Falling

Go on they said. Mama, and Papa, and Clarissa and Bull. Now?

Woof went Bull.

Sweaty, warm hands. My heart is on a treadmill, pushing the levels up one by one. 4,5,6,7.

Breathe.

8,9,10,11.

Breathe.

My hands are flowers, each finger as petals unfurling slowly, blooming.

12,13,14,15.

Big breath. And I fall into nothing

but

water.

Water in eyes, water in nose, water in mouth.

Papa says good job and picks me up with strong hands. I see the polka dot towel with the blue- green stain. Hugs from Mama. Hair mussing from Clarissa. Kisses from Bull. Land from Papa. I shiver. I do not like grasping something that isn’t there. Like support in water. Or Bull when he finds a squirrel.

But I am safe now. Safe on land. Safe in the polkadot towel with the blue- green stain that is now wet with the pool. Safe safe safe.

Safe.

Lanny Who Comes

Home With a

Sparkly Ear

Lanny! She bolts into the blue house next to our white one. 

Lanny come in! 

 A day later I play ghosts in the graveyard with Clarissa. She says no no Grace I am 16 and holds up 6 fingers and wiggles her toes. But I say yes yes yes Rissa! And jump up and down like a dog that wants to go for a walk. Fine. Rissa says with a flick of her eye. Lanny! Today she only jogs to the house, quick but not quite.

The next day, I take my rainbow chalk and cover the sidewalk with lines and squiggles. Red and blue. Yellow and purple. My hands feel light and dry. Gloves made up of dust and air. Gloves that are a mix of the rainbow. I giggle.

Lanny! Her long brown hair sways slowly as she trudges to the door. Back and forth. Back and forth. Her ear flashes and sparkles before it is covered by a glossy curtain of hair. Rissa has sparkly ears too except they are blue. Mama thinks it is bad to put holes in your ears. She says I’d like to keep my ears intact thank you very much!

Rissa had to beg and beg Mama until her eyes were puffy and red, scarred temporarily from her tears. Mama’s ears are smooth and tan, like mine. One day, when I’m older, I’ll beg and beg Mama until my eyes are puffy and red then I’ll have the sparkliest sparkly ears that’ll make people ooh and aah.

The next day, I take the dusty lawn chair from our garage that creaks and groans when I climb on and drag it to the front lawn. I listen to the protesting chair and close my eyes real tight. Then I listen to the beautiful notes that flood my head and make me feel like a calm river.

LANNY FRANCINE GREGORY! Calls a scratchy voice from her blue house behind the many doors and windows and bricks. I hear a door slam and let a little sliver of the world come to my eyes. A gasp flies out of my throat before I can grab it and lock it in a cage with no key.

Lanny’s beautiful chocolate hair is gone, replaced by jagged pink and purple and blue strands of what seems like hair. Her ear shines brighter than my eyes can handle. Then, the slam of the door of her black Toyota, the blasting of music that sounds like guys screaming about death and the sound a car makes when it leaves and there is a disappearing trail of colored air. I have a feeling in my stomach that I will not see Lanny or a Black Toyota for a long time.

Paula who Hates Bees

She won’t even go outside! Mama pats Paula’s mama on the back. Don’t worry. Green eyes. They glow at me from inside Paula’s shamrock green house. We used to be friends until she got stung and had an arm the size of a boulder. Then she just sat and looked. No Hide and Seek. No hopscotch. No Tic Tac Toe.

Just looking, and looking, and watching, and watching. Piercing, piercing, green eyes. Paula, who will not come out until winter. Why won’t you come out and play with me like we used to? When our braids danced around beneath the sun? When the color yellow didn’t make you jump and have little bumps on your skin? Come back, Paula, Come back.

Louisa Who Sells the Cookies With a Smile

Ding dong. She stands there with a cap on her head and a single braid down her back. You have chippy chocolate mints right? Clarissa asks. Louisa nods and the single braid on her back jumps up and down. Will you buy? Fluttery fluttery lashes like butterflies about to take flight. Big, big eyes. Lips pulled over sparkly teeth in a snarl disguised as a smile. A snake that has caught its prey.

One sec. Rissa fishes in her pocket for a rumpled 5 dollar bill and hands it to Louisa. Her hand closes tight over the bill and she stuffs it into her little brown bag. Oh, and you can keep the change.

