Beginning

The apartment is red. The room reeks of weakness. It smells of midnight dew. Sticky skins touching. On the bed, the pile of bones shudders. It wakes, its heartbeat fueled by the memory of the sun. The curtains are thick, the outside is a place for imagination, never seen, only heard of. Moments before, the world was spinning. Then, a big crack. The earth split in half. Flowers shriveled. Grass burnt to a crisp.

Birth

It was born out of nothing and everything. Its mouth was wide and it ate things that couldn’t fit in it. The mother, human, young and careful. The father, a demon. It was him that started it all.

Man

He likes the taste of women the most. Their wombs, soft and tender in his hands. The way their skin wraps around his teeth as he bites. He never thinks about it. It is instinctual. The desire lives in his blood. It bubbles at the sight of fresh meat. Most of the time he can’t see them. Not because he doesn’t want to but because they beg for darkness. They are not scared yet. They are just self-conscious about how they will look, and what he will think of them. They don’t know that he doesn’t care. That they are all the same. So he turns the light off, and as he kneels at the foot of the bed, he hears their breaths. Human breaths.

Breakfast

At least he offers.

She gets out of bed, catches her reflection in the window. They said she would become a woman overnight, that her dreams would take her places she’s never been to before, that the man she loves would love her back. She looks at the girl. She’s only a kid. Her mother calls. 57 times until it stops. The girl knows that her mother feels what she feels. The girl knows that if she makes it back home, her mother will weep at the loss of her loss.

The eggs are good. The yolk bursts in her mouth, seeps through the gaps of her teeth like a serpent hunting for food. The liquid escapes slowly from her parted lips. She lets it stain her thigh, not knowing it will stain forever.

Beast

There isn’t much difference between Man and Beast. Both can kill. Both want to, both attempt and sometimes succeed. If they don’t kill, they find other ways to hurt her. The Beast crawls in its maze. The father taught it all the wrong things. To protect its heart, eat its victims, embrace its desires. Especially the dangerous ones.

Beauty

She makes an effort to smile. It’s hard for her to hold his head in her arms after what he’s done to her. In a moment of weakness, he asks her about the meaning of life. She doesn’t know. She makes something up. Life is a battle against death. Life is wanting to die but fighting for air when you drown. Life is figuring out the difference between being alone and being lonely. Life is complicated.

A tear falls in his mouth. He drinks it. Asks for more. She cries for a long time, and when she is done, she forgets why she started in the first place.

Baby

He lacks nothing.

Becoming

His head is five times the size of his hands. At school, they teach him how to count to 10. He already knows about divorce. Every night, he sleeps to a song. Catch the Wind. He swears to one day find The One. Sing to her. Catch her. Love her.

Be Good

She hesitates. Skirt or pants? Skirts are more feminine. Dangerous. Pants are a boy’s thing. Safe. She hides under layers of clothes that don’t match. Suffocating. She can never be enough.

The One

It was fun for a while.

When he was gone, she would breathe, defenseless. She’d make the bed. Undo it. Make it again. Pick up hair on the bathroom floor. Soak it in water. Stick it to the wall. Draw shapes. Disgusting. He’d come out of work and she’d be waiting at the door. His dirty socks would be washed and neatly folded. She’d arranged them by color. Dinner on the table. Perfection. He’d eat it all in a rush, grunting, satisfied. He wouldn’t wait for her to finish. He’d drag her to the bedroom and feast, again. Her bare skin. Exposed. Red from his violent desire to love and be loved. He didn’t know how to do anything carefully. She was and wasn’t The One.

Before the After

She understands it will take time. She’s young, time is all she has. She can afford to waste it. On him.

Blinded

The beast has two eyes, one limb, two hands, a head, a belly button and eleven toes. He wishes he was four again, making soup out of dirt. Eating food instead of people.

Fever

He is hungry but the pantry is empty. Her heartbeat pulses in his ears like a delicate melody. He smells fear, disdain, love, a call for help. She falls asleep in a corner of the room before he has a chance to speak.

She dreams of what her life would be like. A walk in the woods. A picnic by the lake. He would be different this time. He would be good. Give her a daughter, buy her dresses and call her a princess. Just like her mother.

In the dream, he kisses her. Softly. She’s never seen anything so beautiful, she might cry. When she wakes, she almost drowns in a puddle of tears. The Beast is here and he looks at her quietly. An hour goes by. Then two. She makes the first move this time. Pours her heart onto him, begging for touch. For a little comfort. She grabs his face with her claws, tries as hard as she can to remember, the dream, the kiss. Who is she holding now?

The Fall

Winter sprouts. They fail to keep each other warm. No matter how many blankets they cover themselves with, the cold seeps in and freezes a memory. The beginning of the end.

They both fall on their knees, nearly breaking every bone in their bodies. Even the Beast is caught off guard. He was getting comfortable. Thriving in pain. Risking his life for a bit of someone else’s dreams.

No words are said. Silence speaks for itself now.

Rebirth

She walks in circles until she finds the door. It’s hidden in plain sight. Small and tall, right in front of her. Nothing else is around. The handle is warm, as if someone had just held it. On the other side, an apple tree. Millions of strawberries held on by a thread. A bakery. The sky, big and blue and cloudy. A calf drinking its mother’s milk.

She catches her breath. Heals her wounds, cares for the bruises on her back. As her body decomposes into the earth, she becomes dirt again. A mix of the worms of the apples and the water from heaven. Wind blows from all directions, spreading her ashes all over the world. She says hello to the neighbor, thank you to her mom, I love you to her cat, knowing it will make a difference.

Dandelion

A transformation. It’s never too late. He thinks. Wine sits on the table, unopened, next to a thousand empty bottles. She’s out somewhere. Flowers in her hands. A gentle smile on her face. He tries to image what it looks like, realizing he’s never seen it before. He doesn’t care. He is happy. Here. In his red appartement. In his robe.

