By, Ashley Ellen
Chapter 1
Nothing happens in the order you expect it to. Most of the time you aren’t even ready for it when it does. But how can you be? You can’t. I’ve decided. I always thought I would eventually get hit by a bus. I thought about that every day. While thinking about that, I’ve almost gotten hit by a bus at least three times. I’ve also never wanted to drown. To hold my breathe until I could hold my breathe no longer, to give up and choke on the sea. That’d be an awful way to go. No one drowned. Well people drown every day. But I don’t know them. Not personally. Though burning is really not much better.
I was at my coffee shop two days ago. Well it’s not my coffee shop exactly, but it could’ve been. I’ve been there a few times. It’s on 36th and Bryant, which is two streets south and seven streets west of my house. My neighbor walked by, stopping in front of the window I always sit at. He was talking to a couple on the patio. I noticed he was wearing a yellow sweatshirt and was lugging a red gas can in his right arm. I’ve never seen him venture to the likes of my coffee shop. He was at least six blocks from his house next to the bus stop.
I was surrounded by noise. I think there was a fire truck. I didn’t know she ever took the bus. Or maybe she was contemplating Colorado. Who knew the blanket was drying because it was covered in gasoline. No one could have known that.
You would be such a bitch to scratch on my door. I have this damn cat. She’s all about herself. And me. She has to be wherever I am. But the thing is, we have two other cats. And they have to be wherever I am. See, they don’t all get along. It’s a growing problem. No, an increasing problem. A problem on the rise. Well, whatever it was, my sleep loss was intensifying and had been since the appearance of those two cats. Coincidence? No. In fact, if you want to know, I think it’s been their fault from the start.
Five minutes ago I got up to take a shower. That is, my alarm rang for me to get up, even though I had never actually gone to sleep. I walked down the hall to the bathroom. My left eye twitched. When I looked into the mirror and realized I had showered less than 14 hours ago, I reconsidered. I did, however proceed to urinate. In the toilet. Of course in the toilet. Which then, accounted for my realization that I had forgotten to replace the toilet paper, as I had earlier noticed, when I considered which would be worse, the guilt of leaving only two squares, or the physical effort to reach across the hallway for a new roll. To my luck – I was the fated victim of my neglect. As I carefully stood to retrieve a new roll, you can understand the carefulness that would be necessary in such a task; while I exposed the toilet seat, I noticed the tiniest of our cats eying the toilet bowl from above. It is often that she does this. I’ve frequently wondered what would happen if she fell in, but, being that I hadn’t slept at all and being that I wouldn’t have any more time to sleep today, I decided that I didn’t feel like cleaning up a piss covered cat, as humorous as it would, indeed, be.
So I brushed my teeth and looked in the mirror and realized something. It was the present. Well now it’s the past, but at that moment it was very pivotally the present. And when you think about it, we are all fictional characters. We decide our destiny every goddamn day. Someone ought to give us a Nobel prize when real life actually seems as realistic as it does in books. And then I thought, I should be writing this down. This is the great American Novel. Which brings me back to the point I was making a few minutes ago when I decided to write this down and when I opened a blank page, I realized I had several other unfinished stories as well. I even had files of stories, unfinished.
And today, I decided, I would write them. This was the day that I was going to do things. The first day. Of hopefully many. Today, I was a finisher. Today, I would get things done. And I did. From that point on I was alive and everything around me was part of the story.
I will never look in a mirror again. Strangely, that made me happy.
There was just a really loud noise outside the door. And the medium sized cat went to inspect the situation.
I forgot to mention that a very important person was on their way out of my life. And for some reason, we both knew it had to be that way. I also forgot to mention, one very important thing, well two things. One - that it was written on my hand in pen so that I wouldn’t forget it. And two. Well I forgot what two was. Damnit what was two? Oh, I had a very important thing to tend to at 8:15. To get there in time, I would need to leave at 7:15. It’s 7:00 now. Oh, I’m also supposed to remember an umbrella. And my pills, which I forgot to take yesterday. And my computer. And the cord. And those four books. And don’t forget to feed the cats! Oh, but I forgot that last night I noticed their food bowl had gone missing, and I never did find it. Well. Wherever it’s gone it must have been for a good reason. I was hungry too. If I don’t leave right now, I’d miss the bus. And I didn’t.