Door closes, I follow. Wait. Can I help? I am very good at smiling. She stops. Turns around. I smile at her to demonstrate my good smiling skills. But her smile turns into a full snarl. No silly girl. Now git.

Mama and Papa’s

Side by side

They’re there. Right above the mantle of the fireplace. Side by side framed with dark black ink letters that scream with an air of finality. You’re gonna get a medical degree and hang it right there next to ours. They say to me.

I suspect since Rissa is paving her own road with art they want one child that will turn out perfectly. I vow to myself that one day, I will get a degree. But it won’t say medical in any part of that cream colored sheet. It’ll say music.

Ruby’s Piano

Wanna come over today? Ruby asks. Sure. I hardly know her. She lives in a sturdy house the color of day old cheese. The door swings open. It’s small but…. Ruby’s voice falls over me, not quite reaching my ears. All I see is the piano. Not a grand piano by any means, but a cozy chestnut wall piano. My hands itch to move and my ears are already flooding with notes that are not there yet. Grace? Grace?

T.V.

When I was younger I was watching T.V. Teletubbies. Break. Sesame street. Break. Clifford. Then it came on. An ad for pianos. I wanted them so bad my heart ached and a hole in my heart opened.

It was never filled.

My parents let me learn for a few years, then they made me quit for better usage of my time. That night I locked the door and cried. No one asked about my puffy eyes the next day.

The Market

Rissa, take us to the market! We stand there, Ruby and I. Ugh. Mom! Dad! I’m taking them to the farmer’s market! We’ll be back at 9! Jingle jingle says keys. The market stalls are close together and there are so many aromas that fight to be heard. Cinnamon, peppers. Mmmm bakery.

We drag Rissa around and around. Chocolate croissants. Lemon-white chocolate muffins. Me and Rissa and Ruby each stand there with one in each of our hands. I hold mine like a queen would with tea. Ruby balances two on her head. Rissa rolls her eyes but we can tell she’s laughing.

After we finish the croissants, then the Lemon - white chocolate muffins, we’re still licking our fingers one by one. Look look look! Ruby points to a man holding a puppet. Ooh! Rissa plays with some gold bracelets. She looks like a mysterious fairy queen. Whoa. I stand there, looking at a flower stand. I sniff each one individually and close my eyes, inhaling.

Notes flow in my mind as easily as the aroma is filling my nose. You want those Gracie Grace? Rissa asks. I sigh contentedly. Yes. Daisies, and poppies in my hand. A clunky clacky puppet in Ruby’s. Jangly gold bracelets on Rissa’s. I’m so happy I can laugh. So I do. And I don’t stop.

Pillows and Tears

YOU CAN’T CONTROL MY LIFE! I hear from downstairs. It’s Clarissa. We only want the best for you. Mama. Don’t even talk to me about your twisted thoughts about what is best for me! Rissa – It’s Papa. DON’T TALK TO ME! JUST STOP! JUST STOP! I hear sobbing. Rissa- SHUT UP! I hear Rissa gasp at her outburst.

There’s a stony silence that even I can hear through my pillow. Then a slap. I freeze and I can’t hear a single thing in my mind. It reverberates through the house with the promise of unremovable emotional scars.

Don’t talk to your father like that. You might hate us but we’re still your parents and you can’t talk to us that way. Mama’s voice is low and quiet, but it is sharp and trenchant. No. Rissa’s voice comes, quivering but just as cutting as Mama’s.

No. You’re wrong. Her voice rises slowly. You know what? YOU’RE WRONG! YOU’RE ALL WRONG! YOU WANNA BE MY PARENTS? ACT LIKE PARENTS! I can hear her steadying herself, bringing her voice down. Her voice is shuddering. You two aren’t my parents and you never will be.

I creep out onto the spying walkway and I catch a glimpse of Rissa’s tear-run face before she exits our house.

She doesn’t look back once.

Mama and Papa don’t even bother to shut the door. That was the last time I ever saw my sister here again.

The Holes In My Heart

I had a bullet hole in my heart from the piano ad, but now, Now, I have a gaping gash. And it’ll never heal. Not as long as she’s gone. And Mama and Papa and I know that she’s not coming back. Not as long as she breathes. I’m done, I’m done.