Her smell is replaced by a stranger’s. This one is different. A blonde. All the same anyways. The transformation doesn’t happen. He blows into the wet air of the room. He waits for a shape to form. It grows bigger, and bigger until it reaches the size of his body. The shape is undistinguishable. He sees through it, touches its invisible curves. It’s her and it isn’t. He tries to catch it, crush it under his fist. He makes love to it.

He wakes up in excruciating pain. The pain of knowing the difference between being lonely and being alone.

Barefoot

It’s May. The world opens before him. He can be anything. A boy, an artist. Despite himself, he chooses to be undefined. At the first signs of Spring, he runs outside. Ducks in ponds diving for fish. The water is mud. He plunges his fingers into the filth and draws on his face. No one is here to watch after him. The wind dries his art. It cracks and when he smiles at his reflection, his cheeks turn to dust. 

He’s never seen a bee. When he tries to catch it, he doesn’t know that the sting will hurt more than the scratch on his knee. He doesn’t know that the bee bites because the bee fears for its life. He is a monster to the bee. Even though he doesn’t mean it. He is what others think of him.

Basement

Nobody told her. That after all this time, his hair would stick to her clothes, wrap itself around her fingers and squeeze the life out of her hands. That she would wake up one morning and feel it digging holes into her skin, leaving her paralyzed. She was free, but she cowered under the weight of her decision. In the middle of the night, he would hear her call. A faint voice in the distance of his appartement, followed by a deep rumble. A plaintive song. Forgiveness?

Locked in the basement, she slowly watches herself go, where nobody can find her.

History

Friday night. He wonders what would have happened if he was never born. On his way out, he finds a mirror. The elevator is empty. He stares into his own eyes and tries to find someone. He must be buried deep because all he can find is oblivion. Never ending darkness. He isn’t happy. The emergency stop is bright red at his right. He pushes and suddenly he is in control again. He looks at the mirror again. This time, someone else is on the other side. A kid. An old man. A teenager. All in one. All are him. Their faces are tender, reflecting a kind of pity.

He’s tempted to break the mirror and cut his throat with the sharpest piece.

First steps

It was that evening that things began to change.

He learns to say I love you. With his eyes, his hands, his body. The mouth is the tricky part. It’s always greedy.

Milk

It wasn’t because she had left in a hurry or because his teeth had shed. There was a friendly look to him now. And a curious glow coming from under his feet. He couldn’t fly although he had dreamt about it over and over again hoping he would wake up in the sky, among the birds. He was like a bird after all. His beak, narrow but wide enough to catch the biggest fish in the sea. His wings, invisible. His body was covered in feathers, yet it was all skin. Nobody knew how to look at him. He wore a suit most of the time. And when it rained, he roamed the city in search of a victim. Bad habits. He often found nothing. Only himself, reflected in a puddle.

Chocolate

Simple pleasures replace complicated ones.

The End

They never talk again. Only through memories.

After that, the world ends quickly. Nothing is to be remember but the passion of imperfect lives. Heaven becomes part of the universe. Angels meet their enemies. Nobody is watching the spectacle but the spectacle itself. It has no feelings. No judgment. No thoughts. Humanity has turned to dust. Scattered all over. Quiet fallings from th

The heat kissed her bare shoulders like a lover. The eyes stared, waiting patiently for her to start playing. She looked into the light hanging high above her head, bathing in it, letting it burn her iris, letting it devour her pupils until they were no bigger than a speck. When she lowered her face, the world was black and white, deep purple and agitated yellow. She saw colors nobody else could see, distorted shapes and shadows that only she knew how to handle with care. Their orchestrated dance begged to linger a little longer before her but eventually faded away, surrendering to the silence of the room, punctuated by careful breaths from the audience. The air rested heavy on her crooked back and made its way to her lungs, its familiar pressure invading her head with cotton leaving just enough room for her incessant thoughts to lay flat against her skull.

Her vision restored, she cleared her throat, fixed her posture. The keys called for her touch, they vibrated under her loving gaze as a way of thanking her for years of friendship. Her fingers hung over the oiled ivories, imploring her to play already. They noticed the tremor in her hands, the imperfect stillness others mistook for fear.

The tension built among the spectators who couldn’t contain their excitement. The chatter spilled on her skin like fresh milk, whispering words of glory. She barely heard it yet she held onto it like a lifebelt. She would miss this.

The first note rang gently into her ears and into the distance. It ran along the walls and back to her, eager to win the race against time, aware of the ticking clock. It knew not to be late, for death waited for no one.

By the time the second note rose from the piano, she closed her eyes on the room. The melody poured effortlessly out of the tip of her fingers, allowing the music to take care of itself for her. She sank deep into the crevasses of the old keys, filling in the gaps between them with her wrinkled soul. A smile sprouted in her chest, its destination denied by her inability to move her lips or control her mouth. She swallowed her heart back into place but did not cower at the first signs of stiffness. It was only the beginning and she would have to fight the contractions until the end.

A vivid image fogged her memory: her grandpa sitting at the piano on a small stool whose natural wood color had faded from old age. He played well, his craft a result of years of dedicated learning. He was enamored with the sensible nature of music, fascinated by the romantic qualities of the instrument. He taught her everything he knew at a time where his hands still worked. She remembered the day his music had sounded tired. His hands, trembling melancholically on his lap, had suddenly stopped playing. He had urged her to go on without him, and as she had played, he had looked at her with admiration or envy or sadness. The inexplicable emptiness in his eyes had betrayed a pain she had never seen before. The pain of a man whose life was over.

“Grandpa can’t play anymore,” she had told her mom when she got home that day. A few weeks later, they took him away and put him in a place for people like him. Although his room was small, he requested that a piano was put in it in case he would wake up one day – blessed by the grace of God or just lucky – with a chance to play again. But that day never came and his passion for playing – challenged by his inability to stabilize his hands – festered and eventually died.

