Category: LSSU Story Contest

Elizabeth Garavaglia

Winner of the 2019 LSSU Short Story Award

There’s nothing that makes you feel more trapped than being told you can’t leave. That’s how people get stuck in jobs, schools, marriages. In my case, it was Hope Memorial Psychiatric just outside Cincinnati, OH. A mental hospital. Stuck in the routines that doctors set out for me, eating things they’d tried to call food, and trying to sleep through the night terrors of people worse off than me. I think I’d rather be stuck in a loveless marriage at this point. But at least I wasn’t all doped on medication, babbling about myself in these group sessions. Maybe the meds would be better, who knows? It figures this is what I get for not wanting to do “the do.”

I never had the infamous first sex dream. All that talk of men’s hard-lined bodies, tense jawlines, and enrapturing arms pressed into the softness of my womanly body. It left me feeling alarmed. I remember the girls in my school talking about their favorite male celebrities, hunched together and giggling and I’d join in, thinking we were talking about who did the best in their roles. But then there’d be one girl who would straighten her back, a knowing look on her face, smirk, and coo I know what fun I’d have with him. It would take me back, because what fun could teenage girls have with adults?

Those men had nothing in common with us.

It didn’t take me long to find out I preferred the soft touches of another woman, fresh into adulthood I met her. Isabella. Those laughing eyes drew me in, the hugs that never quite left, and the warmth of her side against mine brought silence to my mind. I felt special, the way her tongue rolled out my name, as if my one syllable deserved more, as if I deserved more. Brrree. She’d finished it with a giggle every time, and I couldn’t help but smile back. She was the star that finished my constellation. Isabella was an engineering major, business minor–that’s how we met–but she taught me more about myself than a degree ever could.

But I still never got those urges. The ones that made her hand wander from my hip to circling my inner thigh. I wanted my heart to race from excitement, but instead it pounded with dread and confusion. I loved Isabella, but I didn’t want to do anything about it. I just wanted to hold her and admire her. But instead I pushed her away. Starting a fight bought me time to try and understand what was happening and why there was a part of me with no interest in taking that last, expected step.

The longer I waited, the more hurt and insecure Isabella became. She took out her insecurity in various ways. Sometimes it was passive aggressive and she’d stop doing anything around the house or even for herself, over the course of weeks or even months. So I would just silently pretend I didn’t notice, doing everything. Even feeding her at times. An ache in my chest would scatter itself and burn down walls, while claws tore out a space in my stomach for anxiety to settle in deeper. When Isabella acted out aggressively, banners of broken pride cascaded down her sunset cheeks and I stood stiffly while she screamed What is wrong with you? or Why don’t you think I’m beautiful? and her favorite was Is there someone else?. In all honesty, I didn’t know what was wrong, the thought of having sex with anyone, even the girl I thought was the most beautiful, most loving person in the world made my skin feel inside out and hard-etched with gravel. But I didn’t know how to tell her that without hurting her and our relationship even further.

Then one day she came into our apartment, and cornered me. I could feel the dread swelling up beside my stomach once again, reaching out for my lungs and swinging between them. Her normally playful eyes were dark now as she stared me down. I can barely remember the exact words now, just their meaning. Maybe the radio had been playing too loud. It was some classical station she loved, but it wasn’t coming through. I couldn’t focus on that and her arm wrapped around my waist in a desperate attempt for me to understand this desire I was denying her, her eyes pleading. Begging. As if I were torturing her with this physical denial. Her words demanded I have sex with her or our relationship, all previous love attached to it, was over.

So I did it.

I forced myself to do what I thought would save our love, and maybe my tears are still stains on her thighs, but I try not to ask myself that. I don’t want to think of her as a nasty thing. It makes it harder to think of the love I felt for her as real and it was, but something about having sex made it something stranger. Something distorted. Sometimes I remember her moans and to many I’m sure it would be sexy and pleasurable, but I also remember hearing her apologizing in my ear, knowing she had done something I didn’t want. All of it is kind of fuzzy, like a radio station that half comes in, about to fade out. It’s there though. Barely.

Isabella left me about a month later. She said my body wasn’t responsive enough whenever she was “loving me.” Her fingers are branded inside, over, and throughout me. I don’t blame her for leaving. We loved each other, but we didn’t love each other right, you know? I won’t force my half love on anyone again. Not like I’ve already tried. With her and with myself.

Of course I didn’t tell the group any of this.

“Bree, did you hear me?” My eyes shifted over to the doc, her eyes wide in that doe-eyed concerned way. They were pretty, conventionally. But I preferred my rounded almond shaped ones personally. Slowly, I nodded, adjusting my sweats and clearing my throat.

“I don’t think of myself as a victim Doc, that’s not really why I’m here.” She smiled her ominous smile, and I noticed her burgundy lipstick had faded over into her off-kilter midnight skin. It was a small detail, but I focused on it instead of the people all around me, their faces eluding me. Intentionally.

“Why are you here Bree?” My mouth twisted around her name, then around the newfound word I’d come to associate with myself. Dread suddenly began to inflate itself inside me, using my stomach as bongos and my heart as timbales; discordant and reverberating throughout my body. Staring straight through her, I replied flatly.

“Because I don’t want to have sex with anyone.” Her eyebrow furrowed slightly and a couple people in the circle shifted, eager to show their distaste at my comment.

“Do you think that’s something that needs to be fixed?” Rolling my head, I smiled half-heartedly.

“I just think it’s a fact Doc. Everyone else thinks it’s something that needs to be fixed.” Nodding, the doc turned her attention to someone else in the circle. I could only half hear his words as I stared out the window behind us, the sun spying through and warming my cheek. This hospital never felt warm, even on sunny days like today and it made me wonder if keeping us cold was supposed to make us more cooperative. It didn’t affect me much, I had known coldness much worse.

 

The coldness that I had felt sitting in the bathtub of my apartment, resting my forehead against the wall. The hot water had run out a long time ago, but if you asked me how long, I couldn’t say. If I had blinked in that time it would’ve been slow and few between because my eyes were wide open and seemed to be trained on my bar of peach soap, but really something beyond it. The pervasive invasion of the water running down and over all parts of my body, leaving no territory unclaimed or unmarked reminded me of Isabella, of what she had described as passion, but I only remembered as desecration. My rusted shower head screeched to do its job and it reminded me of the piercing sound that rang throughout my ears the entire time I let her explore my body, focusing on the water stain of our ceiling. How odd the things you notice when you’re waiting for something to end. Second by second.