I have seven minutes.
And it was still dark out. Was I dreaming? No I was not. Don’t forget the umbrella. And it began. The last day. This was the most pivotal day of my life. The weird thing was, I knew it. But I couldn’t remember what happened. My head was crowded.
You probably want to know what happened. Well, I don’t remember exactly. But I think the streets were crowded. I could smell gas. The tree was on fire on the 34th street. Everything was faint and shaded. I could hear kids everywhere, a police officer shouted. I recognized the voice. I think I had seen him last night at the gas station.
A random few of us were admiring a drunk kid asleep in a pile of rocks. He had stumbled from a parked taxi. “I’ll take two of whatever he had.” The gas station attendant pounded the officer’s fist in agreement. Two of the kid’s friends cajoled on their way out after buying some cigarettes.
“Is he with you?” The officer pointed to the drunk kid.
“I guess he upgraded from the cab!” The young man’s chest was 1/2 exposed beneath his pink and black striped button-up.
“Can we take a picture with you?” The girl shoved her purple camera into the officers hand. Her makeup was smeared all over her goddamn face. I cracked open an energy drink and bent to put the other one in my backpack, I would need it tomorrow. I looked ahead and saw the driver who was parked in front of the drunk kid, laughing. He turned his lights on, blinding the boy, who didn’t even stir. The smudgy faced girl ran around the station, getting pictures with every type of minority she could find. It was a goddamn Monday night. I was on my way home to write a very important paper on Goodman Brown. The class was very important to me. I had already written most of it, but grammar was imperative, and I needed all night to rid mine of its poorness. That’s why the energy drink was necessary. But then I realized how much more exciting the scene at the gas station was. So I kept watching, as if it were a staged performance.
A nice young man commented on my hat. I’ve never been afraid of getting mugged or kidnapped or raped at night. I walk around dark neighborhoods and downtown quite often, being that I work until midnight twice a week. For some reason, I’m very trusting. I just don’t think I’ll go like that. My detachment from reality is bound to bite me sooner.
I’ve always wanted to learn brail. I’m very tactile.
Umbrella! Don’t forget your umbrella! Though I only had seven minutes, I found it still very important to consider my food choices for the day. Two days ago, I spent $102 on food. I am one person. I grabbed the only ready-made things I could think of – an organic blueberry cereal bar and a pack of dried mangoes.
“Is anyone sitting here?”
“No.” She sat down. I guess the attractive, intellectual male that I caught a glance of, had left, though we sat for about an hour together in that book store without speaking, or even acknowledging each others presence. The girl that sat down was Asian. I’d seen her before. I knew I recognized her red purse from somewhere.
In my left hand was a warm energy drink that was half full, the one that had kept me up all night. I reached into the fridge to grab the other and threw it quickly in my bag. My hands were shaking. It was 7:18. Shit. I hurried for the door.
I’ve always been terrified about the possibility of going blind. To not be able to see the sky ever again, to never see the seasons change, or see the vast array of the color green.
A tree clawed the roof of the bus. When I sat down I knew my energy drink was going to spill in my lap like a pee stain, but I left it there, wedged between my legs. I furiously wrote, trying to forget nothing. Please don’t sit by me. Thank God.
I walked down the aisle to my seat.
She looked dead. It was the lighting.
Don’t sit by me, please.
That neighbor of mine talked to me at the bus stop. He had seen a movie about religion. He told me I should see it. A documentary. With Bill Maher. I forget his name. My neighbors.
Please don’t let him see me. A car honked in his direction. I pretended not to hear. I resisted to look. I succeeded.
“Did you have a good weekend?” Damnit.
It wasn’t that I didn’t want to talk to him. He was a nice guy.
It wasn’t that I didn’t want them to sit by me. I just wanted my privacy. Although after a minute or two, I was usually glad that they we had talked.
I had skipped down the street earlier. Noticing the sticky fog that covered everything. It covered the round school. I lived in a neighborhood where my street and the street the Spanish people live on – is divided by a road block.