She visited him often because she knew how much he loved her company and when the conversation ran dry – which it always did – she would sit at the piano and speak in a language he was familiar with the most. He would nod when she reached a crescendo as a sign of approval and laid still when she played pianissimo. She kept playing long after he would fall asleep hoping the music would seep into his dreams and appease his anger. Two decades after his death, she tried to fill the gulf his absence had left in her life by playing for others, for her daughter and her husband, for strangers, for the world, just like he had played for her.

A sudden spasm brought her back to reality. The tip of her toes went numb, and it became increasingly harder to press the pedal. Her breath sped up to try and catch up with the song but the weight of her head was starting to drag her whole body towards the floor. How would she be able to last until the end? She wasn’t sure. But the fury with which she played was stronger and more stubborn than the tension in her muscles. Small puddles of sweat bled through the soft fabric of her dress, drawing uneven shapes, sticky, delicate. The cold drops of perspiration hurrying down her spine, the comforting feeling of being hugged by damp clothes, the rapid chants of her heartbeat cheering against her chest – all seemed to be aware of the urgency of the situation.

Five minutes had passed since she had begun the song. She ignored that fact as best as she could but the numbness in her toes was now spreading to her knees. The air around her was getting thicker by the minute. She felt a breeze fall upon her, which chased away the sweat that had now soaked the entirety of her back. The piano sheets which had been carefully placed onto the music shelf flew across the room. One page after the other, they escaped, as if they already knew what would happen at the end of the song. A collective gasp erupted from the crowd but she kept her eyes closed, unbothered, stoic.

She regretted not being able to smell her own perfume, and the obnoxious scent of her nail polish. But most of all she felt broken hearted about being deprived of her piano’s distinct smell of lacquer, wood and dust, a smell she remembered avoiding when she was younger. After her grandpa’s death, grief struck her so violently that she could not bear the sight or scent of his old piano. She refused to play it and spent months looking for a new one which she made sure was nothing like her grandpa’s. Her new purchase, an electric Daewoo from the 80s she had wasted all of her pocket money on, was the worst; its keys were sticky and the black paint with which the piano was coated would not stop peeling off. After a while she stopped worrying about it and picked at it with her nails until one day there was nothing left to pick. She quit playing, packed her bags and moved out of her parents’ house, leaving her skinned piano behind.

Her mom died, shortly followed by her dad. It was tragic but necessary. She could never forgive them for not giving her the love she had always wanted and needed. For not caring about her as much as they should have. For having her grandpa as the only one she could count on. After their deaths, she had had no other choice than to come back and take care of a house full of objects and pictures that reminded her of what she was never really a part of. She sold most of it, donated the rest. In the basement, she found her grandpa’s piano. Upon closer inspection, she saw that its legs had been chewed up by mice and that a nest had been built under the lid, in between the strings. “Hello?”, she had said to no one in particular. It was the first time in a long time she had heard herself speak, and she realized that her voice sounded empty. There and then, at the ripe age of 37, she decided to give everything up for music, in homage to her grandpa.

A slight fever spread across her forehead. She looked down at her watch. Eight minutes had gone by. Her bottom half was now completely numb. She tried to swallow but her saliva had dried, leaving knots in her throat she could not untie. A glass of water had been placed on a stool next to her, but she feared the liquid might interfere with what she had drank before the performance.

The tremor in her hands flared up, making it almost impossible for her to keep up with the tempo. She skipped a few notes but quickly recovered. Her eyes caught her reflection in the piano and she saw that her face was still the same, still alive, still beautiful. Stray hairs had escaped her bun to form a halo of humid curls around her head. She was God’s favorite yet she could not bear the thought of what he had planned for her. Her decision was made and there was nothing anybody could do to stop it. She would not suffer the way her grandpa had, nor would she sit with the discomfort he had endured all those years.

The room was dark except for her. Illuminated by the music, she spread her fingers on the piano like an angel would its wings. She did not have much time left, only a couple of minutes. She felt her thoughts melt into ash, pilling up in a corner somewhere inside her brain, shrinking, swimming, drowning, dissolving into a pool of smooth mud.

Teardrops infused with mascara dawdle down her cheeks, caressing the sides of her nose. One or two lingered on her upper lip and hung from her chin before falling soundlessly on her lap. She did not try to chase them away but instead she imagined what they would taste like. Bitter, salty, innocent?

She glanced over at the audience to make sure she was still conscious. Some of the spectators had brought their hands to their hearts, others had closed their eyes and were lost in the music. They were crying too, but for other reasons. She wanted to smile at them to show her gratitude but she was stuck, tangled. She wondered what would happen after this was all over, if they would remember her like she remembered her grandpa. She wondered if her passion would live on and inspire other musicians.

The ticking of her watch seemed to pick up the pace. Impatient, intimidating, merciless. She had rehearsed this last bit for days, hoping to be ready but she soon realized that nothing could have prepared her for this. For the love, the apprehension, the worry, the guilt, the pride, the bitterness, the excitement, the joy, the beauty. Everything around her froze as she let the room consume her whole. The song was coming to an end. Her life opened up before her and she stared at it lovingly: the birth of her daughter, the immense regret of leaving her behind, of never seeing her face again, the selfishness of wanting to die. She knew what kind of pain she would put her family through, yet she hoped they would someday understand that dying this way was the best decision. She didn’t want to face the pity on everyone’s face, the sadness in everyone’s voice when they would realize she would end up just like her grandpa. History repeating itself. She held her thoughts in the palm of her hands like a mother, reassured it, kissed it. Let it go.

Her heart gave up as she brushed the last note. She caved in onto the keyboard, her index finger still pressed against it. A small breath escaped her mouth and found a home in the lungs of others. The pedal bowed under the weight of her lifeless body, whispered to her inaudible words, promises, goodbyes.

***

DEATH IN CARNEGIE HALL

____________

By RICHARD HAWK 

NEW YORK CITY, March 4 – Simone Barrer, American pianist, mother of a daughter and wife of actor Roger Wohan, died on stage last night at the Carnegie Hall in New York City. The musician who had been diagnosed with Parkinson’s disease earlier this year, was about to celebrate her 70^th birthday. 

