and it’s lonely here. If it weren’t for nurse [redacted], I’d have probably gone mad. She checks on me regularly, sits by my bedside. We talk as much as my abused vocal chords will allow me. She likes listening about you, about our relationship. Don’t be cross with me, my love, but I told her everything.
Because how beautiful it is, to be understood for a while.
Forever yours,
[redacted]
Sweetheart,
An incident occurred during yesterday’s therapy session.
So this doctor—my psychiatrist, to be exact—tried to fill my head with nonsense during our pointless, obligatory appointment. He started to spew baseless shit about you and your people, and began to talk about us, about how we’re not right for each other. About how it’s harmful for us to resume our relationship, yadda yadda. And after a while, I seemed to black out, my body apparently operating on autopilot.
I don’t remember much, save for the surge of overwhelming helplessness followed by an immense rage right before it went dark. I don’t know what I did, exactly, but the next thing I knew I was being tied up to my bed, restraints digging into my skin. I barely managed to convince nurse [redacted] to untie me so I could write this letter. She failed to meet my eyes as she fumbled with the straps.
I’m not a violent person. I don’t like the fact that I seem to have hurt the doctor, or scared some of the orderlies enough for them to request the rest of the day off. But I can’t help it. I despise the way they talk about you here. I overhear it in the corridors, in the canteen, in the common room. Orderlies and nurses and doctors all gossiping like a bunch of stupid teenagers.
It’s always the quiet ones, they say, the weird ones. Empty vessels make the most noise, right? they say, and then nod in agreement, tongues clicking in distaste. And the irony is that they’re actually right, that it is in fact always the quiet ones, the “empty” ones, because they know how to listen. If everybody would just shut the fuck up and learn how to listen, none of this would be happening. The answer to ending conflicts, the solution to world peace? Just shut. The fuck. UP.
It’s their reasoning that annoys me the most. It’s bad for you, it’s harmful. Shit like that. What a pathetic double standard. As if people don’t put all kinds of things in their bodies, stuff them full of stupid shit. Poison themselves with sugar and drugs, inject their insides with steroids and botox and God knows what else. Does it make them feel better, healthier? Does it make them feel happier? Give me a fucking break. Yes, people shove and drink and inhale all kinds of shit into themselves: shitty chicken nuggets made from that awful pink paste; artificial smelling chemicals gurgled from vapes; alien-shaped dildos and buttplugs the size of a giant’s fist. I could go on all day.
But somehow I am the crazy one, right?
Don’t worry, love. I know who I am, when you’re wrapped around me, our faces glued to each other. I know that I’m sane. I have never doubted that, though I don’t think it will ever be possible for me to convince my captors of it. Each day, their unease grows, our conversation becoming taut with revulsion. My body, this abhorrent, monstrous body, the recipient of all things unnatural. My throat, the decay of all civilized society. The doctor told me that my vocal chords are irreversibly damaged, and that it’s likely I’ll never speak painlessly again. But I don’t care.
It’s my body, and I get a say in how I want to destroy it.
Forever yours,
[redacted]
P.S. I almost forgot to tell you—it appears that nurse [redacted] is more than a simple kindred spirit. She’s actually a fellow suckler! She told me all about her wonderful partner a few days ago, in the covertness of my bedside lamp. I really hope I didn’t scare her too much with my outburst, because I’d hate for her to abandon me. It’s less lonely here, with someone who understands.
Dearest,
Fuck, how I miss you. I miss your skin, so smooth and salty underneath my tongue. I miss your round, beautiful eye, the reflection of myself in your retina, all sweaty and gaping. That’s all I can think about. The way our skin felt as though it were one.
Time’s beginning to feel a bit funny to me. How long has it been, love, since we were so rudely parted? How long has it been, since you pushed me down into the mattress for the last time? It feels like it’s been an eternity, since I first saw you down by the docks.
God, how beautiful you were. Swimming in the darkness, slicing through the oil-like sea akin to a knife, all slick and sharp. Threading through the dark so effortlessly, before inching closer and closer to the shore, to me. When you came out of the water, dark skin glistening in the moonlight, all of my disquiet melted away—yes, I’m ashamed to say that I’d had some reservations toward your people when you first appeared. I wish I’d been a better man back then, my love, but I hope you know that none of my despicable inner scruples lingered after we met. Fear of the unknown is our worst enemy and our greatest hindrance, and I’m honoured that you showed me just how much pleasure and enjoyment is possible, if one is brave enough to overcome it.
I often think of your face that night. So smooth and closed, clenched in careful apprehension before it finally unfolded toward me. Your eye, a lighthouse in the shadows of my solitude. Your mouth, unlike anything I’d ever seen. Gently and silently, it opened and urged me on, caressed my lips in a way they had never been caressed before. Come to think of it, maybe that’s when time warped, when it slowed. The world stilled, gave us a chance.