Every time I get near the last street before the bus stop, I feel relieved, seeing people waiting. That meant I had not missed the bus yet. But it’s an illusion. There are no people. It’s a mailbox. Today I noticed that the mailbox is shaped like a barn.
Please don’t sit by me.
Next to the barn was a blanket on a fence, it was old and pale blue and from a distance it looked like a Scare Crow. Next to the tree was a gas can. What weird people. And it was hazy and orange outside. And I was making all of this happen. I controlled everything. I didn’t want her to move out. But I did. I knew they were fighting, though not in Spanish, I think the whole neighborhood knew. I didn’t do anything. I played dumb. In fact I pretended I hadn’t heard a thing. My music was too loud. I was really busy. Must I take care of everything? No. I left that to fate. Fate chose Laurel. I had nothing to do with it. And fate chose Carlie. Carlie chose Matilda – that’s the little cat – but it was me that didn’t stop her from getting Hansel – he’s the fat one. I was really opposed to that. But I said, “Oh, sure, if the vet says it’s a good idea, then sure.” I let that happen. I chose my destiny.
I ran out the door. Was it raining? No. It was not. I damn near decapitated those beasts when they tried to escape out the door, but I was not successful. No. I was not.
I had forgotten that I had cut out this article for Laurel about a little boy who was fighting City Hall to keep his pet chickens. City Hall told him, “If we let you have a pet chicken, everybody’s going to want a pet chicken.” The boy remarked, that in fact “he knew of no one else that would want a pet chicken.” He was a smart little boy. And I was so moved by his passion in my vitamin enhanced state, that I post-it noted the article, with little arrows pointing to the funny parts. Laurel said she missed me lately. I left the article on the counter for her.
The school was so close to that bus stop.
My phone is ringing. Fuck. It’s seven thirty fucking seven. Who the hell calls at 7:37 in the morning? I couldn’t find it. It was set to the loudest setting so I wouldn’t sleep through any of my three alarms. Everyone was staring at me. It was Laurel. I was on a bus. I couldn’t talk now. Maybe she was calling about the article. They were really cute chickens.
You see, she’s really into animals. She’s an accountant converted, mammalogist – in training.
I had a message.
I’m opening my second energy drink, there’s a sign in front of me that says, “EMERGENCY EXIT ONLY.” In a book store - is that really necessary? The Asian girl had coffee from Starbucks. She turned to look at me when I cracked the can open. It was a very quiet book store. And you know how people feel about liquids and books.
So she is basically obsessed with animals. She really likes them. A lot. I think, more than people. In fact, the reason that Maddy, the one that had denounced our family, well, the reason she is moving out is because of Laurel. She claims it is because she would under no circumstance say that it is not unreasonable for Laurel to keep a squirrel in the house. Even if that squirrel were in a cage. Or injured. Or about to be released back into the wild. No circumstance. She really wanted Laurel to know that. It was really important to her. To which, Laurel shrieked that a person that inconsiderate to animals was undoubtedly out of her mind, and in fact the coldest person alive. You know, I don’t think they were talking about the squirrel at all. But I can’t be sure on the wording, because I had my door closed, my head phones were on, and I was deeply engrossed in deciphering the nature of the human heart in Young Goodman Brown. I didn’t even hear the cats scratching at the door. In fact.
The bus stopped outside my coffee shop on campus. It was in the bowels of a glass cube and it faced the promise of the city. There was a man wearing a top hat. It had a green ribbon wrapped around it and some sort of pattern. I looked closer. It was a pattern of Marvin the fucking Martian. Good God. What was it, 1993? No. It definitely was not. Bite Me. A bus passed with an advertisement for chocolate.
I’m sitting under a tree. My energy drink did not spill on my lap. My phone vibrated to remind me for the eighth time – I had a message.
My gland is throbbing.
I remembered I had emailed my professor last night, around 3:36 in the morning. He told us on the first day of class that all he reads these days are airplane novels, as he calls them, because he commutes across the country every week, because he does not want to give up his cushy job, he says. And he flies back each weekend to see his wife. That’s nice. His wife, who if I can recall correctly, is never moving back to this hell hole because it is too, goddamn, fucking cold here, I’m paraphrasing.