At some point, I had moved into the kitchen, the shower head still screaming in the other room, water all over my floors and I stood over my kitchen sink with a chef knife to my wrists. Thinking about how to keep as much blood as I could in the sink. The firm steel felt as if it were vibrating against my skin, sitting on the surface yet somehow inside my veins. Some other part of me set the chef knife down, shut off the shower, got myself dressed, and I walked down, almost by instinct, to the psychiatric hospital. The one an old college friend used to intern at. Then I told the nurse what happened with no tone, watching her eyes panic. Her face remained calm and asked if I was checking myself in. The same part of me that set down the knife said yes. Since then, that part has stopped running the show.

That guy was glaring at me, even more annoyed that I wasn’t really paying attention to the fact that I was insulting his prudish sensibilities. Which I regularly did.

“I just don’t understand why she always has to be so–”

“Now, let’s not attack each other for how we’re coping or adjusting okay?” The man released a loud scoff and I just smirked. He’s been here longer than I have. His pasty skin practically faded into these pristine, antiseptic walls. His OCD would never let him actually touch the walls of course, just the doors. Exactly 14 times, so it was over 13. The unlucky number. I didn’t particularly mind though, it’s not like I had anywhere to be. I never caught his name. Probably on purpose. There was also the Polynesian girl I shared a room with, Liliana, here for an eating disorder, but didn’t fit the regular profile because she was almost 200 pounds. College put a bit too much stress on her is my personal opinion, but what do I know? Definitely bulimic though, I can hear her trying to throw up sometimes, even hours after meals. The schizophrenic ex-professor, Noel maybe? She went off her meds to try and finish her grant research and often tries to refuse even now. She’s almost done with that research apparently through her coworkers and phone time. And lastly, Dwayne who is our mystery guest. Right now, I’m guessing anxiety disorder, but honestly he’s the wild card around here. All I know is, he always had a little book with him, not sure what it was though, it’s always tucked tightly against his chest as he stares off into the galaxies, relaying some messages. Perhaps the daily weather report. Then there’s me. The lesbian who doesn’t want to have sex, ever. Iconic. I crossed my arms over my chest. I knew that wasn’t the real reason I was here, but it certainly felt like it. There was suddenly a bump against my arm and my head jerked around to see Liliana staring down at me, raising an eyebrow.

“Lesgo, come on sista.” She was probably the closest thing I had to a friend here. Moving to my feet, I watched her shake her head with her hands on her hips.

“You acting so lolo, keep doing like you do in here and one of these days, the doc is going to be absolutely done with you, pau!”  I had remembered the feeling of being given up on, I had survived it before, from someone who meant much more to me. I could survive it again. I wrapped my arms around my ribs and pressed through the meat of my body to count each one repeatedly as we walked down the meandering hall, reminding myself where my body was. I replied with a surprising coolness for the dryness of my throat.

“They won’t write about me as a tragedy Liliana, just another horror story about sex.” A baffled look scattered across her face as she lightly hit my shoulder.

“You got as many moods as kai sista, the ocean. Besides how they gonna use you? You don’t even have sex. It’s kine your thing.” I was about to explain when the doc popped up next to us, that professional smile slapped into place. We smiled back as she began in her slow, measured way.

“Bree, would you come with me to my office?” It was formed as a question, but I knew it wasn’t. Glancing back at Liliana, I waved and then nodded. My small act of defiance was refusing to walk beside her and I zeroed in on her clicking heels, not too tall for the workplace, but not too short to be unappealing, in a conventional way. They were a lovely shade of matte black. Again, sensible and conventionally appealing. But they didn’t contrast against the black and white floors. Click, click, click, click. Something about me wanted them to clack. Just once. To go against that pattern. That pattern that seemed to make everyone else feel so safe, and yet made me feel so out of place. My head whipped up as we approached her office, but I didn’t make eye contact as I squeezed past her through the door. The dim lighting was supposed to be relaxing, but it always seemed to remind me of rich man’s bar. Maybe it was all the diplomas on the wall, the deep leather of the furniture, or the neverending messiness of her desk that made it look like all she did was sit at that desk. But hey, women gotta represent. Like always, I sat in the emerald green studded, leather chair that stood stiffly, but directly underneath the brightest lamp in the room. Doc chuckled and half-heartedly attempted to tidy her desk.

“I hope you’ll excuse the mess.” Resting my cheek in my palm, I nodded out of habit and crossed my knees snuggly.

“So what to talk about today Doc? How do you feel about my progress?” She chuckled sardonically, the first unprofessional thing she’d done the whole time I’d been here and it caught my attention enough for my eyes to actually move to where she was. I paid full attention to her now. Her hands were interlaced and she was watching me curiously as she leaned onto the desk. More doctor than fellow human right now. It allowed me to actually take her seriously.

“You’ve been here for 20 days now. We both know you get released tomorrow since you haven’t proven to be a danger to yourself or others in this time. Your depersonalization and derealization don’t seem to be interfering with your daily functioning anymore. However, I think we both know you disrespected the process and I’m not entirely sure why you even came in the first place if you didn’t actually want a doctor’s help. So I’m giving you one last chance for a one-on-one session before group therapy tomorrow afternoon. Open up, it truly helps Bree. Not half-heartedly like you have been doing, I mean get everything out in the open. We can sit here a little while for you to think about it.” I stared back at her unrelenting eyes, practiced smile, repeating her words with that soft, unwavering voice. And it infuriated me inside. All she cared about was results, getting her answers, the bottom line. My fingers dug into the leather on the chair and I wished I could tear it open. I wanted it to be destroyed, like my trust, like my faith in systems, in traditions, in relationships, in connection. Instead I stared back, hoping she’d hear the screaming pounding at my skull, trying to crush it from the inside out and it would melt away her professional facade. As long as I was alive, she would never hear about my struggles, about who I was. I clenched my teeth, furious as a tear ran down my cheek, causing the doc to tilt her head, fake empathy filling her face.