Her performance of Ode to Joy, according to the public, was one of her best. There was nothing about her appearance as she stepped onto the stage that suggested the impending tragedy. 

After a transcending performance, Simone looked as if she were bending over the piano but instead, she collapsed on it. Someone from the audience, sensing something was wrong, shouted for help. Doctors were called to the stage but Simone had already passed away. Her sudden death, according to her autopsy, was a result of poisoning: 35 grams of Pentobarbital poison was found in her blood which she supposedly ingested right before her performance. While no apparent suspect has been found yet, the police keep interrogating close friends and family hoping to find more information. 

As of earlier today, they remain unsuccessful. The investigation continues.

She had given him everything, from the day they had met, to the day he declared that he didn’t love her anymore.

She laughed to his face and for the first time in a long time, she felt like her teeth were in the wrong place. She only really used her molars to chew and even then, she wasn’t much of a chewer. He hated that about her. ‘You’ll choke on your food and when that happens, I won’t be able to save you’. He skipped first aid in high school and became a lawyer. Lawyers don’t give you the time of the day. Lawyers don’t save people. Lawyers are in it for the money. What was he in for this time? She wasn’t rich, nor beautiful. She was a virgin. Not anymore. She had given it to him, that thing for which she had tried finding a home for years. But lawyers like to win and so it became something she had lost. A loss, that’s what it was.

He stood there, watching her tears form a wet stain on the arm of the couch, until her eyes were as dry as raisins. ‘I’m sorry’, is what he had said in a hurried tone, indicating that he had better things to do and she had better be quick. She didn’t move. She wanted to waste his time like he had wasted hers. ‘Why?’, she had asked after wiping her nose on one of her sleeves. His mouth opened in a hideous grin – something she had once found attractive – revealing his teeth: white, straight, sharp.

She was 7 when she lost her second tooth. As a late bloomer, she had watched with envy the little black holes in the other kids’ mouths, wishing she had ones of her own. She was impatient and didn’t mind the pain; her mom found her one night on the bathroom floor, blood on her lips, on the carpet, in the sink. She was 6 when she lost her first tooth. She was also 6 when she realized that the fairy hated her.

What was left of her now? Her old self had laid in a pool of her own blood, the night she gave herself away. It was good, she didn’t mind the pain. ‘It’s a fair trade’, she had thought. He had made her a woman, what more could she have wanted? A friend, a confident, a lover.

The feeling of betrayal in the pit of her stomach made its way to her throat. She choked quietly, as he continued moving his lips as though every word he spoke weren’t a lie. The sound of his voice ricocheted off her skin and caused her muscles to contract, her teeth to clench. She liked the way her gums hugged each of her teeth, tightly, lovingly. Her teeth were infinite, his were ephemeral. She had a collection, hidden in one of her drawers. Baby teeth, broken teeth, teeth found on the side of the road. She liked the way they rattled in the box. He had stolen from her, and she was determined to get back at him. But how?

That’s when she saw it, on the kitchen counter. It was still dirty from the night before and was begging to be put to use. She was a good cook; she knew how to handle a knife. Although she would have enjoyed seeing him suffer, she knew that to collect his teeth the way she had pulled hers years ago, she had to kill him. Nobody would have to know, not even her mom with whom she shared everything. At that moment, nothing mattered more than vengeance. She felt her body move towards the knife, and for just a moment, she wondered what would have been different if the fairy had given her a penny.

Miranda and I met outside of the men’s bathroom, 14 years ago. She had looked down at my grease-covered crotch which I had managed to make worse by soaking it in water and had laughed so loud her voice had coated the back of my throat with honey. I had run out of there before she’d had the chance to open her mouth a second time.

At the time, I was dating a woman named Linette, whom I was trying to impress with what little I had left. The week before I had renounced to ever seeing another hair grow from my scalp and had feared getting dumped by Linette who had a thing for anything that wasn’t me, but whom had decided to give me and my bald head a second chance. To my great dismay, Linette – having no prior knowledge of or interest in how close my bank account was to reaching the negatives – had a taste for expensive things and would let me know every chance she’d get. She would bat her eyes at a remarkable rate in hopes that it would get her anything she wanted.

I could resist her; it was not hard to for how repulsive she looked. Her emaciated face emphasized the lack of empathy she had towards others, something she was aware of and proud to display. I could resist her and yet, I didn’t. I was a bald, diabetic, overweight middle-aged man with a low chance of survival. I was as repulsive as Linette. She was my last resort.

That evening however, after my brief encounter with Miranda in the bathroom, something in me changed. The little respect I had left for Linette dissipated. I found myself in a state of ecstasy as if I had broken a spell, as if I had been slapped across the face by the hand of an angel. The embarrassment I had felt in the bathroom turned into curiosity. Miranda’s laugh descended from my throat to my stomach and I realized how much more delicious it was compared to whatever I had been chewing before.

The smile I had on my face seemed to displease Linette so much that she gagged at the sight of it. She spat some of the expensive caviar into her lap in the most disgraceful manner and after wiping her bony chin with her bony fingers, demanded to know what on earth I was smiling about.

“I don’t like you very much.”

And that was the end of it. She threw the rest of her red wine at me, making my grease-covered crotch almost unnoticeable under the new stains and screamed. She left in a hurry, lips curled over her teeth like a wild dog.

I sat there, wet, fat and happy. I could have sat like this for another hour if someone had not reached for my hand to shake it with great enthusiasm.

“That was brilliant.”

Miranda was staring at me and I wish she weren’t. I felt foolish all of a sudden.

“Do you have a spare pair?” She pointed at my pants.

I shook my head yes. At my house, I told her.

“Where do you live?” She seemed to want to know everything.

It’s a 30-minute drive, I told her.

“I live right across the street. Come on, let me help you.”

And there we went, right across the street. It turned out that Miranda was a widow and had been for almost 7 years. She had kept all of her husband’s clothes neatly folded in a closet by her bed for someone to be rescued by someday.