A man in a yellow sweatshirt was standing above me on the street. Snapping his fingers.
“My tree is on fire! Are you okay?” I think the street was crowded I heard all sorts of people. They were screaming in different languages. I heard a bell ring and children laughing and screaming. I remember hearing something crackling. And heat.
I emailed him because I read one of the three poems he assigned, that was by… what was her name? Just check the damn book- Helen C- okay. Relax. I think it was page 239? No – but strangely– that page is near the end of Young Goodman Brown, a story I had just written a very important paper on two days ago – the night that this all began – the night I retreated into hell – full well knowing that two people I cared about were screaming right outside my door. My landlord was trying to sleep. And god forbid, the poor cats. I wondered if the bitches on the third floor could hear too. Maybe Brit would come down and call us all “Son of a cocks.” Maybe she felt bad about that. But I turned up my music and stared into hell, unblinking. That was the night I lied and said I didn’t hear them. The night I left it all up to fate.
I drank what was left of my warm energy drink. I glanced at a line on the page by accident. It read, “it was not strange to see, that good shrank not from the wicked, nor were the sinners abashed by the saints.”
The markets have been falling. We’re heading into the second great depression faster than we collapsed into the first one. The weird thing is, I’m excited about it. Great tragedy makes life seem more real. And it does. It really does.
I have yet to acknowledge verbally or electronically that I am aware that Maddy is moving out. She never told me specifically. I’m avoiding it altogether. Outright. I happen to like squirrels. I do. You know, if they weren’t so timid, I would hug one right now. But apparently, according to Laurel, aside from being timid, they are actually quite vicious. Her arms are covered with terrible scratches from working at the Wildlife Rehabilitation Center. But she would rather tend to harmed rodents than people, hands down. In fact, I believe Maddy said, she had to choose the squirrel or her. She obviously chose the squirrel.
It looked like rain. I had forgotten my umbrella when I stopped at home. The energy drinks had warn off. All I was thinking about was coffee. It seemed too hot out for the season so I sat inside. The second I walked through the door, it started pouring rain.
I’m going to miss her though. Maddy. She regularly bought 24 packs of toilet paper and always had a stock of quarters on hand, among other things – last night before she came home, I wandered into her room, stole (borrowed) two quarters, a handful of candy corns and three sheets of printer paper. Mine ran out. And it was important. I had to print the paper on Goodman Brown. The paper is one fourth of my grade. It was to be three pages long, 12 pt., Times New Roman, double-spaced, with one inch margins. There could be no weak verbs. No is, no are, no was, no were, no be, no been, and no being. No past. I’m sorry Shakespeare. To exist or not to exist, that remained the question. “I ran out of paper” is not a good enough excuse. There are high expectations in this class. And that was not something I wanted to let drop over three sheets of paper. Had I not stolen (borrowed) a few sheets, I wouldn’t have been able to print it at all. Being that Maddy had about ten thousand sheets. I was, to be, for at least one more day.
On my hand were three different inks. The first inscribed, “PAPER” the second said “UMBRELLA” the third said “READ” I was determined not to forget. It was very important that I not forget. I made sure that every ounce of my effort was consumed in remembering those things. Class – in ten minutes. It’ll take you five to get there – I hadn’t read the other two poems yet. I was still thinking about the poem on page 738 – which I wrote – but said in my head – 378 – nope. Wrong. It was on page 789. Note: assess number correlation later.
I immediately felt rain. Thank God I could feel something. I’ll never carry an umbrella again.
Helen Chasin – Joy Sonnet in a Random Universe: I emailed Joel, who’s grading me on more than grammar, that this was the favorite poetry I had ever read. “Sometimes I’m happy… lalalalala… Whack a doo … dum di dum.” This made me realize, I wasn’t crazy. I’ve thought that exact sonnet so many times before – not in a square, per-say – like Helen – but in that moment – in the eternal present of the written word – we were eternal – Helen and I – we were eternally present – tense. We were one. As one becomes one with another in reading.
8:09
I hope he appreciated that.
Must go. Very important! That I turn in the paper! On the devil! REMEMBER YOUR UMBRELLA!
It’s funny how we associate memories with colors and images.