“Would you like to talk about what’s overwhelming you perhaps?” Breaking eye contact, I stared at the door, ready to break through not just that doorway, but the main entrance.

“No.” Her smile weakened and she nodded.

“Very well, if you don’t wish to speak, you can go back to your room.”

 

I zoned out until the end of group. Ready to get back to my room where my bags were already packed. They had been packed since midnight because I hadn’t slept a wink. Too busy making plans. Liliana walked with me back to my room and I hugged her goodbye. She’d be the only person I would actually miss. Who knows, maybe we would meet again someday. I hoped so.  Right now though I was about to be free, and my talk with the doc yesterday made me realize people were going to continue trying to make me what they thought was right, not who I should be. As I approached the doc, I couldn’t help that my body language got closed off and I stared her down. Her hands were folded at her waist, proper as ever, and I smiled tightly.

“See ya Doc.” There was almost an inkling of sadness in her eyes as she tilted her head and shook my hand as professionalism would indicate.

“We’ll miss your quick wit around here Bree.” The guy with OCD scoffed, twisting the doorknob in quick motions like he always did.

“Speak for yourself.”  Noel was on the phone so she just smiled and waved me off and I had expected Dwayne to just ignore me, but he actually walked up to me, albeit with his head down. Then he grabbed my arm, book tucked against his chest, and whispered in my ear.

“The secrets of this earth are not for all men to see, but only for those who will seek them.” Furrowing my brow, I looked over at him in confusion and he nodded his head, still not looking directly at me.

“Ayn Rand’s Anthem. Page fifty-two.” Then he walked away, still nodding. Blinking a few times, I brushed it off and then grabbed my bags, hugging Liliana once more, assuring her she was a beautiful crier, and then walked out those front doors into the sunshine. And I didn’t know where to go. I had only been in there for twenty days, but it hadn’t fixed my sense of unbelonging. Why was I surprised?

Slowly, I made my way back to my apartment and was greeted by the soft music of my Spotify playlist I had assembled to keep quiet company for my chameleon, Alfredo. Thankfully, I had a neighbor who loved helping out with him, and Alfredo loved to be left to his own devices. I walked by his vivarium and one of his eyes slowly moved to study me. I offered an excited smile, but Alfredo simply blinked and then began walking with his sloth-like movements to hide amongst his leaves. Sighing, I threw in some crickets for him, and then cocooned into my blankets, watching the light show of shadows on my bedroom wall. Something about what Dwayne had said kept coming to mind. Maybe he meant I was “this earth?” In the shadows on the ceiling, I could see my body transforming, becoming a safeguard for what and who I was. Nothing the doc ever did worked because she didn’t deserve to know any deep part of me. Not yet, not until I got my closure. I would be stronger before I told my story and there was only one way to do that. Dwayne had known, he had seen me. My heart began to flicker as tears gushed from my eyes without my control. Who would’ve known that the person I thought was paying the least amount of attention understood me the most? The moonlight settled into my windowsill, its light staying steady on my face, illuminating me. All I remembered was the way the moonlight hit the ceiling that night, the way it made the shadows play over the walls and dance over our blankets, as if these shadows were my own personal demons who instead of being chased away by my blankets felt welcomed into my bed and vibrated with the pleasure of rolling around in the agony I felt when my skin hit the sheets from then on. Dwayne knew I needed to face my pain, teeth bared and vocal cords raw. The nonconsensual wave of emotion continued for only Alfredo knows how long. But when it rolled back, I stared at the moonlight’s parting graces on my ceiling, determined on what I had to do now.

 

The bus moved my body in time with both my neighbors, our torsos swaying four counts for each street lamp that flashed by. My heart was beating a million beats between them. Even in the dreamlike, slow movements I was watching the world around me in, nothing was clear. People’s faces were simply pools of sinking color, lights were zig zagging strands tying me tighter against my seat. Yet I still managed to keep an accurate count of the number of stops we made. Maybe it was accurate. Two more before I got off. That’s what my mind kept repeating. Three more before I got off. A blast of the night air hit me like the sound of freshly made ice cubes against new glass, and I closed my eyes to focus on that stabilizing sensation. The dizziness I was feeling began to fade as a disk of coolness spread over my scalp from where it was pressed into the glass. My thoughts were jumbled before, but something about the sudden briskness around me coaxed out older memories. Isabella and I on the porch, in the bleeding dusk and laughing, when her hands had been gentle. The nights of homemade dinners, or when we had really drunk takeout. A part of me ached for those long, slow kisses on the carpet, her hair a mess and shuttering her eyes, but the part of me that operated at the forefront now only remembered the laughter leaving her eyes. Watching her mouth tear into screams and moans that sounded like the ones repeated in ghost stories when I recalled it in my memory.

At some point, I realized I was walking now. To where I was still unsure. Then I saw it. The house was exactly the same, except it didn’t belong to “us” now, it belonged to “them.” I didn’t think the same things would be special for them, but I guess a last betrayal would be no surprise. Through the blanket of night I could still clearly imagine Isabella and Replacement Girlfriend sitting out on the porch swing, the heat of her palm against her cheek. Maybe they drank wine and made stupid jokes in moonlight of sliding back door. I could feel their lips coming together as if it were my own touching hers, except it felt wrong, but it would feel wrong if Isabella were kissing me too and I ground my teeth together in frustration. Rubbing my forehead, I looked both ways before crossing the street, moving past the open gate into the small backyard they shared with their neighbors. The billowy leaves of a large maple broke up the moonlight over my face, the scattering of light questioning me on my motives. But still I focused, remembering Isabella never locked the sliding back door unless reminded. I hoped she hadn’t been reminded. When the gasp of the seal pulling apart sounded out, I took it as a sign in some dimension this was the right thing to do. However, a more rational part of me knew if someone else saw me they’d call the cops on me, so I only opened it enough to slid in and then quietly closed it again. My feet fell solidly onto new, tortilla-colored wooden floors and on instinct I slipped off my shoes, remembering how crazy it drove Isabella when I left them on. I didn’t spend much time poking around the house, I knew what I was here to do. My footsteps were light, but felt heavy as the silence created a pounding against my ears. Thwa-dump, tha-dump, twa-dump. A different sound each time, in tune with every connection of foot to floor, my eyes moving aimlessly until they trained on the door at the end of the hall. The bedroom. Where everything in our relationship had begun to go awry. When my palm wrapped around that doorknob, I half expected to be electrocuted, but it simply gave way, allowing me entry. Isabella and Replacement Girlfriend were sleeping like the dead, their hands encasing each other’s bodies, mouths inhaling and exhaling mere inches from each other. The only sign they were alive was the steady rise and fall of their chests. This was all I ever wanted with her. A connection, affection, but I found out her love came with conditions. At some point, I found myself tapping her shoulder, watching her eyes and hoping to see them sparkle when they twisted onto me. I hoped, but it was a stretch. Isabella’s eyes blinked open and her brow furrowed as she adjusted to the miniscule light before she lifted herself up and finally turned to me. Her expression fell.