I’m done.

Manuela, The Queen Of Happiness

Manuela is the queen of Happiness. Ruby and I pretty much agree. Whenever I catch a glimpse of her, she is always laughing – or smiling – or both. Her house is big and cozy and full of hugs- like Manuela. She folds us up in her big oversized sweater and fills us with her cinnamon-y scent. Ruby, like the gem, yes you are a gem. And Grace, exactly as your name says.

I trip over my feet and take a bow.

Manuela squeezes us tight and smiles even wider. Cookies? Extra Double Chocolately Chocolate Chip. Just for you girls. We snack on the Extra Double Chocolately Chocolate Chip and sit by the big fluffy couch that is bigger than five Manuelas combined.

Then, Manuela prances in and turns on some music. Come, Ruby gem, Graceful Grace. Let’s dance. We all shake and shimmy until I feel like my stomach will explode from laughing too much. I dance, dance, then dance some more. The song finishes too fast.

Before I know it, Ruby and me are out the front door and the cold, biting wind greets us hello. Come back soon! Ruby gem, send kisses to Lisa! Graceful Grace, send kisses to Eleanora! Adios! I’m still dancing the whole way home.

Bread, Pebbles,

And Egg Sandwiches

This is Mark. Ruby says. We’re on our way to the lake and Ruby decided to bring her brother. Twins. She tells me while Mark shades his eyes from the sun. I can see how they’re related. He has the same bright red hair and freckles. Hi. Mark says shyly. I nod and we head out towards the Lake.

It is hot, hot, hot and the air is tangible. Ruby clutches a bag in her hand. Then we see the lake. And a bunch of ducks swimming along the top of it. Quack quack. They say to us. Some swim away quickly when we sit on the bank but most of them stay, ignoring us.

Ruby opens her bag and takes out a fluffy piece of white bread. Here. She says, handing Mark and me and herself a piece. We throw them into the water and watch tiny fish swim to the surface along with some ducks who snag some pieces. When the bag is empty and Ruby crumples it and stuffs it into the pocket of her jeans, we look for pebbles at the foot of the trees surrounding the lake.

Look! Matt picks up a small boulder and displays it over his head like a weight lifter. We’re trying to have a throwing contest so unless you think you’re gonna win with that thing, you should probably put that down, Chicken poop. Matt sticks out his tongue but drops it anyways. I find a smooth grey pebble that fits in my hand well.

One by one, we throw our stones into the water, hearing the plops and watching the perfect rings appear around the area. Ruby and me end up being tied so we have a tie breaker by seeing how long it takes for each of us to polish off two egg sandwiches.

I win and end up holding the trophy of a big belly and a smile. Ruby scowls but says she isn’t jealous. Matt picks up the boulder again. He throws it into the water. It sprays water all over us. QUACK QUACK! The ducks scream at us. Sorry. he says over his shoulder as we turn to make the short journey home. But the gaping hole in my heart still doesn’t feel complete.

Maps

I don’t know where she is. My hands trace their way over lines of land and water. I tap on the dots. I look so hard my eyes start to blur. If I only keep looking…

I sometimes pretend the little dots on the pages are Rissa and sometimes I feel a little tap on my shoulder, barely there. I turn and common sense frowns at me. You silly girl, it says. She’s not coming back. And you know it.

I nod and nod and nod, like an eager second grader on the first day of school. Until my eyes land back on the map. As if it will grow a pair of lips and tell me what I want to hear. But then I get an idea. And I can almost swear I see the map smile.

Magic Tricks and Boo Boos

When I was younger, Rissa taught me how to do magic. Whenever I got a scab or a bruise, she would take the lilac pen I loved the most, and draw a flower, a few inches above the hurting area, growing out. See? She’d say, all knowing-like. It’s not as hard as you’d think to heal something. I’d find my scab completely healed a few days after. Today, after reading the maps, I got a small papercut on my knuckle. I took my beautiful lilac pen and drew a flower a few inches above my cut.

It didn’t heal until weeks later.

Itsy Bitsy Spider

Come ON let’s GO!

