She's Lost Control, Page 8

  Cybil wasn’t usually one to follow instructions, but she had followed the purple postcard into this room after all, so she hit play. An optimistic jingle came out of the TV speakers, and the TV jolted to life.

  “Welcome to the Vault. The world’s first club for secondhand friends. A real friend is the best insurance policy you could have. But sometimes, people don’t have true friends they can rely on. Using our patented system developed by world-renowned positive psychologist Professor Henrik Klaff, we guarantee you’ll feel like you’ve known any of these people for years, and everyone here is ready to make friendship matter. Get started by pressing play on any of the remotes on the cart. When you’re finished exploring, come back to this video for further information on how to meet your new friends.”

  A chair sat in the middle of the room, facing the whole gallery, and a cart sat next to the chair. Cybil sat. On top of the cart was a small metal chest of drawers, two columns by three rows top to bottom, forming six drawers total. Each drawer was labeled with a person’s name, and she gently opened each drawer to reveal a remote control in each.

  She thought back to her high school and college best friends, and the friends she had most recently seen. Did any of them really care? If she got the flu and needed someone to bring her soup and Pedialyte, who would she call? When’s the last time someone offered to help her load up her truck when she was moving? How many July 4ths and Thanksgivings spent alone in her studio apartment watching charity telethons? I need this, she thought.

  Considering the names on each drawer, she channeled her fondest memories of girls: summer camp, trips to the restroom at high school dances, her roommates in the college dorms. She swam in the memories of her closest male friends: goofing off on skateboards, band practice, and later in college, getting sundrunk and high on the quad. She flushed warm with the ease of her friendships with the opposite gender. But a third wave came over her. Confusion, jealousy, nerves, mixed signals. Unwanted affections brushed off gently, too gently.

  Cybil took a deep breath and started the first video. As she watched all the videos, she mocked each speaker.

  Look at these sad lonely people. I don’t want to be Judy or John’s last chance, she thought.But the Doctor said this system was patented. He said guarantee. She kept watching the videos and came to the last two. Mildred first, followed by Geoffrey. Something was off about these two . . . they didn’t look like strangers at all. These are the old people from the table by the bulletin board, Cybil thought. While Geoffrey gave his pitch, Cybil spun around to face Mildred’s TV set and Mildred winked at her, clear as day. Cybil paused Geoffrey, unpaused Mildred, and repaused her just to make sure she hadn’t mistaken screen static for a wink. But Mildred’s TV was crystal sharp.

  Cybil felt lightheaded and stepped out of the Vault. She made her way to the bathroom, a hand grazing the walls on her way, heart racing. Cybil leaned over the sink, thick and plasticky like it was ripped from a cheap corporate apartment, and looked up at herself in the mirror. She hardly recognized the face looking back at her, and when she took a deep breath, all she could smell was the familiar fetid odor of cottage cheese and cherry cordials. She splashed water on her face and tried to look again, hoping the flush in her skin would return. Her arms and legs tingled a mild almost-painful falling-asleep tingle. She stared at the mirror, through herself, as the fluorescent lighting overhead flickered. In the corner of the mirror was a purple-gray placard surrounding a button, with a single white-lettered word underneath. Dizzy and without much consideration, she jabbed the button several times with her wet hand before sliding down against the cold, tiled wall.

  She closed her eyes, and let a wave, smooth like neon wash over her. When she opened them again, she was looking out on the vault, the walls of books and the row of TVs stacked up on either side of her. She tried to locate her feet to leave, but nothing moved. She tried to jump, to roll, to flail, but all she could feel was the bounce of tension straps on either side, holding her safely in place. Her eyes darted side to side. Static clouded her vision as the strangers, the elderly couple, and Professor Henrik Klaff greeted her in unison.

  “Welcome home, Cybil.”

  A MARKED WOMAN

  Amanda Crum

  I NEED SIN.

  I crave it the way people afflicted with pica feel compelled to taste rocks and dirt, the minerals so much a part of them that they don’t even know how to name that need. It is basic, animal, a rush of desire so strong it blots out everything else until they reach for the piece of quartz or clay that makes them feel whole again.