It wasn’t even raining. The sky was just spitting from every direction. The Umbrella was useless. But with it, I didn’t have to look at people’s faces.
<<insert hand written part of story>>
There’s a 2009 wall calendar of Bunny Suicides. There’s a 2009 wall calendar of Stuff on my cat. There’s a 2009 wall calendar of the Planet Earth, entitled, Our Dumb World. There’s The Crack Calendar of 2009 and another, called, the Wheel of Time. This is a store that sells the future to walls, three months before it happens. Maybe they’re just preparing ahead for the rush. What I really want to know is – why the fuck Calendars start in January. The dead of Winter. Is that really the beginning of the year? I thought time froze at those temperatures. Who the hell likes to get a Calendar for Christmas anyways? I was in a bookstore. There was no other damn place to sit down and get anything done. Outside the store, it was spewing with people. It was genuinely disgusting. But now, I was tucked secretly in a make believe happy place with all the knowledge in the world surrounding me. That’s actually kind of scary. Well it wasn’t exactly, imposing itself on me or anything. It was similar to nature. Simply there for a succinct purpose. When I chose to notice it. I found out that, oh, it’s always that fantastical.
<<insert hand written portion>>
A Passive Approach to Passive Voice
By, Emily Gaul
Well, Sir, I must have been ill the week we learned Passive voice in seventh-or-whatever-grade-it-was, because I have found that my writing is ill with it. I’ve also found that there are quite a damn many ridiculous amount of complex uses of the thing. Though Diana Hacker is our heroine, even she could not help me. What then did I do but turn to Wikipedia, which further defined a multitude of complex uses such as canonical, object promoting, content clause promoting, stative, adjectival, double passive, past participle alone, reflexive, and not to mention the gerunds and the nominalization passives. This made my head hurt something awful. So I went to the praised Strunk & White. And blast! Nothing has confused me more. My next stop, Spunk & Bite, a contemporary book on style, did not even mention the word. Last stop. Alas, the writing center at the University of North Carolina at Chapel Hill’s online guide to passive voice sprayed a little Pledge on the mat of dust. After reading their guidelines, which I will expound on momentarily, I decided to do you a favor. I will learn these rules for you. But, I will also say this: even after reading those rules, this remains to be the structure of my thoughts, wait—breathe for a moment—for fiction writing. Because, well, I find it most telling of character to express ones thoughts truly. And, I hope for myself and every character I give life to—to have problems—grammatically, mentally, and I suppose physically. It makes them, and myself, more human. And don’t worry. This is not the half page I’m writing on passive voice. This is merely for me and you to use to try and analyze which of these sentences is passive, what type of passive, and why? And I don’t think this can be solved in half a page. So maybe, for you to help me, you could note, here, the rules I’m breaking. And I can re-write them, all proper and stripped of life. And it will be a happy, happy, world. Because then, people will be able to understand me. Maybe. Or in the least, grammatically. For hope, flip page. For relief of anger, tear to shards. For vengeance, burn. For the ironic passive aggressive approach, put in drawer, or bury in yard. For spite, mail to parents. Mine, not yours. Unless, maybe your parents need some spiting. My cat just vomited a hairball on my bed. I think she’s on your side. You know what, just turn the page, and this will all be over.
An excerpt from my mandatory essay on the difference of effect and affect:
The effects of sleep loss affect my mood. The effect of the medicine will affect my alertness. If I don’t get any sleep, my grades will see the effect. A good tool to remember the difference is that, something causes an effect, whereas an effect affects an emotion, such as affection. The professor’s will for the girl to understand passive voice affected her writing substantially. The girl will put the knowledge into effect immediately. It took eight hours for her to learn two remedial rules of grammar. But her effort pleased the professor. Though, she actually seemed quite unsure if she grasped the previous concept at all. We will likely find out soon enough.
Chapter 2
I’m sitting under a tree.
I’m half awake
but I’m mostly asleep.
I’m sitting in a different chair.
Three nights, two sleepless
And I’m neither here nor there.
I’m sitting under a tree.
The sky looks at me and it
Might as well see.
I’m sleeping under
this goddamn tree.