14 years later, my wife Miranda laid still in her coffin like you would expect a corpse to, her lips partly opened as if she were about to let out a secret. To tell the world that I killed her.

Lurking in the back of my mind were the memories of that night I promised her I would change the flickering light bulb that had been flickering for weeks now. She had been asking me and I had been putting it off. I came back home and found her on the floor, her body tangled in a towel, her skin still covered in droplets. She forgot that water and electricity don’t go together too well.

The next day I got rid of all the light bulbs in the house. I tried selling them online for a bit of money that I would later spend on flowers for her grave.

He hunts for me. He’s nothing more than a faceless shape but he still lurks in the corner of my mind, dreaming of being remembered, feeding on memories that aren’t his. He once had a face that I held and kissed and smiled to. I guess it still exists, somewhere out there in Michigan or in hell because he once told me he loathed me. At that time, it seemed like the end of the world. Now, the thought of him sits on my tongue like an industrial pastry, stale, tempting, its aftertaste not worth the trouble.

The heat that rises from my wrist threatens to disrupt my thoughts. I take off my watch and hold it in the palm of my hand to steal back what I gave away. Warmth. It’s mine and yet it bleeds onto everything I touch. I let my body sink into the mattress as an attempt to disappear from this world I love so dearly. Outside, the birds sing but the melody gets lost in the bitter cold. Although the windows are shut, the wind creeps in and takes advantage of my bare feet. Is it God? I wonder.

Sundays are cursed because Sundays are not Saturdays and because Sundays are followed by Mondays and Mondays suck. But Sundays are also God’s favorite days so I put our differences aside and get dressed. I go to church and eat the wafer and smile until my jaw can no longer fit into my mouth the way it’s supposed to. My teeth fight for more space than there actually is and I feel sorry for them. For how small they are and how hard they try to keep the bad words from crossing my lips when I get angry. Most times they fail.

The wrinkles around my eyes betray a certain animosity that people tend not to notice or ignore. Only God knows it and that’s fine by me. Only He knows that I’m a sinner and that I sin out of guilt or out of despair or simply out of morbid pleasure. I have sex with men, occasionally. Once every other day or once every month or sometimes never. And God’s right. I am miserable. But, is it really my fault that every man I date is not worthy of my time? Is it my fault that my expectations in life aren’t to be cut out from the world and from other people? Because that’s what they all want. Everybody. Him more than anyone. That’s what he wanted when he told me he loved me. When he took my hand and held it to his chest and said that his heart couldn’t beat without mine. I believed every word he said, but when he tried to revive the maternal instinct I thought I had lost forever, he created a monster. A reflection of his own, ugly flaws.

God knew not to bless me with kids. I turn violent and cold on the days I think about death. I would have mistreated those kids just like I mistreat myself and prison life isn’t a pleasant thought. So now, instead of abusing those who don’t deserve it, I abuse those who do. It’s only fair, it’s only just although God would disagree.

After church, I sit in my car and listen to the sound of my own voice asking for forgiveness. I tell Him I don’t mean it. I tell Him I’m scared of telling the truth even though the truth has already been told. I tell Him I love to feel the sun on my face when I go out but I also tell Him that it’s not enough. I ask Him what the meaning of life is and all I hear in return is the sad echo of the highway.

When I get home, I stand in front of the mirror, eyes closed. The heat in my room is unbearably charming but really what makes it hard to breath are the memories of the mistakes that I’ve made. I let shame consume me until I remember that I exist. I undress, I look at my naked body, expecting to find something new, something beautiful. Or just something. The scar is still here, anchored in my belly. It’s nothing I haven’t seen before. I get bored.

I’m not sure what to do with myself on Sundays, when my conversations with God run dry. Even He doesn’t have time for me, where time doesn’t exist.

Grandma is dying. She doesn’t have to tell me, the signs are there, written all over her body in invisible ink; loss of appetite, shortness of breath, chest infections. I had unintentionally locked Mom and Dad outside the house that day, forcing them to take a detour to grandma’s house. It was a cold afternoon. It was November or January or maybe in between. She was supposed to be in Italy, I was told. She was supposed to be having the time of her life. They found her on the couch, weak. Lung cancer, they said. She’ll be fine, they said. I believed them because adults never lie, right?

***

I could have never been born. Mom doesn’t talk about it much. She doesn’t avoid the subject; it just never comes up. Or maybe it doesn’t just never come up, maybe I’m the one avoiding it by fear of bringing up a part of her life she tried so hard to forget. I don’t want to hurt her. I want to protect her from it.

She’s 53 now and she lives a life of regrets. I wonder if she regrets this too, having me instead of the baby she lost. I don’t think she does, but I know that losing a child she never got to hold changed the way she felt about me. There’s an explanation for the way she controls me and the way I let her. She thinks that controlling me will prevent her from losing me. Sometimes, she gets so close to me that it feels as if her body merges into mine. I can’t blame her for trying to hold on to something she once lost. It doesn’t bother me. It never did, even when she’d say that she lived for me. Even when I’d feel like every breath she took found its fuel in my presence.

***

I am looking at him through my computer screen. He looks like a wild animal, too wild and too animal for me to understand what is going on in his head. He has learned to stay silent, to hide himself from the world like a chameleon. He sits still, his face numb. I try to steal a smile from him but he seems too preoccupied to even notice I’m here, so I just stare in silent. I stare at his lips and wonder if they still taste like the people we don’t talk about. I have kissed those lips before. Countless times. Maybe enough times to erase the damage caused by others before me but his expression tells me otherwise. Even after 2 and half years, it’s telling me you saved me. It’s begging me don’t leave and I wish he heard me whisper you’re my forever home Chris.

***

I was 8 when I decided that Grandma was despicable. Mom used to say she was softer with boys, and I believed her. She never pinched my brothers’ arms so hard it left bruises on their skin. She never scolded them for putting their elbows on the table or for eating too many biscuits at breakfast. On Tuesday nights, we would gather at her house and she would come up with another rule that would make everyone question her sanity. Well-educated young children always eat their food with a piece of bread in their hands, she’d say, and me and my brothers and sister would have to keep a piece of bread in our hand until the end of dinner.