  I know what you’re thinking: that it’s the friction I want, the weight of a body on mine. In some ways, that’s true. But more thrilling is the feeling that I’m doing something I shouldn’t be doing, that it’s wrong and I should be punished for it. It’s the feeling of being sixteen and sneaking out of the house to meet a boy, dress curled up on the floorboard, skin flushed and dewy. It’s the knowledge that I’ve taken a bite from a cookie I was never meant to eat just to savor its irregular borders.

  When I was young I would steal pebbles from the beach near our house, rinse them in ocean water and place them reverently on my tongue. The taste was round and saline, like the burst of an orgasm. I would suck them dry and then return them to the water, where they could soak up another hundred years of salt and foam. I wish I had one now, lying in bed with the clean sheets tucked around the cleavage of my ass, my fingers itching to hold something warm and soft. I grab my left breast, weigh it in my palm, pinch the nipple to feel the familiar ache between my legs. And suddenly, I burn.

  A circle of fire, around my ankle. I lift my leg, dropping the sheet into a pool on the bed, and see a dark ring of letters carving themselves into my skin. Juicy, it reads. I can feel the sting in the curve of the J, a bite on the stem of the Y. A tattoo for my wickedness.

  It’s not such a surprise, I suppose. A girl like me, a girl who wants everything she can have, cannot go untouched. My sinning ways have marked me, as I suspect they were always meant to. I’m only shocked it didn’t happen sooner. And, in a way, I think it’s sort of pretty, like a bruise on a peach. When something is damaged, you can see how fragile it is.

  ***

  Later, at the coffee shop, I sit and pretend not to notice that I’m being noticed. It’s an art form, really, requiring much practice and a bit of coquettishness—but not too much. No one wants to think they’ve been fooled, and besides, part of the fun is in the chase, even for me. I stir my coffee and look into the distance; not a thousand-yard stare, but rather a dreamy contemplation that leaves a man wondering what my reaction would be to his touch. I’ve seen it so many times before that I can spot it from my peripheral. I have to be in the right mood, though. When it’s been a long day, those looks are just tiresome. Other times, I think I intimidate every man in my orbit. They believe they would make a fool of themselves, and often, they’re right. For a girl who wants everything, I’m quite selective.

  For instance, I once brought a man home just for his hands. I noticed them, lingering over his drink at the bar, twirling his glass, wiping the moisture from it, and I pictured what they would do to me in the dark. The thought made me shiver and that’s when I knew I had to have him. It wasn’t difficult; his ring finger was bare, but I could still see the tan line. He was lonely.

  I took him to bed and told him I loved his hands. They could have been drawn by Michelangelo himself, although I didn’t admit that to him. Editing is good. I left my panties on and had him work me for a long time with his fingers and palms, and they were just as good as I knew they would be. He left with a dazed look on his face, like a man who has just fallen in love but doesn’t know what to do about it.

  It’s late and I should be gathering my things to leave, but it’s funny what happens when a woman slows down and takes her time. People are watching me as they move to the counter to settle up, the eyes of man dip down into my cleavage and up to my pale throat and they wonder what I’d look l
ike spread out over their sheets. I move with deliberate slowness, daring them to watch, standing to stretch in my form-fitting pencil skirt, lingering over my bag and coat and gloves. The one with the beard and dark, glittering eyes watches me from two tables over. I feel his gaze on my calves and wonder what he thinks of my new tattoo.

  “Excuse me,” he says, following me to the door. I stop and cock an eyebrow in response.

  “You have the most beautiful legs I’ve ever seen.”

  In my bed I arch my back and roll for him, allowing the moonlight to paint me like a Degas girl. He never mentions the letters on my ankle.