“Bree?” I offered a half-hearted smile before it faded and I shuffled on my feet.

“Yeah.” Her tone suddenly grew concerned, but not for me. It was almost as if she were afraid.

“What are you doing here? How did you get in? I thought you were in a crazy hospital? Did you escape?” I tuned out her hurtful words as she continued, my eyes glazing over. I stared over at Replacement Girlfriend. She didn’t look so different from me. What made her so much more worth Isabella’s time and affection? It wasn’t my fault I was made the way I was. Everything was suddenly swelling up inside of me and I could feel my stomach twisting inside of me, not with dread, but with pent up rage and the need to scream. Isabella was still talking, but all I heard was radio silence. As I leaned against her bedroom wall, I spoke up softly at first.

“I didn’t want to.” Confused, Isabella sat up and looked at me and laughed sardonically. Speaking softly so as not to wake Replacement Girlfriend.

“What are you talking about?

“Sex. I didn’t want to have sex with you. I don’t want to have sex with anyone ever.” Isabella rolled her eyes and grabbed her robe, standing up and encasing herself within it, as if it were a shield.

“You’re still on that, everyone has sex Bree. Come on, let’s get you back to the hospital.” She moved to grab my arm and I jerked it away, glaring back at her, my eyes defiant and my voice rising to match.

“I don’t. I never want to. Sex is more than just a step in relationships Isabella. For some people it’s hell. As a lesbian, imagine having to have sex with a man the rest of your life Isabella, that’s how I feel about sex period. But you pushed me, you made me feel guilty, as if I was depriving you of some basic human right, and then you left me because I wasn’t torturing myself for you good enough.” Isabella kept glancing back at Replacement Girlfriend, an uncomfortable look on her face.

“Look, I didn’t know it was like that, please can you keep your voice down?” I scoffed, walking towards Isabella so she sat down on the bedside and screamed at her, ignoring the fact that Replacement Girlfriend was now wide awake.

“I have kept my voice down for years! People have told me I should’ve just sucked it up, that sex isn’t that bad, especially with another girl, and at least it wasn’t really rape. Real fucking rape. I am a homoromantic asexual dammit! But if asexuals really want a relationship, we’ve gotta be willing to put out, at the sake of our fucking minds. Because that’s the price of love, your pussy on a platter, am I right?” Replacement Girlfriend put her hand on Isabella’s shoulder and opened her mouth to speak, but I laughed humorlessly and pointed at her, “Don’t you say a fucking word, this isn’t about you, okay?” She gave Isabella a meaningful look and she nodded, but I didn’t care. We used to do that. We used to share something more than pain. I scarcely noticed Replacement Girlfriend leave the room after that, not that I actually cared about her. It was Isabella who needed to hear what I had to say and she was listening with wide-eyes for the first time.

“I just wanted you to love me for me, to want to kiss me and not to think that meant I wanted more. I just wanted to love you the way I love, but it wasn’t enough for you. It never was. It’s stupid to think that it would be.”

“I’m sorry.”

“You’re only saying that because you can’t ignore me now. You can’t put aside what you did, but it’s okay I’m not going to do anything about it legally because I let you think it was okay. It wasn’t okay by any means, but this is just a part of my therapy.” Isabella blinked in bafflement, and I smirked, leaning back against the wall just as police sirens began to whoop outside the house, the blue and red masking Isabella’s face. Her chest was heaving and her breath was short. Shaking my head, I replied levelly.

“Your new girlfriend is a total narc bitch.”

 

I figured this is how it would happen. I sat in the back of the police cruiser with the handcuffs on loosely. More of a formality and a comfort for Isabella and Replacement Girl I’m sure. The buildings and street lamps were passing by slower and smoother now. My head was light as if I had gotten several inches of my hair chopped off. Disorienting, but not in a bad way. The police officer who cuffed me told me they were informed I was recently released from a psychiatric hospital on the 9-1-1 call, so that’s where they were going to take me instead of processing me into jail. Isabella told them not to press charges, I could see it in the way she wouldn’t look at me after the police entered. They had surrounded me and pressed me into the wall even though I didn’t put up a fight, but Isabella turned her face away and stared at the carpet as if it would explain how we got here, her arms glued to her knees like she did when she was uncomfortable. Replacement Girlfriend yelled something and moved to Isabella’s side, but I wasn’t listening. I was ready to go and let the officers lead me out. No matter what any of us wanted, I would always know her better. I would remember everything. In the cruiser, I asked the officer if he would call my neighbor and ask him to take care of Alfredo while I was gone. However long that may be. They would probably keep me longer than 21 days this time. I’m sure Alfredo wouldn’t miss me anyways. It wasn’t a long drive to the hospital. It looked very much the same in the night, clean cut and unwelcoming, but there were lit up windows that suggested maybe there was life dwelling within. The officer un-handcuffed me and guided me up the steps and towards the check-in desk, speaking to the receptionist politely. As if they had smelled me upon arrival, Liliana and Dwayne popped out of a room, not yet noticing me. Liliana was talking quickly as she did and Dwayne was staring off towards the ceiling, but I’m sure he was listening as he nodded faithfully and tapped his fingers against the spine of his book.

“Guys!” They turned, Liliana looking directly as me with a welcoming smile and a wave before running at me, and Dwayne, nodded with a crooked smile before turning around. Liliana threw her arms around me and I giggled uncontrollably along with her.