***

I know what it’s like to do so much for others that you lose yourself completely. I know because I lose myself sometimes too, fade like a picture exposed to too much light. I collect dust like one would collect coins. Mom collects regrets like one would collect trophies. Every chance she gets, she reminds my dad of how many mistakes and sacrifices she has made for him and his family: I was 25 and you had 4 kids, I gave up everything for you and that’s how you thank me? She is a broken record but I’m never tired of hearing her. I sympathize with her, understand that all she wants is to be seen. I see you. That thought stays behind my lips. I want to see her fight. Fight!

***

He makes me feel things. Anger. Frustration. Fear. He starts to speak about it, that thing that has become a constant source of worry. He speaks about it in a robotic voice, like the past can’t hurt him anymore but for me it’s new, and it hurts, and I think Am I making this about me? But it doesn’t matter because it hurts too much to ignore. He tells me he’s doing better. It’s over, he says, but what he doesn’t know is that it’s only the beginning for me. What he doesn’t know is that every time he’ll get sad, or angry, or depressed, I’ll get flashbacks from this conversation and remember that four years ago, he tried to kill himself. I didn’t know him back then, but the guilt of not being there for him eats me alive and I keep asking myself if I became his reason to stay.

***

One day, I told grandma that she had beautiful teeth. They were straight, and white, and I had always thought grandparents weren’t supposed to have any. They’re not real, she said, and she looked disappointed. I wondered if she was happy. She looked happy, alone in her tiny apartment. She looked happy but she also looked like she had real teeth.

I was born after grandpa’s death, and the only thing I knew about him was that he worked at a chocolate factory. Thinking about him made me sad because how can you enjoy life when the person you love most is taken away from you too soon?

***

When I flew across the world for college, Mom fell into a state of depression. She spent half a year glued to the couch, wondering if she would ever feel like getting back up again. I wonder if she thought of death when she hit rock bottom. I wonder how many times the thought crossed her mind, and how many times she had to resist the temptation. Strangely, I didn’t fear for her life because she knows what it’s like to lose a part of her, a baby, a friend, or a lover. She would never do this to me, she’d never take her life I thought, and I believed it.

***

I find a piece of paper in his room. It’s a letter he wrote a few months ago that he never sent me. April 13^th 2021. The words are so close together that it’s almost impossible to decipher, but I know his handwriting better than my own. Six words. I feel guilty to be alive.

He’s drunk and he smiles at me with tender eyes and tells me he’s never felt more alone than when I’m gone. I believe him. It’s not hard to be the best thing to have ever happened to someone when they’ve always felt like they didn’t deserve to live. I want to hold, him but I’m in New Jersey and he’s in Massachusetts, and the only thing I can do is touch the cold surface of my screen and hope he knows I’m here.

***

The pressure is weighing on my shoulders like water on my ears when I swim. It’s bearable but the longer it weighs on me, the more I can feel it compress my skull. I feel responsible for a future that does not belong to me and I’m tired of seeing him hurt himself. Don’t you understand that when you love someone, you’re not supposed to act like you’re alone? You’re in a world of two now. You’re you and me and you can’t hurt yourself without hurting me too.

I have always thought that if I loved him enough, I could protect him from ever getting hurt again. Chris taught me that Love can’t solve everything. I shouldn’t beat myself up about it he says. But I do. I always do. That’s my way of telling him that I care.

***

It’s funny what death can do to you when you’re watching it take someone’s life. You find yourself wishing it were you instead, not because you are selfless enough to feel like you would sacrifice your life for someone else but because you’d rather that than to be a witness. In a way, the people who die have it easy; they will never get to see the guilt that devours you and the suffering that accompanies you everywhere you go, even after a decade of grieving.

***

Mom didn’t try to kill herself. He did. Four years ago is a long time ago he says, but I know that the remnants of that day still haunt him like the thought of him doing it again haunts me. We don’t talk about it. It’s simply there, quiet. In its silence, I find comfort, but also the fear of it ever coming back. I wonder if he knows that in every kiss we share, there is a promise I make him. I’ll protect you.

***

Grandma died 7 years before I met Chris. Cancer took everything from her, so slowly that in the end, I could have sworn she’d always been this way. Her skin was so transparent I could almost see her pulse on her wrists. I thanked God Grandpa was already gone. No one likes to see a living body turn into stone.

***

Mom’s baby died before she even realized it. It died inside of her, and I can’t decide if it’s worse than if it had died after its birth. What must have gone through her mind when they let her out of the hospital? She had just lost a child, but her silhouette was still that of a 6-months-pregnant woman. No one knew what had happened. I’m not even certain she knew herself.

Grandma passed away in her apartment, on the same couch where Mom and Dad had found her two years before. Her eyes were closed and we pretended she was asleep for a moment. She turned cold, and just like that she was gone.

Chris turns cold sometimes too, and I freeze, like I’m waiting for something that never comes. I can see how he’s gotten used to that feeling and that’s what scares me. His depression reminds me of Grandma’s cancer. It’s silent, and it’s invisible, until one day you realize it’s been killing you for months. The cold makes him look like a puppet. He doesn’t talk, he doesn’t move, and before my eyes, he stops living.

***

Tonight, I cry over an imaginary death. It’s him. He’s alone in his room and he’s cold again. This time, he doesn’t reach for his phone to text me. It’s dark but he knows exactly where he hid it. He walks to his drawer and takes out a gun. I don’t know what kind of gun it is, he never told me what he used the first time. All I know is it will kill him if he doesn’t stop. I cross his mind and I try to draw a smile on his face but I can’t. His eyes are vacant, his back is arched and he lets out a sigh that resonates in my ears. As I hope for a different ending, I watch him slowly bring his gun to his forehead, and this time, he doesn’t miss.