I’m awake now. I like this tree. I really do. And I like iron. And I like wine. And I like them best together. 7:44, 7:48, this morning. I usually take the bus, unless I miss it. I missed it this morning. I wonder if my neighbor was concerned. On the way I heard two good songs that I need to look up. Nik Freitas. Sun down. Peter Yarrow. Weave me the sunshine. I’m an aggressive driver. The sun was shining on my future, I thought. Or possibly the present. I wasn’t sure. The sun was in my eyes. I considered seventeen times, almost crashing. Because I couldn’t see. Because I was tired. Because there were so many lanes and I needed to get into the right one. Everyone was speeding around me so fast I could barely get through.
Remember the girl with the brown plastic bag boots. The most hideous boots ever. They looked like a goddamn Halloween costume. If you’re going to wear boots, at least get real ones. Plastic is not at all the same as leather. It’s okay to kill animals, sometimes. Depending. Laurel says road kill is just modern evolution. She also says that abortion should be illegal, that way, human evolution would continue.
Nothing happens ever happens at 3:00, usually. Except for today.
A name. More poetry. Great poetry. We’ll discuss soon. I knew I shouldn’t have second guessed the mittens today. No one had ever noticed the double meaning of falsehood; though worlds of wanwood leafmeal lie. Gerard sprang and fell. One hundred and twenty eight years ago. And it’s still the blight of man. My hands are often cold. You know, that egg salad was savory. If the ninety fifth floor could meet you at ground level, all would weep, and still, none would know why the leaves fall. Thou, paw, paw, paw; thou, izbizby; thou, sail ships that pass our bodies in the grass under this tree. The same tree as two days ago. But I am no longer the same person. I’m surrounded by china dolls. I really am. Deficits. Lets bless. Everything is perfect. Her hair is red. But not kinked so tightly it’s crisp. Her name is not Kate. They’re taking a picture. To share. The tree is in the picture. It’s plenty sufficient for them to meet. They’re talking about aesthetics and a fellowship. This was the first time they met. She gave her a business card. She wore a red coat and had a red purse. They’re lucky. I always wanted to be Asian. The blue sky is shelled in by thinly stretched cotton. I can easily imagine looking in from space. Sometimes it’s not so much my imagination. I really can look in. I can. Sweet, grasshopper eyes. Calm. Reflexive. Take someone’s hand. Everything has changed. There comes the sun. It’s gone. That quickly. The shadows followed me this morning. They were so tall. Some streamed past me on bikes and mopeds. I swallowed and wondered why the girl with the red purse was looking at the ground. Was she shy? And then I was looking at the ground, to keep the wind out of my eyes. The sky is really convex today.
How did I do that?
Under the tree. Everything is straightforward and I didn’t do anything. It was fate.
At around 1:00, I stopped home because I had forgotten my cord. As I left for the coffee shop, I passed the girl that lived upstairs who was having a cigarette and a very private phone conversation.
“Can I ask you something?” She looked at me, covering the receiver. Why was she talking to me? We hadn’t spoken since the day she stormed into my apartment and called my ex-boyfriend the biggest son of a cock she had ever met. He became my ex boyfriend because I realized I agreed with her. I’m not sure if that warrants forgiveness or not.
“Sure. What is it?”
“I just got an offer to move to Colorado until the spring. Should I do it?” She looked a little tipsy. She’s the only one in our apartment who drinks in the afternoon and smokes regularly, be it snowing, raining, even sleeting.
“What would you do out there?”
“I don’t know, snow board or something.” It seemed strange that she was asking me advice. We rarely talked. And when we did is was usually a formal “Hi” or a smile.
“Sure. I’d do it. Hell, you’re only young once.” She was 32. Single. And, secretly, I admired her.
“Thanks. I think I might.”
I walked off toward the coffee shop on 36th street in the shady afternoon. The faint light made the leaves appear an even brighter shade of ale. I purposely kicked them. It’s probably my favorite thing to do. I could smell cut grass. Half a block down, a bald man, mowing his lawn, was being interrupted by a drunk old chap in a black jersey that was much too small for his protruding white gut.
“Look at that little lady!”
“Hi.”
“That is the purdiest smile I’ve ever seen.”
“Thanks.”