  ***

  When he leaves I strip the sheets and draw a hot bath. From somewhere downstairs I hear a piano tinkling, a love song to the autumnal city or maybe to the anonymity of it. With the lights off and the tiny window open, I can pretend I’m floating under the stars, far from home. I’m nearly asleep in the water when I feel the slashing pain again, this time on my left hip. It burns bright like the time I brushed my calf against the muffler on my high school boyfriend’s motorcycle. My fingers trace the letters: tender.

  ***

  When the sun comes up I dress carefully in a knee-length black skirt and ivory sweater, clasp my best pearls around my neck, pin my hair up. I wear my great-grandmother’s gloves and the lotion my mother gave me for Christmas, a scent called Winter Beach that always makes me think of the sun coming out on a cold day.

  The church is only three blocks away so I pretend not to hear the men on the street and in cars, the things they’d do to me. Their voices are aimed over my head, lofty as the pigeons that have turned the soup kitchen into an aviary.

  I light a candle for my great-grandmother and step into the familiar scent of polished wood and incense, into a quiet so deep you can almost hear it. HUSH, it says.

  “Are you there, my child?”

  I kneel and sigh, the routine as familiar as childhood. “Yes, Father.”

  “What’s on your mind?”

  I’m a dirty girl who will never be saved. “I have these . . . urges. I can’t seem to overcome them.”

  “Anything can be overcome as long as your faith doesn’t waver.”

  “I’m not worried about my faith, Father. It’s my willpower.”

  I hear him shift slightly in his seat and wonder if he’s blushing. Probably not. I’m sure he’s heard much worse than what I can give him. Out of nowhere, I picture bringing a man in here, pushing him against the confessional wall, taking him into my mouth. Daring him to be loud in the quietest of quiet rooms. My ribcage sparks briefly and I bring my hand up, cupping my right breast through my sweater. It’s hot to the touch. I don’t have to trace it with my finger to know that it reads delicious.

  “These human urges set us apart from the godly,” he says suddenly. “You must learn to control your thoughts and beg forgiveness for your sins.”

  My penance is ten Hail Marys.

  ***

  On the way home, I feel the familiar ache between my legs, my panties pulled too tight. I walk slowly to savor it, breathe deep on the sidewalk and exhale through my mouth. I ignore the words hurled at me from the men I pass, but when I get home and undress I find them on my skin, dozens of letters carved onto my shoulder and lower back and belly. Honey and sweet and ripe, a spring day spent beneath a peach tree. Whore and slut and bitch, a cold night alone. They don’t burn, I realize, not like the others. They showed up and I never even felt them.

  I never felt them at all.

  ***

  I dress for winter, covering up my wounded skin as best I can. My mother is a strong, faith-grounded woman and I suspect she will disown me if she sees the state my body is in. Over my head goes a thick blue sweater that matches my eyes—a cunning distraction meant for my mother, who once had my colors done and cooed when the woman insisted I was an Autumn, just like her. Dark jeans that taper down into my boots, hair down to cover my neck. I feel like a nun.

  My mother’s home is not the one I grew up in. It’s a small, dim two-bedroom with talkative plumbing and a postage stamp-sized front porch, a far cry from the bright and airy Victorian I spent my childhood days in. Here there are cooking smells from the previous tenants baked into the wallpaper, chintzy furnishings crammed into the too-small living room. I try not to spend too much time here.

  “You’re too thin,” she says when I walk in. The ashtray is full, a sign she hasn’t been sleeping well, but there’s a full pitcher of iced tea on the kitchen table in front of her so I sit down and pour. My mother always takes the time to cut fresh lemons for her tea and plucks garnishes from the mint tree out back. It’s like tasting sixth grade.

  “How is Jack?” I ask, ignoring her critique. Her cat is her pride now, even though he’s a lumpy, hateful thing.

  “So well,” she says, beaming. “I’m going to potty train him.”

  I frown at this, remembering how impatient my mother always was with me as a child. She left my education on all things to other people. I suppose it’s because of her own upbringing; her mother was a God-fearing woman who wore stiff-necked dresses until the day she died, like a Victorian countess, and took to preaching in the back parlor of her home after my grandfather passed away. I never met her, but I can picture the way it was, a stifling clapboard house shivering in the swelter of August, patrons sweating in their Sunday best listening to a madwoman give sermons on the right way to be afraid. My mother, eight years old, sitting properly on a hard wooden bench with her eyes cast down. She already knew how to be afraid.