There were times where Alice wished to be locked in a cage and put on display, in a zoo. “That’s what I deserve”, she would think, “I’m an animal”. In those moments, when the darkness swallowed her whole, she would feel this creeping coldness arise from her gut all the way to her fingertips. Numb, her throat would tighten and unable to scream, she would wriggle her arms like a kid at a birthday party and agonize in silence. It wouldn’t last long. An hour, two hours tops. She had gotten used to it, the memories, the voices, the dreams. They kept her company, and although they weren’t hers to have, they had become part of her now.

It was like a curse, except that she enjoyed it, almost. She knew that Oliver didn’t. He hated her for it, although it wasn’t her fault. It had all begun as a result of one of his idiotic “jokes” and now he was getting the taste of his own medicine. It was exhausting for her, all those sleepless nights spent in excruciating pain, screaming quietly in between her sheets, wishing she had never been born. But the simple fact of knowing that he was going through the same thing helped her get some satisfaction out of the situation.

Oliver knew that Alice and him shared the same secret, not because she had told him, but because he had them too. The memories, the voices, the dreams. Ever since that day, in the park. He had never really said it out loud, but she had guessed by the look on his face after they had woken up. He looked terrorized. Empty but filled with fear. She had tried to speak to him about it but she had understood that it was no use; every time she had approached him, he had gotten infuriated as if possessed by uncontrollable demons, which had quickly discouraged her to ever try again.

Now, she looked from a distance, making sure he didn’t notice or else she would get in trouble. She didn’t even like looking at him, it was more like something that happened unconsciously, against her will. Why would you want to lay eyes on your worst enemy anyway?

Alice knew Oliver like the back of her hand. He wasn’t good looking, nor was he good natured. What had intrigued Alice the day she had first seen him had been his eyes. Hidden behind a heavy pair of round glasses, they resembled apple seeds, oval and brown. Unlike apple seeds, however, they often looked threatening, inhabited by something Alice knew all too well, something dark, something wicked. That day in the park, when her head had hit the ground so violently that she felt her brain shatter, she had finally understood him. “I guess we’re both terrible people”, she had thought, at that very moment. Her mouth had turned into a slight crescent as she wondered why this discovery had made her smile. “Lock me away, dear God”, had been her second thought after the accident, “I don’t deserve this life”.

There once was a time where Alice genuinely believed that she was worthy of love. She used to smile at the sky and hug its clouds in the palm of her hands in hopes that they would help her reach the heavens. She liked to sit in silence amongst the trees and wait to feel the gentle tickle of a grasshopper on her thigh, or hear the soft buzzing of a bee in search of a flower to land on. Now, all Alice could think about were the nightmares. They kept haunting her long after they had happened, and affected the way she saw the world. First, they took away her soul, then, they took away the people she loved the most.

That is when Alice realized that people are not kind. They smile and wave at you like you’re the best thing they’ve seen in a long time but as soon as you’re out of sight, their smile turns into a mocking grin. How did Alice know? People didn’t try to hide their contempt for her anymore. Their mouths would go straight to a grin. She didn’t mind much because at least, they were honest. There was nothing she hated more than hypocrisy.

Alice wasn’t kind. She wasn’t warm, or welcoming, or sensible. Alice was like a rock, always cold, so much so that when she was asleep, she could pass as dead and no one would question it. Dead, or alive, there was not that much of a difference for her anymore, or for anyone around her. All seemed the same, all seemed dull. She blamed him. After all, he was the one who broke her.

The day after the incident, Alice came to school with a bruised eye. She had expected people to notice it and ask her about it. But most of all, she had expected Oliver to come talk to her. Apologize, ask for forgiveness. She waited all day and when it came to an end, she realized that nobody cared. Not even Oliver.

The days had passed and Oliver remained the same: radiant, funny, joyful. She wondered if she had imagined it all but on the second week, Alice saw it. It had been quick, almost too quick for someone to notice it, but she was looking right at him when it happened. He had blinked and for a second, his eyes turned cold and although she was at a great distance from him, she had somehow felt his heart stop. It had lasted no more than half a second but that’s when Alice knew: she wasn’t alone anymore. She had someone to share this nightmare with.

It hadn’t taken Oliver long to come and find her. She felt his hands on her shoulders before he even touched her. His strength surprised her. “He’s hurting me” she thought. “Get your hands off me!” is what she wanted to scream at him but she stayed quiet, now facing him. He looked like he hadn’t slept in days; his eyes were sunken into his skin and his lips were pale. His face that usually had the color of fresh peaches was now gray, and a slight beard had started to grow around the edges of his jaw.

“This needs to stop. Now!”. She held her breath. His voice was hard, cruel.

“I don’t know what you mean”, she murmured, trying to ignore the pain of his nails in her skin.

“Don’t play dumb with me, Alice. I’m losing sleep, I can’t think anymore, I can’t close my eyes without seeing. There’s no rest, I’m exhausted, please.” He was begging, for the first time in his life, and he didn’t like it. But he didn’t know how much longer he could pretend to be fine. She had to do something, quickly, before he lost his mind.

He needed her.

“I have nothing to say to you”, she heard herself say. She had never talked to someone that way, and it was both thrilling and exhilarating. She almost took pleasure in seeing his face break. Him, who always seemed so sure of himself, who was always in control. She had him at her mercy now and it brought her a certain comfort.

“It’s too late to change anything. I have no idea how to make it stop, and the only thing I know is if you had kept your hands to yourself, none of this would have happened. You can only blame yourself. You’re the one who kicked me, who threw me on the ground, who laughed at me while I still had faith in you. Now you’re paying the price.”

“You’re paying for it too.”

“As long as I bring you down with me, I don’t mind.”

She smirked. Oliver didn’t know Alice that well, or at all. She was a weirdo who spent her time looking up at something that wasn’t there. The sky? The sun? Whatever it was, she never seemed to be bothered by how bright the blues and the rays were, or how dangerous it was to look straight at them. Alice never hurt anybody. Or so that’s what he had thought, until now. Her big, black eyes seemed to be mocking the fear in his, that uncontrollable fear he had tried to hide from her for so long. Was this a game to her? Did she enjoy seeing him suffer?