“Sista, what you be doing back here? You too lolo for the outside?” I nodded and was about to explain when the doc began walking towards me, confusion over her face. The sound of her heels echoed through the halls. Click, click, click, clack! The last step was noticeably off as she stepped back and chuckled, picking up a shiny quarter.

“Oh, stepped on a quarter.” Liliana snatched the quarter from the doc’s fingers and made her way to the activity room, the two of us in tow. Doc reassured the officer that I was good to go with Liliana, and then she followed behind us, that soft professional voice of hers breaking the air.

“Bree, you do realize you’re going to be admitted again tonight?” I nodded, the pressure of Liliana’s arm hooked around mine causing warmth to radiate through my skin, we stopped at the rundown jukebox, its colors vibrant for another time. The doc stood with her hands folded as Liliana flipped through the song selections and I stared back, the defiance in my blood tucked in until some other day. But that didn’t stop me from noticing that conventionally pretty smile of hers. Somewhere I’m sure there was a better version of it.

“Yes, Doc. You gonna send for my clothes?” The doc smirked and zeroed her eyes in on me tighter.

“Why did you go to Isabella’s tonight?” I laughed and sat back, kicking my feet up.

“So I could come back and see you Doc.” She smiled knowingly, her eyes drifting to Liliana just as she slipped the quarter into the jukebox.

“This sista and I gots to talk story. She missed choke gossip.” Then the music started, the notes ringing clearly through my ears and I smiled as Liliana pulled me up to dance, her smile the starlight of the night.

Amy Lehigh

Winner of the 2019 LSSU Short Story Award

The day outside is beautiful; sun shining like the beautiful ball of burning life that it is, birds twittering in the sky, the air just the right temperature and humidity that it feels like nothing at all on the skin.

Yet Irena sits in her living room with a silent headset over her ears, reading a book.

She’s a dull one, really, that Irena. Always reading a book, or dozing off for a cat nap. It has never particularly been in her schedule to make time for “fun” like going out with friends, or any of that. She has always been alone, and that seems to be the way she likes it.

The book in her hands at this particular moment is also equally uninteresting—some drivel on the physiology of the human body. Or perhaps an anatomical reference? There are a great many diagrams, though it’s difficult to determine at a glance what they are meant to be for, being so inundated with dry text. Better than whatever gibberish on plants she had this last week, at the least.

Anyhow, Irena is dull not only in her habits, but also in her appearance. A thin, rather pallid face—from her lack of sunshine, clearly; the poor girl is like a flower left in a dark corner—with angular eyebrows, a sharp chin, and dull, gray eyes that either seem as though they peer into everything or are simply glazed over with boredom. It’s difficult to tell.

Despite these things, she really is like a neglected flower; she has a Roman nose that protrudes from her face, and though it only accentuates her thin cheeks at the moment, taken alone, it is quite the regal nose, not overly pointed nor bulbous and unattractive. Her hair is a chestnut brown that shimmers of summer, though she always has it tied back into a painfully rigid braid or ponytail (sporting the latter at the moment). Even her cheekbones, so visible that they are nearly oppressive to the eyes, are quite fine and delicate; if only her cheeks were filled a bit more, so that these cheekbones of hers did not cast quite such severe shadows into her face.

If only she would go outside and get a bit of sun.

To be frank, the most interesting thing about Irena is how uninteresting she is. But even the most uninteresting people can become interesting when something comes along to shake up their dull little world of habit.

For example, the little letter that is currently sliding through the mail slot of Irena’s front door.

The click of the metal slot closing once again seems to stir her, and she looks up from her book to the door. One slender hand reaches up to nudge the headset off of her ears, pushing it down to rest around her neck as her eyes lock onto the envelope, which is now sitting deceptively demure on the linoleum of the entryway. The muscles around her mouth twitch slightly, a frown caught in conception before ever spreading over her face.

Patience now; she has to think about the thing. Is it time for the mail yet today? What could a single letter be for? Her bills were paid (precisely on time, as always), and no one ever sent her anything in the mail, much the same way no one ever sent her anything by text. These very thoughts can be seen flicking through her eyes as she stares at the thing.

Finally, she rises and moves to pick it up. It’s a normal, pale envelope, though when she turns it over to the front there is no address, no stamp; no sign whatsoever of the sender—of course. After all, it isn’t even time for the mail to come yet…considering that it’s a Sunday.

This unusual fact seems not to perturb Irena, as she creates an incision in the envelope with a precise stroke of her finger and pulls out the note inside, which reads:

Irena: I’m afraid that you don’t know me, though I know you quite well. You intrigue me. That’s why I’d like for us to play a little game.

She snorts at this. “A ‘game’?” Her voice is surly, astonishingly so, and brusque, likely from her lack of social interaction. “You must not know me that well.”

While blunt, she has a point. She typically isn’t one for games. However, this one is a bit more tempting…

See, I know all about your boring little life. I think it could use a little bit of spice—

Wait. She lowers the letter, shaking her head slightly. She hasn’t even finished reading it! She puts the thing back into the envelope, saunters over to the kitchen, and drops it into the trashcan as she goes to her cupboards to grab something to eat.

How rude! Some effort went into that letter, handwritten as it was. Well.

Anyhow, the rest of the letter would have read something along the lines of, “so I came prepared to provide. Just start by searching your yard for three clues.”

Now she’ll never even know that. More extreme measures must be taken. A simple scavenger hunt would never get Irena’s attention, of course. …Of course.

Irena continues to go about her business as though the letter never existed. She pulls out a few dishes from her cupboards and things from the fridge—the house soon smells of chicken and vegetables—and makes herself some lunch. How apathetic can one get?

Well, testing that apathy once again as the sun sinks below the horizon, a watchful, omniscient eye closing, the doorbell sounds within the house, the cheerful, chirpy lilt echoing within the walls. Irena closes her eyes for a moment and takes a deep breath, setting the book down on her lap. “Again?” she mutters. Still, she rises, and she goes to the door, peering first out the peephole before swinging it open. Her eyes fall to a package on the porch, once more with a letter: both unaddressed, of course. She blinks—thinks.

She brings them in.

Setting the package on her kitchen table, Irena first opens the letter, with rather less care than before. One of her fine brows quirks up at the writing.