I am splayed out underneath my bed with the wooden floorboards digging into my back. I spot a little spider crawling on the springs above my head. Thump. Thump. Thump. Thump. The voice gets louder and louder. Graceeee. Graceity Graceeeee. The spider had a friend. Your mom told me you were in your room. The two spiders are playing. The footsteps stop. I close my eyes and take a deep breath like what my mom’s yoga instructor says to me when I try to sneak into her classes.

Gracee where areee you. The bedcovers above me are long enough to cover the sides of the bed. I am shrouded in a veil of darkness. It smells musty. I suck in a breath and open my eyes. Grace I know you’re in here somewhere. The spider scurries down the legs of the bed. I think of the song The Itsy Bitsy Spider and look at the spider in question. I think it looks rather small and reasonably itsy bitsy. I giggle.

GRACE! There’s light everywhere and Ruby drags me out into plain sight. I don’t think plain sight wants to see me. The spider crawls onto my foot. Ruby slaps it with her hand. I start to crawl back to my thinking spot but Ruby keeps a firm grip on my foot. I pull her under the bed with me and yank down my temporary curtains. What are you doing down here? I shush her and close my eyes. Wait but really, what are you--I shush her again (more violently this time) and swipe her eyes closed with the palm of my hand. Roll back on my back. Take a deep breath.

Ruby, I just wanted to--SHHHH.

She shushes me with a grin and we both giggle. We both stare up at the bottom of my bed.

She’s gone.

Ruby says nothing.

Clarissa’s gone.

Ruby says nothing. I can’t even make tears. They won’t come.

Whisper I’m empty to no one. Maybe the dead spider smushed on Ruby’s hand.

Our cave swallows the sound of breathing.

I mutter to the floor.

she’s gone.

I yell into the bedsprings.

SHE’S GONE SHE’S GONE SHE’S GONE.

I whimper to my hands.

She’s. Gone.

Cold cold hands grip my shoulder. Blue eyes search my face.

Then let’s find her.

Pipes and Dreams

When I was about as tall as a baseball bat, Rissa used to let me sit on the edge of her bed whenever her friends came to our house. It was that type of day when Shaina came over. They never talked about the things that normal teens talked about. Like Cher in Clueless. Or Regina George in Mean Girls. No, never. They would lie down and stare at the ceiling like a couple of lunatics. I joined too. But I’m not one. I’m not.

I’m scared.

Rissa nodded.

I did too.

You know what I think?

Love and life and whatever stupid dream you think you want to accomplish

Is just a pipe dream.

Shaina nodded.

Pipes are bad.

Two heads whipped around towards me.

Mrs. Fitzgerald told our class that smoking can kill you. Please don’t die Rissa.

They both took turns ruffling my hair until I looked like a newborn baby bird.

Oh Gracie… the life you think you’re going to have will never be the same as what will

happen.

I fell off the bed.

What?

Three Years

It’s been three years since my (former) sister left me in this sinkhole. And that’s what’s happening to me. Sinking. Falling into whatever sick life my parents decided I was going to have. As if I was some puppet. Not that I blame them. I’m practically putting the puppet strings into their hands.

We never did go on that adventure, Ruby and I. The idea pretty much fizzled out as soon as she thought of it. I mean, we tried, sure, but whoever thinks that two twelve year old kids (without any sense of direction) can go into the city to find one of their lunatic sisters who ran off and deserted her with her lunatic family in a suffocating town without getting the cops pulled on them by one of their helicopter moms is, there’s no easy way to put it,

absolutely, positively,

Nuts.

And that’s what we were, Ruby and I.

Absolutely, positively.

In a good way, of course. Not anymore, though. I mean, speaking for myself. I don’t know if she’s still that way. I guess that trip just burned me out. And I guess Ruby was burned out too. From trying to support someone who wasn’t there. From trying to be a friend to someone who wanted none. From trying to find someone who hid in closets, under the sink, practically anything to get away from her. From me. Not that I blame her. Not that much anyway.

I miss her.

I miss her.

Knock Knock

The door swings open. Blue, blue eyes that belong to some cold, cold hands.

Silence.

Eyebrow raises.

She still doesn't say anything.

She doesn't need to.

I hate you

Her eyes say

Why did u come back?

Her eyebrows ask

Brown eyes meet Blue.

Do you still want to go on that adventure?

