“Micah?” she said. Her voice was sudden, hitched, almost a gasp, almost a whisper. “Do you think there are things that can’t be fixed?”
The fire was in her eyes. The fire. No one was paying attention to the fire. But it was growing in her eyes, and spitting.
“What do you mean? Do you mean us?”
All of a sudden she was upright. Her tailbone dug into my thigh; I winced and tried to move away, and she wouldn’t let me go. “No. Not us. Not ever.”
On the night of the bonfire, it rained too late. The water pasted her hair to her neck and shoulders. It soaked through my sweatshirt.
She screamed my name.
She screamed, “Do you hear me? More than anything, Micah. Anything.”
On the night of the bonfire, there was a match between my fingers.
This I remember clearly: the match, burning toward my fingertips. I remember the heat on my nails, and then the burning. I remember the flame, teased high by the wind, made clear by the cold.
I remember letting go.
I remember the match falling.
“Everything,” I said as it hit the ground.
What a night to forget.
What a night to remember.
THE JOURNAL OF JANIE VIVIAN
What do you think happened to Sleeping Beauty’s bed?
No, really. I want you to answer.
Do you think she ever slept in it again?
She couldn’t get up for a hundred years. She was stuck there, tangled in the covers, crushed into that fucking mattress for a hundred fucking years. She couldn’t get up. She wanted to, she fought and kicked and clawed and couldn’t get out of that hundred-year nightmare.
Do you really think she could ever fall asleep there again?
before
OCTOBER 11
There are a lot of things people never tell you about sex. They say it’s romantic and life changing or whatever, sometimes they even say that there’s blood and it hurts. But no one tells you about how heavy he is, or how he leaves the condom on your floor. No one ever tells you about the smell of him, sweat and body and unfamiliarity, that never goes away. You can stand under the shower and let it go from scalding to hot to lukewarm to cold to freezing. You can throw your sheets and blankets into the washer and the smell will still seep up from the mattress.
Did you know that? I didn’t.
I use an entire bottle of body wash. I scrub until my skin is so numb that I can’t feel how cold the water is, and then finally, finally I shut it off. The silence is complete, and I slide onto the floor and just lie there, feet together and hands folded. I think of the time Micah and I went to the cemetery with our fists full of dreams. I think of how wide the sky was.
I lie there and cry until I puke. Then I kneel there and puke until my throat is raw.
Then I turn on the water again and wash it all down the drain, tears puke dreams. I clench my fists tighter and tighter. I will use them next time.
Next time?
And—damn. There I go. I’m crying again.
I whisper fuck until it loses all meaning, not that it had much in the first place.
I don’t really know how long it takes me, but I do peel myself off the shower floor, eventually. I’m dry by then, and I go to my room in the stupid new house that I fucking hate, and I look around. My makeup is spilling out of my underwear drawer. The wall behind my desk is splattered with paint and nail polish and Skarpie. There are rocks everywhere.
My bed is a queen and completely stripped right now, so it’s hard not to look at. I do my best.
I look at the mirror instead. I remember every single place where he kissed me—every single one—but they have not burned me; I am still whole. If he’s bruised me, the bruises have yet to appear. I’m fine. I’m fine.
I make myself look for another five seconds before I sprint to the bathroom again and puke all over again.
Stop crying.
It’s fine. I’m fine. I’m going to be okay.
I just need a plan.
Soul Google: how to decapitate an angel
no results
How to burn cut punish the wicked no wait
How to stop them
I can see it now, the color of his soul, behind the cloud cover. It’s white. It’s white and crawling, it’s covered in maggots.
I sit down, flop down, Come on, limbs, get it together, we have a job to do. We have to do something. Sit. At the computer—yes, I can do that.
R A P E
I type that into Google.
Followed by:
Lawyers in Waldo IA
Average sentence for rape
What constitutes rape
Statistics of rape
Why are there so many rape victims
Why aren’t rapists convicted
What do I do?
What the hell do I do
I should have known. That’s basic sixth-grade computer class—you can’t find everything on the Internet.
I close the tabs. I clear everything.