Dear Irena: Really? You didn’t even finish my letter before putting it in the trash? Fine, I see how it is. It wasn’t enough to stir you into action. Well, here is something that will. (Oh, but don’t worry, it isn’t inherently dangerous.)

Setting the letter aside, Irena reaches one hand out to the box. It’s cool, like the inside of a house despite the warm fall day. It hasn’t been outside for long. She fingers the lips of the cardboard flaps—they’re merely folded together, no tape. “Okay,” she says. She nods slightly, and her voice hardens. “Okay.”

With both hands, she tears the box open. Her breath catches. Inside is a blond plush dog, with a light blue note beside it: “Find my owner.” At first glance, the thing is rather mundane. But Irena’s first glance peers into it. She reaches in delicately, handles the thing as though it is made of blown sugar and will crumble with the slightest force.

Of course, she’s noticed the stain.

Her finger traces it, dark and dry but unmistakable. Blood. On the toy’s shoulder. Irena peers once more into the box, and now she scans it. The dry tree needles, the flecks of dark dirt and mud on the bottom and all over the toy, a leaf from an oak tree that had begun the process of turning orange.

She takes in a slow, sharp breath, the air hissing through her nose. There is the slightest twitch in the muscles of her jaw. She nods, almost imperceptible. “Okay,” she says.

And the game is on.

 

The next morning is overcast, light without sun, and Irena is on a mission. She wakes up, gets dressed, and is still pulling her shirt down over her belly as she walks out of her room. She turns to a storage closet in the hall, sliding open the door and reaching in to grab an old backpack, a sorry-looking thing that has clearly been sitting despondently in that dark closet for some time.

Irena swings the backpack over one shoulder and closes the closet once more. She brings her hair up and yanks it into a ponytail as she glances around her home. Soon, she’s grabbed the dog, the note, and some other basic things that one would need for a hike that may take a long time (thankfully her work schedule gives her Mondays off, lest all Hell breaks loose at the library without her), and settled them into her bag. She grabs the leaves from the box and tucks them into a pocket of her jeans, along with a cell phone. Moving to the window, she stares up at the sky for a moment. The overcast day threatens rain, but more in the bluffing way that nature does when it wants humans to be concerned with the picnic they planned or the state of their hair. Irena is concerned about neither, nor about the threat of rain.

Irena treks out of her house and out of town, venturing over the sidewalk alongside the road. Few cars pass by on the street; no one seems inclined to come out of their houses, either already at work or unwilling to embrace the dreary day. No different from Irena’s typical self in that respect, really. But today, Irena is not her typical, drab self.

Today, she is interesting.

The sweet scents of decaying leaves, of sap and bitter hints of musk permeate the air as Irena stops at a trail outside the town. She has left houses and home behind, standing amongst trees older than her grandmother’s grandfather. Her eyes peer around the trees, taking in the state, shape, appearances, soil preferences, favorite color of each. But goodness, the fresh air feels nice. Smells nice, too, in comparison to the stale air of that wretched house.

Irena sniffs—once, haughty. She removes her backpack from her shoulders for a moment, swinging it in front of her and rummaging through it without setting it on the ground. She pulls out the stuffed dog and glances around. She raises the thing near to her face as she scans, though not close enough to touch. She sniffs once again.

Replacing it, she swings the bag once more onto her back as she raises her eyes to the canopy, green-golden leaves shimmering above her in the breeze. Goodness, she is taking her time, isn’t she? The trail spans only one of two ways at the moment, north to south; pick one, dear.

Taking one last glance to the north, she begins to head south. Her feet march along the trail, kicking up small puffs of dirt. Perhaps the day could use some rain after all—the ground is quite dry. Irena’s sneakers are getting coated in dust. It has been quite some time since the last rain, thinking on it. She pays the state of her shoes no mind, however, and continues marching through the afternoon, the sky above brightening slowly like something ethereal, lighting up without the sight of the sun.

The air slowly thickens with the threat of rain and the scent of pine as Irena makes her way along the trail. She continues to scan the forest around her, occasionally pausing to remove the water from her backpack and keep hydrated (a very important thing, you know, for a person on a hike, even if that person is on a hike because of a mysterious set of notes and equally enigmatic package).

The trees slowly become more dense, oak and maple twining with different pines, some of which are dropping clumps of needles, leaves overhead turning from a sea of gold to reds and oranges. Birds are chirping up ahead, but their voices seem to ricochet into a void. It’s as though the leaves absorb all of the sound to give nothing but their own whispers in return. The light in the sky is beginning to fade, but more than that, the trees are growing darker, more solemn and menacing around the trail. They seem to have a secret they are unwilling to part with.

Yet Irena, fearless Irena, stares the trees down into a state of shadowed normality. Can she even tell when something is wrong? Because something certainly isn’t right. The air is becoming more and more unsettling…does she really not notice?

Irena pauses in the path. Perhaps…? No, she’s merely pulling the needles from her pocket. She glances up to the trees and nods. “Yep,” she says.

“Yep?” What is “yep?” Oh, now she’s discarding the needles. And the oak leaf. Lovely. Great. She’s just throwing everything away then, is she? This is ridiculous. This was a terrible idea. She’s never going to find the owner of that ratty old toy. How can she? She has no clues. She had leaves and mud and a toy and what could all that tell anyone?

Now there’s a branch in the path. She can go east or—oh. All right. She’s going west. No hesitation there. Her twiggy legs are just picking over the trail, paying no heed to the lackluster state of the road; sticks and debris scattered about, the undergrowth overriding the path. Rather, Irena is plowing through the tall grass and ferns that pop up in her way.

It’s getting rather sloppy around these parts now. Irena is marching right into a swampy area, mud sticking to the bottom of her shoes and her tracks leaving sliding trails on the uneven ground. It’s hard to find footing that doesn’t slosh and squish underfoot, and water is seeping into her sneakers, bubbling around her footsteps. Each step sounds like she is stepping on some unfortunate slop-creature, burbling and squelching indignantly.