Her Room

I can’t go in there. I still can’t.

It’s as if whenever I lay eyes on it, my legs freeze up and I am paralyzed.

I can’t move. I can’t breathe.

The little origami cranes she used to hang from her bedroom are still there, the ones that she let me name:

Robert and Erin and Skye and Jared

and

Clarissa spelled out of purple construction paper with little pink hearts over the i’s are all still there, taped onto her door, just like mine.

Just like I have on mine.

Just like I still have on mine.

All of it is there.

Except for her.

Except for Rissa.

I’m afraid.

Afraid that if I go in there, it’ll be like nothing has changed and everything I’ve convinced myself of will melt into air.

The lie I’ve convinced myself of will be gone.

And I won’t be safe anymore.

I won’t be safe from the heartbreak and the feeling of betrayal I got when she walked out that door without looking back once and the way I would stare holes into the front door, waiting for those black chucks to come walking through the door back to me, back to me, back. To. me. and the exact moment I realized she was not coming back and the time I caught my dad crying while curled into a small ball against the bottom of the kitchen sink, and the time I couldn’t go to sleep so I pressed myself into my knees against her bedroom door because I couldn’t get my stupid legs to stand up, couldn’t get my stupid fingers to clutch the doorknob, couldn’t get myself to face everything she did.

What she did to me.

Then the next day, in the morning, I would always forgive her.

Feelings of guilt and anger would evaporate.

Just like she did from our lives.

My parents don’t talk about her.

They threw away her mug the day after she left.

It’s like they knew.

It’s like she never even existed.

It’s like I never even had a sister.

It’s like this has been my life for an eternity.

I’m scared.

I’m scared that everything will come back

in waves,

In waves,

In Waves,

Crashing over me,

Engulfing me

With everything I lost that night.

Before Mom & Dad

Of course I know that mom and dad weren’t always mom and dad. Before they were mom and dad, they were Eleanora and John. Before that, they were Ellie and Jack. Even before that, they were sweetie and buddy. What I didn’t know is what I expected to find in the attic.

I don’t even know why I pulled out those collapsable attic stairs. I guess I just wanted some sort of adventure, something that made the pit of my stomach leap with excitement.

I can almost feel the thick air pushing and shoving its way up my nose, I can feel it hugging my lungs. A sneeze comes out in protest. My hands eventually find their way to a small wooden box. Photos. It offers in small, unassuming grey print. I take the wooden panels out one by one, flipping through the delicate film. My eyes take a while to adjust, but they eventually start to recognize their targets.

As I flip each page, Faded black and white morphs into faded colors and faces grow longermore defined. When I finish scanning the last photograph, I sink down into the wooden floorboards, torso on hips, legs on legs, I fold myself into an origami crane, neck and face and arms all one and the same. The box sits a few feet away. I stared at a hole in its neck. It stares back, as if to say, What are you looking at? It’s not like I know what those photos mean.

I can’t even muster a sigh. I just stare at the imposter, staring until my eyes burn and water. Stare at the imposter that could make my parents, my protectors, my creators, my family

Into complete strangers.

I tromp downstairs to Mom and Dad, who are reading their sunday newspaper at the kitchen table. THUMP. I drop the big cardboard box on the table and a big cloud of memories and faded yesterdays fills the room.

My dad’s eyes meet mine. My mom won’t look at me.

I clear my throat, suddenly finding myself unable to form one word.

She looks up and her eyes are unreadable.

Finally, I wipe the dust off of my chapped lips and I don’t form one word, but, somehow,

a whole sentence.

You never told me you were a dancer.

She freezes. Clears her throat and mumbles something about forgetting something in her room.

She was going to go professional.

My dad says, the staccato footsteps of my mother going up the stairs, punctuating his every word,

but not before I see the little flash of a star-shaped scar on her ankle.

The adventure begins

Ruby’s mom isn’t like anyone’s I have ever met.

Whenever I went over to her house, she would sit at the kitchen table with her back as straight as the wooden legs of her chair,

Eyes glazed over with the broken shards of a glass mirror.

Reflecting Nothing,

Nothing at all.

When Ruby peeled back the torn screen door of her house,

All it took was the whisper of a few words,

A single meaningful glance,

And we were off.