And God, we really didn’t squander it, did we? The first time you kissed me, right there on that darkened beach, cold sand tickling my skin as I dropped to my knees. The taste of you on my tongue, that comforting weight pushing into me. God, I still feel you in my throat, wet and hot and throbbing, ready to thrust. My body trembled with anticipation, eyelids twitching with eagerness. I was never so fucking keen to suck on something in my twenty-nine years of existance. And when I opened my mouth as wide as I could and you slipped in, I felt that salvation was close, that I’d be free of that burden that’s burrowed itself deep inside me. Oh yes, you knew how to reach it. That noise you made as you pulled me back up and embraced me, gripping my head and pushing into my mouth, deep and relentless, until I felt as though I [the following text could not be transcribed due to indecipherable handwriting]
Love,
I can’t take it anymore. If the windows weren’t barred, I’d break through them and jump right out, crawl back to you on my hands and knees. I’d gladly let the shards of glass slice through my skin, the impact of the fall break my bones. I know it doesn’t matter to you what I look like, if I come to you all scarred and ugly and torn. It’s my insides that you care for, I know that, and I’d do everything for you, sweetest, even if it means I have to shed some blood. Because I don’t care for blood. I only care for you.
Fuck the bars, fuck the orderlies and the security, and fuck this fucking hospital. I need you to come here, darling, and take me away. Climb the walls, break the bars—I know you’re strong enough. Kill all of the fucking nurses and doctors for all I care. I don’t give a fuck.
I don’t care that we have to set an example. I never asked to be the poster child, a role model. I don’t doubt for a second that love is something worth fighting for, but I wasn’t meant to be a warrior. I wasn’t destined to be an advocate for equality. I’m just a broken, empty man, who only wants this pain to stop. So God, please, come and make it stop. Please, make it stop the way you always did, when we were together.
When it becomes unbearable, and when my body succumbs to the waves of pain I didn’t think I was able to feel, I have these fantasies. I don’t like them, but I have to have them. I simply have to, because I’m restrained most of the time now, and there’s really nothing else I can do. Day and night is blurring into one great window of reminiscences, projecting onto the ugly white ceiling I’m forced to look at. Sometimes I begin to float, feeling like my skin’s on fire, like the blood coursing through my veins is prickly and hot. It’s when I’m in this state, body curling and twitching in unnatural ways, that I start to fantasize, to dream.
I dream of stealing a knife, of its smooth cold metal, painfully resembling your skin. I dream of that one nurse who calls me a freak underneath his breath every time he adjusts my IV, and of my psychiatrist, who tells me the urge to love you is unnatural. I dream of laughing at them, about slashing their throats with your icy, sharp skin. And then, finally, I dream of finding you, of your strong arms that grip my head just how I like it. Hard and brutish, so I can never escape or be alone ever again.
But I’m still stuck here, hands and legs tied up, opening up my lips for a fever-conjured vision of you until the corners of my mouth start to slice. I dig my tongue into the little cracks, relishing in the sting of it, because I know that I need to make room for you, that you’ll soon slip into me and push yourself and thrust away, making the most beautiful, obscene sounds until I’ll be choking and [text could not be transcribed due to indecipherable handwriting]
The doctors say that it will get better with time, that I’ll get used to the aches and spasms. But even if I were to believe them, I don’t want to get used to it. I don’t want to forget any of it.
So what if it hurts me, if it destroys me? After all, I’ll die either way. People seem to forget that. I’ll die either way, and it’s my choice how I go about it. The doctors said that I’m going through something of an abstinence crisis, and for the first time since I came here, it’s a take I might actually agree with.
I’ve tried a lot of things in my life. I have a sordid past of self-destruction, which I’m not really proud of—molly, poppers, MDMA; weed, coke, shrooms. I’ve tried it all. But nothing compares to you, my love. You’re not something I can take and then just purge out of my system like some common substance. Like I’m some average addict, just waiting for my next fix. No, you’re more than that. You’re inhumanely moreish, darling, and sometimes I think of how selfish it is of me, that I’m glad we’ve gotten a chance to meet. That you left the dark safety of your previous home behind and surfaced on the Dalmatian coast, right where I could find you. I hate that you were hurting, and I wish I could’ve protected you somehow. I wish I could’ve kept you safe like a trinket in my pocket, where nobody would ever get to you, where the stupidity of humanity wouldn’t cause you any more pain.
But selfishly, I think of your sweet face the most. When what’s hidden comes out slick and supple, and I just can’t help myself. I open my mouth all eager and obedient, trained like Pavlov’s dog. I get hard imagining us like that, wrapped around each other in a cocoon of wet skin and limbs. My mouth gaping, choking on your dripping firmness until tears well up in my eyes. Jesus Christ. I was never that ravenous in my life. The nurses need to change my sticky pants every hour. Maybe a part of me really is as deranged as they try to convince me.