At this point, it would be more effective to go off-path, where there is foliage to ground the soil, but Irena and her determined obstinance continue, heedless of the ease of travel all around. Soon the path rises a bit of out of the marsh, becoming hard, packed mud that is plenty dry, as if the stretch of slop was no more than a bluff. The path is easy to walk again. Now the problem comes from looking up at the sky, turning an unsettling shade of yellow-gray that makes everything feel sick and otherworldly. Dare I say, quite morbid.

A sound pokes up from behind. Irena doesn’t look, but behind her, something is following. It’s hard to determine at first; the shadows are pressing in, so it could just be a curious deer or perhaps a stray dog.

Irena continues to wander down the path, and the sound continues to follow. The sound of muffled steps, steps trying to keep quiet, steps of a thing on the hunt. Is she not paying attention? She hasn’t so much as glanced back. Well, it’s bound to become interesting soo—

It’s a man.

A man is stalking Irena.

He is cloaked in muted colors, blacks and grays and drab greens. But his face was unmistakable from the foliage, just for a moment. Chiseled features around a square nose and pinprick eyes like a weasel. He isn’t very big, but neither is Irena.

Neither is Irena.

She is still walking, not looking back, not giving any indication in the slightest that she knows she’s being followed. In fact, she stops for a moment to pull out her phone to check it, pale light erasing the contours of her face. The man doesn’t stop, and now I feel sick. Irena puts away her phone and continues to walk.

This was not what I’d had planned for something interesting. This isn’t even remotely close! I never wanted Irena in actual danger, being stalked like a fawn out in an open field by a thing worse than wolves, a human with evil on his mind, a human beginning to lengthen his steps as he comes closer, a human beginning to venture out onto the path, a human with an ice in his glassy gaze that makes me think of sickness and desperation and insatiable appetite. This was my fault, and he’s coming closer, and Irena doesn’t notice one whit, and why doesn’t he make some real noise, this snake, slithering up behind her?

Oh, Irena, run, turn around, do something!

But she isn’t turning around, and the man has quieted his steps, and his grin is splitting his face with a wild verve, drool spilling from his lips, and Irena is scarcely more than an arm’s breadth out of reach—

Irena whips around and smashes an open palm into the man’s face, and I can hear bones crack. The man stumbles back with a yell, holding his face. Irena slams a kick into his side, sending the man sprawling into the dirt. Leaping on top of him, Irena flips him onto his belly and yanks his arms behind his back, holding them there by kneeling on him. She holds the blade of her multitool to the back of his throat.

“Don’t move,” she says.

I…just…Irena.

She…she must have taken Tae Kwon Do? Or a self-defense class? Read a book? Goodness gracious, I know I’ve only followed her for the last half-year, but how much have I missed?

The man is babbling incoherently; I can’t tell if they’re threats or pleads for mercy. Really, I’d be thinking about the latter. Irena’s expression hasn’t changed from her usual stoicism—did she know he was following her?

Sliding her backpack off, Irena grabs the stuffed dog from it and shoves it in front of the man’s face. “Do you recognize this?” she demands, her brusque voice level as if talking to a clerk at a lemonade stand.

“No! Why the hell would I?” the man spits back.

“Just wondering. Why the hell would you stalk me, either?” she returns, with no more vivacity than before.

The man doesn’t seem to have a comeback for that, grunting and turning his face away, blood pouring from his nose. I feel a bit smug on Irena’s behalf.

“I’m calling the police,” she informs him casually. Pulling out her phone, she asks, “How many charges do you think you’ll have?”

The man doesn’t deign to answer that. But it makes me nervous, how Irena only has a knee on the man’s hands. One of her hands has the blade to his throat, and the other is on the phone. It’s a very precarious position for her. And I know it’s a fierce taboo act to interact with humans directly, know it quite well—I’ve been careful to keep myself a “neutral” presence with Irena, merely bending the rules without breaking them—but I can’t seem to help myself…

I sit on one of the man’s arms. It should feel like it’s gone to sleep; he won’t be able to move a muscle until I let him. I feel a spread of satisfaction as he whimpers uncomfortably. Yes, this is what you get, you nasty thing. How dare you try to hurt good Irena?

Well. I mean “good” relatively, I suppose. She has still yet to change her expression, and she’s speaking on the phone with the proper authorities it seems. Soon she sets the phone on the ground, the sound now on speaker.

“How many people have you come after like this?” Irena asks nonchalantly, apparently not expecting an answer.

“Why would I tell you?” he snaps, voice wet with blood.

Irena shrugs, a motion likely lost to him. “Just a question to kill some time. Are you sure you’ve never seen that toy before? Seems like this is your haunt, after all, and it’s from around here. Any ideas?”

“What the hell is it with you and that stupid dog?” he growls. “I told you, I don’t know where it’s from.” (My virgin ears courteously omit the cursing between his words.)

“I know you told me, but I don’t believe you. And it’s a long time until the police arrive. I don’t care if it’s anything to do with you, and I don’t care if you don’t know any names, but if you know something about where it’s from, I want to hear it. Maybe if you say something useful, I’ll even let you sit up.”

The woman on the speaker-phone babbles incredulously at this, echoing my own thoughts of what a terrible idea that is, but the man seems to seriously consider this for a moment. “A little ways from here…” he finally says. “A little ways further on the trail, there’s a spot I found. Like a grave. It was all fresh dug when I found it. I didn’t make it and I didn’t look in it, but I did make a cross for whoever’s it is.”

“How will I know where it is?”

“They’re birch branches. I wanted it to stand out.”

“Kind of you, for being a murderer yourself.”

“I’m not a murderer!” he cries, surprisingly desperate. “I [for a moment, I plug my sweet ears] some girls, but I didn’t kill anyone! I’m a good person, I swear!”

What a dirty mouth on this one.

“So that’s what you planned to do to me,” Irena says. “Then I won’t feel bad later for having broken your nose.”

As Irena proceeds to delay the man’s hope for a chance of escape—I’m surprised that he continues to fall for it—I think of how she could possibly have known that the grave was so close. She isn’t wrong, of course; this is the right place, and the grave the man spoke of it the right one, the one I found the dog near, but I wonder how she got this far.

I feel a pang, and I realize I feel slightly guilty about the situation I put her in. Of course, I didn’t know that there was someone out here that would stalk her, but nonetheless, I can’t shake the feeling that this whole ordeal is my fault. What’s worse, of course, is the fact that I can’t argue that it isn’t.