My parents took a little more convincing, but they relented because it was summer, after all.

And we were off.

Off to New York City.

Off to find the sister I never had.

Painting the Metra

When Rissa and I were younger, our parents rarely took us to the city. When they did, we’d take the metra.

Looming creatures of metal and green blinking windows,

Whizzing past the dark carpet of the city night.

Back then, Rissa used to paint with her primary water colors plastic set. Paint used to be splattered all over her freckled skin to the point where whenever she did not have beautiful red and yellow and green and blue hues, I used to cry and ask my mother why Rissa looked weird.

Those colorful hands used to grip the poles of the subway too.

The paint, not completely dried, would rub off on the dull metal.

Leaving Rissa hand-shaped marks in watery blue and yellow and orange,

I sat on the plastic chairs of the train,

Wedged between Ruby and Mark.

His elbow brushed against mine once and I shivered.

The metal car lurched and I gripped the metal pole.

The scent of paint was overwhelming.

I felt dizzy.

When the unfazed robotic voice came over the intercom, signaling the end of our journey to the city,

My hands unfurled and they lay at my side, unmoving.

My eyes traced the little grooves of my fingers, occasionally flicking up to glare accusingly at the spotless pole.

But no matter how hard I stared,

they still came away clean and dried.

The last time I saw her,

she was nothing but faded memories 

and lost lullabies--the ones that curl on the tongue, 

evaporating into the knot I forced myself to swallow.

I should have known.

With her arm curled around me at night,

the only thing I could say for sure is that

My heartbeat never felt so dull.

After the words that started and ended 

everything and nothing we had tumbled from her lips,

my eyes caught them on their way traveling up and even further up 

her cherry face, almond lips and chestnut freckles, 

until they finally settled on a gaze that reflected nothing but the blankness in mine.

And that was when I noticed,

Her eyes had never looked bluer. 

We held pillows where hands could not be found and stared at that crack in the ceiling,

voices warring with each other

filled with blank spaces and blameless intent.

Kisses took over when words ran out

and mouths became the only thing left between us and

desolate madness.

You deserve better,

but I do too.

Maybe we read the stars wrong, that night.

Love has no mouth,

but a million soft phrases,

held in silence,

uttered in quiet darkness.

Some can hear it whistling on the wind.

Listen.

Marcia Edwards sat at her kitchen table, hands clasped neatly underneath her chin, ankles knocking on the wooden legs of her chair. A parade of eggs, bacon, oatmeal with blueberries, a croissant drizzled with honey, and coffee laid untouched right before her face. It was a beautiful morning, that day. The birds on the tree outside her window twittered gently, and the hazy glow of sunlight brushed across the surface of her face. But she couldn't hear the birds. She couldn't see the rays of sun, the platters of food, her crossed legs. That day, she cooked an egg, and when her shaking hands reached for the bacon and the oatmeal and the blueberries and the croissant and the coffee, she was powerless to stop it. Marcia Edwards was robotic, broken mirror eyes glazed over with the haze of not quite remembering something important. Exhausted by the white flash of forgetfulness, she pushed her plates aside and pressed her cheek against the cool wooden surface of the table. She stiffened. The overwhelming scent of a memory brushed against her skin. She shivered once. Twice. Her heartbeats stumbled, rushing into each other, the thumps turning into a downpour of hail and fear and asphyxiating shock, gripping her throat and slamming her into the polished oak. She gasped for air but the only thing that filled her lungs was the memory, the memory gushing into the form of a man's rough fingers wrapping around her mouth and gripping her jaw through the thin skin of her cheeks. She could see her hands held captive against the counter surface by the thick trunks of his fingers, shaking and struggling in desperation, in frustration at the numbness of her alcohol induced mind. Frustration at the fading sensation of his other hand ripping open the buttons of her belt, the frenzied jingle of a belt collapsing to the ground, the paralyzing realization that she was powerless to stop what was coming next, then slowly, quietly, relief at the thought that she wouldn't be conscious to see her body being used and thrown around like a limp doll, torn to shreds, invaded by a stranger and his filthy hands. That night, Marcia Edwards lay in a puddle of her own urine and blood, kissed by yellow moonlight, nothing but the singing crickets and sweet oblivion washing over her. 