“If I had more than one tooth, I’d smile just as big.”
Look at that. He had only one tooth, right in the middle, on his top row of gums. Maybe it was good for opening cans.
I smiled, unable to ignore the shouts of the men behind me, when I realized I almost stepped in front of a school bus. It grunted past me. The smell of gas reminded me of my childhood.
Yesterday, the fog lifted. I could feel everything. My arms tingled in existence, in awareness with the warmth of the afternoon. I haven’t felt that alive since I was a young girl. It’s strange. You’d think it’d be the opposite.
The bus. Watch out. Breathe.
I ran over a rabbit six months ago. We were on a road trip, Laurel and I and our friend Paul. I shouldn’t have been driving. I was only running on liquid energy. I hadn’t slept in 26 hours. Hopefully it died instantly. I’d want it to be instant.
I sat at my coffee shop contemplating the dim light outside. Everything sparkled as if underwater. The air picked up leaves and seeds and insects and twirled them in its weightlessness. Two weeks ago I went for a run down thirty sixth street to Peace Park and came across a willow tree. I could barely breathe. I sat underneath its canopy. The biggest weeping willow I had ever seen was in the backyard of my first house. It was probably because the oldest I ever was when I was under it was not yet five. It was a pale sea green, not aqua in any way. But a faint yellow, not an extravagant ivy or anything, but sea green. And the memory is faint with shade. But not darkness. It was just faint. And I oddly had no memory of light streaming through the tree. At that moment, two weeks ago, I knew why. Sitting under that tree, the light and the wind played with the curling leaves like a seaweed wind chime. Faint shade. I was under water.
This morning we finally ran out of toilet paper. I reached across the hall and grabbed a roll of paper towels. What else could I do? I’ll go to the store later.
I was running to the bus stop from the wrong direction. I had been at the coffee shop. The bus came at 3:02. It was 2:59. I slowed to a speed walk when I saw people waiting at the stop. The bus hadn’t come yet. It was an illusion. There was no one there. I saw Brit fumbling with a cigarette and a liter by the tree. I remembered the color red. Red. Red. Red. Red. Red. What was red? I saw her light the cigarette with a match, from across the street. The last thing I remember is the mail box that looked like a barn. I stepped off the curb. I saw a yellow sweatshirt. Red. Red. Red. Red. The blanket exploded. I was hit by a bus.
Chapter 3
“Are you in pain? Can you feel—”
“I can feel everything! Who are you? Where am I? Am I okay? Is she okay? Is she okay?”
“Is who okay? You’re going to be alright, mostly.”
Mostly. Mostly. What the fuck does mostly mean? My lungs clenched. I started sucking in air. There was nothing. I gasped and gasped and gasped.
“Stop that! Stop! You’re okay. Calm down! Nurse, she’s hyperventilating! Nurse!”
He tore the curtain open to my left, sending stale hospital air across my bandaged arms.
“Wait—where—where—wh—where are you going?”
I heaved and flailed, my entire face was bandaged, blocking out the light, the air was condensing and pressing in on me from every direction.
“Emily. Emily. You’re going to be okay. Breathe. I’m going to need you to breathe. I’m the nurse. My name is Mary. You’re panicking because—just breathe for me. I need you to breathe into—good job.”
“How—how—did I get here?”
“Do you remember what happened? There’s a man here that needs to ask you some questions. He says that he knows you. I assured him that he would wait until you were stable—”
“Stable? What’s—wh—wh—what’s wrong with me? Where—”
The nurse grasped my left arm, pricking it and releasing something cold into my veins.
“Please just rest. There’s a button here, on the left side of the bed, it’s this red—well it’s right here and you just page me in a little while. Just breathe okay, Emily? Can you do that for me?”
I clenched the bed and burrowed into the pillow. I wanted to cry but no tears would come. The sky had darkened and pushed itself into the room. Its weight blanketed everything.
“Emily? Can you try to rest for me?”
I couldn’t speak. My fists went limp.
“Just press the button—the red—the button—on the left—right here. Just relax.”
I felt like I was drifting into the bleak, dark nothingness of the universe. Or maybe just a coma. Wherever that place was, my mind did not want to leave it.