All I wanted was something more interesting to entertain me while I was bored; now I’m sitting on a man’s arm, committing a taboo act in so doing, as he’s pinned underneath the woman I never saw doing anything but reading books, or snoozing on her couch, or, at best, cleaning her toilet.

Soon, a couple pairs of headlights come down the trail. It’s dusk now, so the lights seem to appear out of a black void, creating a harsh contrast in light. Tires crunch over dirt and the vehicles come to a stop nearby as the authorities step out.

For good measure, I pat the man’s cheeks before I rise, and he’s left babbling unintelligibly like a man just out of the dentist’s office, much to my satisfaction. As a pair of officers escorts the disgrace away, reciting a rote series of rights to him, a pair comes over to Irena, a man and a woman.

“Irena?” the man gasps.

“You know her?” his partner asks.

Irena knows someone?

“This is my sister…” he says to her, then looks back at Irena. “Irena?” His tone bears a load of questions.

“Jonathan,” she replies simply. Sisterly love, isn’t that?

“What happened? Why didn’t you call me?”

“I called 9-1-1.”

“I know but, you could’ve—”

“You’re here now, aren’t you?”

Jonathan sighed, clearly exasperated. “Jeez! You never change. Are you all right, anyways?”

“I’m fine, but before you go, I could use some help.”

“Help? With what?”

You probably don’t want to know.

“I’m looking for something. It might be important,” Irena says.

“Looking for…? Irena, we don’t have time for this. We have to bring this guy back and—”

“Jonathan.” Her voice stopped him. “It could be important.”

He hesitated, looking at her. Then he said, “I guess they can take him without us. Lead the way.”

“You handle this, John,” his partner says. “I’ll cover you.” Jonathan gives her a nod, and as she leaves, Jonathan spreads a begrudging hand to Irena, and she begins the trek.

It is in this time, as Irena leads a course to an end which she can only possibly speculate, her confused brother accompanying her, flashlights flicking over the ground in near-utter darkness, that I wonder what she expects to find. She certainly expects nothing good, of course—that much was answered with the word grave. Still, her every step echoes with her confidence. She has no fear, this woman, this Irena, who very well could have fallen off the face of the Earth less than an hour ago at the hands of a predator without anyone knowing or giving her so much as a second thought.

Before I’m fully aware of it, they’ve stopped, flashlights shining on a set of birch branches lying on the ground, light bouncing off of the pale skin to make a luminous sphere around us, a ghostly, quivering blue-white reflecting off the faces of the trees, the leaves above, the faces of the people. It’s nearly blinding to look at. I avert my gaze to favor Irena.

Irena sets her backpack on the ground and pulls out her pair of gloves. Jonathan kneels to help as she begins to dig with her hands in the soft, muddy soil, but she says without looking up from her work, “Unless you have gloves, that’s a bad idea. It might get gross in a minute.”

Hesitantly, he stops, fingers slowly closing into his palms. In an attempt to be useful, he uses his flashlight to let Irena see what she’s doing, and his face is a mixture of befuddlement and concern. This only grows, of course, as he begins to see the corpse. He covers his mouth to keep himself from retching.

Irena unearths enough to get the picture. “A boy,” she says, as though it answers a question. “Can’t have been much older than eight. Probably not even.” She looks back at Jonathan, gesturing vaguely to the skull, mangled though it is. “His head was smashed in.”

Um…perhaps she had been one of those people that autopsies dead bodies? Yes, that seems likely, her personality considered…

As Jonathan regains his senses—along with myself—Irena pulls out the toy and inspects it again, picking up her own flashlight to do so. Finally, she shakes her head. “No. I can’t give you a name.” Standing, she hands the toy to the her brother, as well as my note. “That much is up to you. I figured out as much as I could. But I think if you test the blood stain on that toy and compare it to the body, it’ll be the same DNA.”

“How…how did you know this was here?” Jonathan asks, rising slowly from his place on the ground, looking at the corpse like a normal person—with astonishment and a slight sickly look.

My curiosity bites at me as well. How did she?

Irena answers by describing my box and its contents. She said she started with the leaves, stating that the needles were from Tamarack trees (what on Earth those are, I couldn’t tell you, though apparently they have needles) and that she guessed that everything had to come from the same area. Therefore, the needles had to come from an area with gold-going-on-orange oak leaves.  She goes on to say that she knew that there had to be a marsh of some sort because of the mud still being fresh and the fact that there had been no rain in a long time. (I notice that she seems to deliberately leave out her strange sniffing habits. Fair enough, Irena, all people have their quirks.) The best lead of where it all converged was that it to be close to the town because of the short downtime between the apparent collection and the delivery. Beyond that—she was guessing. Guessing!

She explains her guess-timations further to Jonathan and agrees to hand over everything that rightfully titles itself as “evidence.” As they talk, I stare down at the small corpse in the ground, light resting beside it but on it no longer as the focus has shifted elsewhere, getting only the reflection of light off living skin, off wet ground to fill its shape and depth. It isn’t fair. When I was first here, I saw only the overturned dirt, the skull, the maggots. Now I see a boy, a young boy who lost his beloved toy, his name, his everything. I kneel and touch one of the little bones of the finger, poking out pure white against the rest of the ground. It seems almost warm to me.

 

After we get home, and Irena has given the police everything, she sits on her couch with a mug of cocoa in her hands. The sweet smell wafts into the house, overriding the scents of pine and rotten mud, and Irena sits there staring into nothingness for a while, hands wrapped tight around her mug as if to ward off some internal chill. Rain patters on the roof, reverberating around the house in a constant, quiet thrum. It falls in gray sheets outside the window, creates a static between this house, us two, and the rest of reality.

For all that boredom she caused me in these few months, it seems that I was neglecting my subject. I know that now. I also know that I’ll be reassigned if—or, more likely, when—it’s discovered that I interfered with the goon; I’m only a Narrator, after all. But for now, I don’t care. For all I’m concerned, it was worth it.

Irena closes her eyes. I stand before her, on the other side of the coffee table. I wonder what she’s going to do now. She opens her eyes, peers straight into me, takes a deep breath.

She sips her cocoa.

 

She never ceases to amaze.