Woken up by the incessant cooing of a nearby owl and the sticky feeling of damp jelly seeping into her hair, her eyes fluttered open to the sight of jagged scratch marks scarring the surface of her kitchen table. In numb recognition, she glanced at her raw nails, pink and dotted with beads of red where the skin had torn. Overcome with a crazed desperation, she stripped off her dress and kicked off her heels, eventually standing in front of her bathroom mirror, wearing nothing but a pair of widened eyes. She scrutinized her pale skin and yanked on the shower handle, pushing it all the way to the right. The scalding water pricked her skin and a cloud of humidity rose around her. She rubbed furiously at her body and the intruder that she knew slowly sank into the pores of her being. She scratched and doused until her limbs cried red tears. Soon, she had a new type of intruder and they wet the edges of her eyes. Crying out in agony, she yanked the wet strands of her hair and pushed the temperature handle completely to the left. The change in temperature fell over her in big waves, chilling her body until she truly could not feel a thing. Her arms and hands, did not have a single hand print or mark except for the ones she inflicted on herself. But when her eyes slid over her body, all she could see were his fingernails, scraping her skin and the hands that spread around the front of her body. She fought the urge to vomit when she thought about what his eyes looked like on that day. Were they hazy with the burning forgetfulness of alcohol? Did they have the cool, calculated stare of a murderer? Were they filled with dirty lust, drinking in the sight of her unconscious, naked body? When the water trickled to a stop, she stumbled to the white tiles of the back wall and slid down to the ground. She pressed her knees to her chest, quietly wrapped her fingers around her quivering knees, and rested her frozen chin the backs of her hands. Her periodic gasps from the frosty air echoed around the cloudy walls of the shower. So Marcia Edwards sat on the floor of her shower, shivering and alone until she could not hear the birds singing anymore. 

Lost in the dark,

Tangled in silken threads,

Held captive by your hushed breath.

I, a drunken swan,

Lost in gilded pools with no end and no beginning,

Tangled in sinister oil,

Held captive by a stilled heartbeat.

Bound with nothing more than our locked eyes,

Our repressed agonies,

Your bright teeth.

We were both silenced with a rusted finger,

but that does not make us the same.

It saddens me to think

that two beings can lose themselves in each other.

And in doing so,

Fail to remember that oil and water do not mix.

So I wonder,

Did the oil dampen the swan's feathers?

Or did she leap,

plunging into morbid freedom,

Held captive by her own will,

mesmerized by the translucent colors that flashed across the water's face?

What did she see when she broke the surface?

         Delilah and Peter kissed each other on the cheek and turned their respective backs to face each other. It was midnight and they were half-tucked in their bed, both of them completely awake. It was her fifth birthday--would've been--her fifth birthday. And by her it could've been Molly, Susanna, Lily, or Billy (courtesy of Peter). Delilah scrunched her eyelids shut and whispered a sigh. She could almost feel her in her tummy, separated by the thin membrane of skin, sleeping just inches below her own heart. She placed a hand over her stomach and forced herself to exhale, to quiet each beat until she could feel as cold as she did that day. The day she saw the only life she would hold above everyone else's mix with soap suds and seep down their shower drain. 

         It got easier as the years went on, and time occasionally dulled the pain. But today, it was different. When they repositioned themselves in their bed, Peter pulled the blankets up to his chin. Switched to the other side of his pillow. Kicked his pillow off the bed and slept on his clasped hands. 

They didn't talk about it after the incident. That day, Peter found her kneeling naked in the shower staring blankly at the drain, pruney hands clenched in fists. He didn't stumble or scream--just led Delilah to their bed and pulled the covers up to her chin. 

She said she was fine the next day. 

They didn't try for another Molly or Susanna or Lily or Billy ever again. But they also never touched her room. They left the room--the shrine--as a reminder of the heartbreak they were never to speak of and the pain they wanted to silence. Tonight, though, determined to speak about the subject they had been dodging for years, Peter opened his mouth.

 "Delilah?"

"Hmm?"

She wouldn't look at him.

"Would you ever want to go in there together?"

Peter could feel her body freeze up beside him.

Then it released.

"Go in where?"

Peter got ready to respond but was soon interrupted by the ring of the doorbell. 

Confused, they switched on their lamp lights and looked at each other. 