  “That’s nice,” I say, and look down at my tea as I take a sip to avoid meeting her eyes.

  Her hand is suddenly so tight and fierce on my wrist that I’m reminded of the time I visited my great-grandmother in the nursing home. Old people have always scared me, with their paper-thin skin and otherworldly strength.

  “What’s on you?” she whispers. I look down and see that the sleeve of my sweater slipped while I was drinking my tea, revealing the word slick and the raw skin of my wrist.

  I try to imagine telling her about what’s wrong with me, the explanation of how sinful I am and what it means to be the mother of someone who can’t control herself. My mouth opens and closes once, like a fish. For the first time, her eyes look so old to me. Watery and pale, the eyes of a confused nursing home patient. She’s a stranger, a woman who had a life before she was a mother that I will never know about.

  When she releases my wrist, I put my hands in my lap, a good girl once more in catechism class, expecting a slap across the face or a cry of outrage. Instead, there is nothing for a minute, maybe more.

  “It’s me,” she says finally, and when I look at her she’s softer. She pulls up the sleeve of her baggy sweater to show me an arm full of letters, pale white admonitions that look like scars rather than painful new cuts. Dirty and ache and thrust and eager. “You and me.”

  DINNER TIME: THE CONSEQUENCES OF SAVAGES

  Stephanie M. Wytovich

  Breathe me the sound of teeth,

  This moribund dream of cannibal proclivity,

  I am the hunger that wakes you at night,

  That clawing, the subtle mastication

  That gnaws your eyes open to bleed

  Feed me the songs of your gluttony

  Let me listen to the dirge of your compunction,

  How you feasted on hearts, a salacious monger

  of wayward girls and ghost-driven women,

  Your mouth is the centerpiece to my table.

  We eat at 8:00.

  Do you like the depth of my depravity?

  The scrape of your skin from the fork

  Sliding against your skull?

  Let me teach you how to sever, how to saw

  Through sternums, through muscles made tight

  From running. Mine is a penchant to punish,

  To sauté the lack of emotion from your blood,

  An effervescent bubbling, this first course

  Of meals shared by sister
s.

  But don’t worry, there will be more delicacies

  To savor, an entire spread of wanton crimes,

  All those forgotten offenses you butchered and

  Slaughtered away while starved from the pleasures

  Of flesh. The taste of you is acrid, a fetid spoil in my mouth.

  I’ll devour you regardless.

  But tell me, is the pressure too hot? Does the fire remind

  You of the way you toasted their flesh, how you

  Tattooed their memories with the removal of their

  Bones?

  For there are pairings of monsters, a silence

  With no room left to scream. Look at me, this blossom

  Of pertinence. I am made solely of teeth.

  MAGDALA AMYGDALA

  Lucy A. Snyder

  I was bound, though I have not bound.

  I was not recognized. But I have recognized

  that the All is being dissolved,

  both the earthly and the heavenly.

  —The Gospel of Mary Magdalene

  “SO HOW ARE you feeling?” Dr. Shapiro’s pencil hovers over the CDC risk evaluation form clamped to her clipboard.

  “Pretty good.” When I talk, I make sure my tongue stays tucked out of sight. I smile at her in a way that I hope looks friendly, and not like I’m baring my teeth. The exam-room mirror reflects the back of the good doctor’s head. Part of me wishes the silvered glass were angled so I could check my expression; the rest of me is relieved that I can’t see myself.

  Nothing existed before this. The present and recent past keep blurring together in my mind, but I’ve learned to take a moment before I reply to questions, speak a little more slowly to give myself the chance to sort things out before I utter something that might sound abnormal. My waking world seems to have been taken apart and put back together so that everything is just slightly off, the geometries of reality deranged.