“What are you smiling for?”

“Begging looks good on you, but apologizing would suit you better”

Apologizing. Something he had never been taught to do, something he expected of others, not the other way around.

The street lights turned a faded yellow, and suddenly, they were surrounded by darkness. The temperature had fallen, and clouds could be seen hugging the moon, forming a purple hallo. Alice could tell that Oliver was uncomfortable, devoid of courage. As much as he didn’t want to admit it, he was scared of the dark and what bothered him the most was that she seemed perfectly at ease. He could not see her but he felt her breath fill the air around him. It was warm, which surprised him because she had always looked so cold, almost inhuman, almost dead.

“You do evil things to good people, and you’re still scared of the dark. Why do you even bother?”

“Look, I never meant to hurt you. Sometimes, I just do things because it feels right.”

“It felt right to hurt me?”

“Yes. At the time, it did. Not anymore. I’m not a monster.”

“You made me a monster. I’m unlikable. Nobody likes me, not even myself.”

He didn’t answer, not because he refused to tell her that he was sorry, but because he felt it coming: that heavy weight in his lower stomach, the burning rumble of his lunch traveling to his throat. It happened too fast. After emptying his stomach on Alice, he fell to his knees, hands on the cold, hard ground. He gripped the concrete with his palms to try to stop the convulsions, but the smell of his own vomit suggested otherwise. Drops of sweat running down his temples distorted his vision and in an act of rage, he snatched his glasses from his nose and threw them behind him.

Oliver. Oliver, wake up.

Alice stood over him, helpless, hopeful, fascinated. A product of her own making.

Oliver, look at me. Don’t be a coward. Look at me.

“Alice, I’m sorry!”

Look at me, and say it.

Oliver swallowed his pride and looked up. His eyes met hers in a desperate attempt to ask for help, but blind as he was, he could only see shapes and colors, ovals, red, or yellow, or nothing at all. Was this a dream? No, a nightmare.

“I’m sorry!”

Alice listened to his inconsistent breaths and resisted the urge to grab him by the shoulder and shake him to make him stop, or make him choke. She could feel him really close but she wasn’t bothered by it. She should have been, since she had never been this close to someone before, let alone a boy, let alone an enemy. “He’s going to pass out if he does not stop hyperventilating”, she thought.

She felt bad for him. Really, even after all that he had done to her.

Alice never hated Oliver. She admired him for his violent nature, something he tried so hard to hide with humor, and friends. But she always knew what he was capable of, she was always one step ahead of him.

Still, the whole thing started because of him. If he had not hit her, she would have never surrendered, would have never tasted the sweetness of her darkest dreams. No, they weren’t sweet, but to share them with someone else, she thought, would make them bearable. It would make them worth it. Oliver’s fist in her eye had been proof that he could be tough enough to go through what she had gone through. He had practically given himself to her.

Evil handles evil, right?

That’s what Alice believed. But the more she looked at Oliver, the less convinced she was that she had made the right choice. He was curled up at her feet, barely conscious, barely breathing, all traces of wickedness gone from his face. He was vulnerable, like a baby, not like a man capable of hurting someone. Of hurting her.

Alice knew something was wrong with her. But to know and to face it are two different things, and her attempt at facing the truth had only made her more cruel, more dangerous. Some would go as far as to call her a lunatic. It had happened before, and she was never really sure why. But now she understood. Her search for a companion had turned into a hunt for vengeance. Oliver was right, he never meant to hurt her. The park, the look on his face when he saw his arm reach for her cheek, like a powerless witness, a puppet.

We are all puppets.

“What’s wrong with me?” She let herself fall next to Oliver.

Oliver, wake up. Open your eyes, Oliver.

“I can’t see, I broke my glasses. My stomach hurts. I’m cold.” Alice felt the panic in his voice.

“I know, I know. I’m sorry. You don’t have to look, just listen to me.” In an effort to calm him down, she placed a hand on his back. The shock wave that followed her gesture sent them both flying in opposite directions. Oliver landed on his back to the sound of fireworks, breaking every possible bone in his body, his screaming distracting Alice from her own.

They laid there for what seemed like an eternity, haunted by the other’s inability to move. Alice was in so much pain. Her tears tasted like salted butter. There was a certain tenderness in the way she sobbed and for a moment, all Oliver could do was listen to her cries. She always acted so tough around others that he had come to the conclusion that she was incapable of such emotions. He was wrong.

I don’t need your pity, Oliver.

I don’t pity you, I’m trying to understand you. What happened? What are you?

I don’t know. And even if I knew you wouldn’t want to know.

I’m scared.

And I’m a monster.

Maybe that’s why I’m scared.

You should be.

I am.

The moon hung over their heads, the bearer of a secret no one would remember. The only witness left.

I don’t want to die. Not like this. Not ever.

I do.

Why?

No one’s going to rescue me, Oliver. There’s nothing left for me, of me. I should have never tried to make you a part of this. I made myself believe that you were just like me.

A monster?

Yes. I have seen you hurt people, bully them.

I’m not like you.

I know.

It took everything in her power to find the strength to sit. She glanced at Oliver who was still laying on his back, vulnerable, small, so small.

You’ll end up paralyzed. That’s not a life worth living, Oliver. I can’t let you live like this.

She crawled to him, tearing apart the tender skin of her palms and the rough edges of her knees.

Please don’t touch me. Don’t hurt me.

“Everything will be alright, Oliver.” She smiled at him, tenderly, lovingly, lips closed over her teeth. Gently, she placed her fingers around his neck and for a moment, Oliver thought she would kiss him. But he felt her grip tighten against his throat. Helpless, motionless, he stared into her dilated pupils, and saw himself lose consciousness.

Goodbye, Oliver.

Amy,

This is a beautiful piece. I fear that I felt a connection to it, resonated with it.