"At this time of night, who would come to our house?" Delilah asked. 

Peter shook his head and shrugged his shoulders. 

So Peter and Delilah (in their night robes) tiptoed past her room, down the stairs and to the door. Slowly, Delilah unlocked the door and swung it open with shaking hands. They stared at it in confusion, worry, awe, surprise and a million other emotions that could do nothing to describe what they were feeling in that exact moment. But what they didn't expect is that it would stare back. And talk. 

"Oogle bwah!" It screamed with excitement. 

Peter scratched his head. 

Because this wasn't a Molly, Susanna, Lily or Billy. 

This was the baby of a stranger, a baby without a mother, a baby that was currently pulling on Peter's beard and tickling his nose. 

"Oh Pete, what do we do?" Delilah said as she took the trespasser in her arms. 

Staring down at the baby of a stranger, a baby that took refuge in someone else's belly, all she could think of was her. 

But then its chubby hands grabbed the pads of her fingers 

And the kicking in her belly stopped. 

Scanning the streets one last time, Peter and Delilah and him went inside the house. 

It was 12:30 am. Delilah and Peter kissed each other and him on the cheek and fell promptly asleep. 

You are generous.

You are the most generous person i know.

You give & give & give & give & give & give & give & give & give & give & give & give & give & give & give & give & give

And give.

i open the present you give me every day and

Relish it,

Savor it,

Long for it,

Every second of every minute,

Every hour of every day,

Every day of every year,

You give me pain.

i say to you,

I don’t want your present anymore.

You smile and

i unwrap another bow.

You've always liked oranges. Liked the briny scent of the rind and the feeling of piercing its waxy flesh. 

She liked them too, not that you care.

Because deep, deep down, 

You know that something like that wouldn't have stopped you from what you were doing. 

Her middle name was Lily. 

She liked Titanic but hated Leonardo Dicaprio. 

She loved lucky charms and felt guilty whenever she snuck downstairs to eat them. 

Her favorite color was lilac purple. 

Her parents used to call her their little flower. 

She used to have a stuttering problem and whenever she started to stutter, she would whistle through the pauses until she could speak in whole words. 

Her eyes crinkled up at the corners whenever she smiled. 

She liked oranges. 

And you did too, 

which was probably why you both hit it off so well. 

Of all of the places to meet the love of your life, who would've thought that the grocery aisle would be the origin of your love story? That you would meet the love of your life while picking oranges? 

Except you weren't her lover, were you?

No one thought anything of it, at first. 

Neither did she. 

It was a simple gesture, 

A single orange from a kind stranger, 

greeting her with a smile every morning when she went to fetch the mail. 

Except that smile soon turned to a dark grin 

and after a while, 

she couldn't walk out to her car without her hands shaking or her eyes frantically scanning the space around her, looking for other eyes that might be tasting her neck, slowly tearing her clothes off, watching the cadence of her footsteps.

At least you were careful. 

You never parked your car out front, where she could see you with her panicked eyes. 

That day, you thought it was finally time to give her the gift of knowing who her orange admirer was. 

She was in her driveway, watching you with cautious eyes, a tentative smile perched on her lips. 

It fell and was soon covered by a shaking hand

When you proudly presented her with your final gift, 

a single orange. 

You didn't even know why she did what she did, 

All you knew was that you were angry. 

The orange in your hand was soon crushed by your fist and the juices dripped down your wrist, splattering over concrete. 

Her eyes widened with shock and fear and a million other expressions 

but yours only had one: revenge. 

When you were done, you drove away from that house, 

revenge replaced with empty satisfaction,

the air around you infused with the fruity smell of your hands. 

You didn't buy an orange from another grocery store ever again.  

Three years later, you eat lunch outside with one of your coworkers. 

He takes out two oranges. 

The citrus scent blinds you and for a moment, you can almost feel her fear on your hands and in your body, stolen and devoured greedily. You can almost see the blood dripping down your hands, iron mixed with innocent sweetness. 

You lick your lips. 

"Hey, you want one?"

You look up. 

Your friend has an orange in one hand, ready to toss it to you. 

You hesitate.

"Yeah, thanks."

He throws it to you and the orange is in your hands, 

beautiful, delicious, and wonderful to destroy.