Which reminds me—did I write to you about the thing inside me? I can’t remember. Lately, I find it difficult to remember, but I must’ve told you about it, about the horrid slough, the nasty tumor hidden behind the layers of my skin and fat and innards. The parasitic ball of shame and insecurity that no one can make sense of, that nobody can penetrate to or touch except you, dearest.
You were so close, so, so close, my darling, the last time we were together. With your mouth on my face, taking what you need at a brutal pace, your unrelenting muscle thrusting in and out, until we were one three-eyed body, pulsating with pleasure. Until I couldn’t take any more and became a mess, a saline and shaking mess that was so throbbingly gorged and full.
So chock-full of you, my love, that I could’ve just died.
Until eternity,
[redacted]
My love,
I’m not really proud of what I’ve done. Nurse [redacted] has been nothing short of kind to me, but desperate times call for desperate measures. I don’t enjoy blackmail, especially not when it’s directed towards sympathetic, undeserving recipients, but I was at an impasse, and this was my only way out. I hope you will forgive my cruel methods, once we finally see each other again.
But don’t worry, darling, I’m not a total barbarian. I didn’t make a huge fuss. As much as I was itching to just run, I couldn’t do it to nurse [redacted], a fellow suckler, who would most definitely get fired and banned from obtaining a job in the medical field ever again. So I just asked her to arrange a simple visit. I can only hope that she’ll someday forgive my uncouth ways.
So hold on tight, love. Nurse [redacted]’s lover will slip you all the information you need.
See you soon, darling. I love you so fucking much.
Forever yours,
[redacted]
If you’re still here after reading these letters, I applaud your stomach—God knows it isn’t an easy read, and I completely understand the desire to turn off the screen and run off to the nearest confessional. But to those brave souls who stuck long enough to get to the last letter, I’d like to sincerely thank you. Transcribing this text was neither easy nor, as you might imagine, particularly pleasant, but I take comfort in the fact that the work I have done here will serve as a testimony of the tragedy which happens when one strays too far from our Creator’s path (allegedly, of course, because I’m trying not to get sued).
It’s likely that the supposed incident occurred a few days after the last letter was written, and that it resulted in the death of a nurse (presumably nurse [redacted], as mentioned in the letters), two unidentified orderlies, and the author of the letters himself. One of the rumors circulating around, of the patient being asphyxiated, unfortunately seems to check out with the disturbing mechanics of sexual encounters described in the letters.
I, for one, am not terribly surprised. This world is full of temptations, and Heaven knows that, in the last decade, we’ve indulged some of them far too much. I knew that things like this were bound to happen: people are into all kinds of weird and deranged stuff, and I guess that this is no exception. It was only a matter of time when “sucklers”—as they apparently like to call themselves—would act upon their urges. Working on this post was one of the greatest challenges I’ve encountered so far. As I transcribed the letters, I had to stop many times and remind myself to be kind, to be gracious. We are all God’s creations, after all, and I believe our humanoid, seemingly genderless newcomers are a part of His plan. However, I have an overwhelming need to remind everyone that it’s crucial we don’t fall into temptation, into the clutches of those strange souls. It’s a pattern we’ve all seen before—wait a little longer, and all of our men will latch onto those creatures, those genderfluid perverts who corrupt innocent individuals with their unnatural desires.
A lot of the questions regarding this case still remain unanswered. How did the nurse manage to slip the Mollusk into the clinic? How and why did the collateral victims die? And most urgently, how did the confined beings come into contact with the humans in the first place? My source tells me that the parents of the unlucky patient are suing the hospital for negligence, but I fear that winning that lawsuit won’t bring them much peace.
As for my personal opinion on this matter, I think I’ve made my stance pretty clear. I can’t really say anything else except God save us all, if these letters are true.
Chock-Full © 2025 Ivana Geček
[EN] Ivana Geček is a writer and comic artist currently based in Varaždin, Croatia. She writes horror, dark fantasy, and satire inspired by folklore. Her debut sapphic horror novella Bye-Bye, Babaroga was published in 2024 by Shtriga. In her spare time she likes to read about cryptids, pick at the banjo, and watch good and bad horror movies.
The short story Chock-Full was originally published in the Morina kutija, no. 9 (kolovoz, 2025). You can download it for free from morinakutija.com/mag or Smashwords.
[HR] Ivana Geček je autorica i strip-umjetnica iz Varaždina. Piše horor, mračnu fatnastiku i satiru inspiriranu folklorom. Njena prva knjiga je sapphic horror novela Bye-Bye, Babaroga, objavljena 2024. u izdanju Shtrige. U slobodno vrijeme voli čitati o kriptidima, svirati banjo i gledati kako dobre, tako i loše hororce.
Priča Chock-Full objavljena je u online časopisu Morina kutija, br. 9 (kolovoz, 2025.). Časopis možete besplatno preuzeti s morinakutija.com/mag ili s platforme Smashwords.
Urednički komentar: Uznemirujuća i provokativna, senzualna i monstruozna, ova kratka priča navest će vas da budete zahvalni što više nije ljeto. Prava horror poslastica.
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