87 Votes
1265
Views
Views
Chapter 9:- Chapter 9
The thing about other worlds and other planes of space is that you can be right in them and never realize it.
Connie is shocked, stumbles to the wall, holds on to the tea rose pattern. She touches the tips of her brown hair self consciously, as though someone might be watching. She peeks behind the shower curtain. She even lifts up the toilet seat. She sits where David had sat, just minutes before, before he got up, walked towards her and then disappeared.
It is in these moments that we perhaps have to make a decision: do we mind death, if that is what this is? Are we frightened that no one will ever see us again, or are we frightened of not ever seeing anyone else again? Confusion. Sadness. Denial and bewilderment.
The black bag is on the floor, dead center, looking ominous. When David disappeared, it had fallen there, as though David took its power with it and now it was just an innocent bag. Connie knows better, as she is adept at sensing when something seems OK and it is not.
Connie picks up the bag, careful to not peer into its open top. She holds it at arms length as if it is a bomb or rotting animal. She carries the bag into her bedroom, places it on the bed, and considers her options.
1 – open bag. Disappear.
2- forget about David and his beautiful girlfriends and nice hands.
3 – no one will ever know. No one will ever know. This decision, that decision, it doesn’t matter.
Mrs. Erick would cry a little, her tears would make roads down her heavy makeup. But then, as we all do, she would move on. Say “that Connie ran off with that dirty boy to do dirty things, surely. She gets what she deserves.” Mrs. Erick’s belly would feel warm at the thought of this, the way that happiness grows from the bottom of us, up. Mrs. Erick would say this same thing to her pancaked friends. They would nod their heads and say, “yes, yes,” as if Mrs. Erick just became a spiritual counselor for the bereaved.
When Connie was eight years old, her father sneaked into her bedroom and raped her. These facts are evident to her still, and yet, not. This is the way she lives, knowing and yet still continuing to live. The days move slower than normal for her. She does not believe in the existence of people as most of us do. That we have a head for a reason, legs for a reason, a heart for a purpose. Connie pulls her body up in the morning like an endangered bird. She eats as if she can eat forever, but chooses not to, what’s the point? She hugs people, but her hugs always seem at the edge of touching. Touching someone’s shoulder to her chin like a wasp might do. As if to say, “I live life quietly because there is nothing else I can do, but I could kill you if I wanted.”
Connie goes downstairs and finds Mrs. Erick asleep on the leather chair in the living room. Her hair looks like a helmet. Connie grazes her fingers over Mrs. Erick’s fingers. She meant to say “goodbye,” perhaps, but Mrs. Erick begins to snore and Connie is reminded that Mrs. Erick is just an animal, like any of us.
Connie slowly walks upstairs. This is a day like any other day. Her socks touch the carpet. It feels real, but also like a coiled snake. She remembers once, David tried to explain to her that everything in life contains something terrible. That a dog’s brain can go awry, the dog you had for years and loved and gave half of your lunch every day. It can decide to bite out your throat in your sleep. The pollinating bees in your backyard that help your flowers live, they can hear you breathe.
Connie holds her breath as she opens the door, holds her breath as she comes to the edge of the bed, holds her breath as she bends her body like a weed to peer inside the black bag. And then Connie, also, disappears.
The thing about other worlds and other planes of space is that you can be right in them and never realize it.
Connie is shocked, stumbles to the wall, holds on to the tea rose pattern. She touches the tips of her brown hair self consciously, as though someone might be watching. She peeks behind the shower curtain. She even lifts up the toilet seat. She sits where David had sat, just minutes before, before he got up, walked towards her and then disappeared.
It is in these moments that we perhaps have to make a decision: do we mind death, if that is what this is? Are we frightened that no one will ever see us again, or are we frightened of not ever seeing anyone else again? Confusion. Sadness. Denial and bewilderment.
The black bag is on the floor, dead center, looking ominous. When David disappeared, it had fallen there, as though David took its power with it and now it was just an innocent bag. Connie knows better, as she is adept at sensing when something seems OK and it is not.
Connie picks up the bag, careful to not peer into its open top. She holds it at arms length as if it is a bomb or rotting animal. She carries the bag into her bedroom, places it on the bed, and considers her options.
1 – open bag. Disappear.
2- forget about David and his beautiful girlfriends and nice hands.
3 – no one will ever know. No one will ever know. This decision, that decision, it doesn’t matter.
Mrs. Erick would cry a little, her tears would make roads down her heavy makeup. But then, as we all do, she would move on. Say “that Connie ran off with that dirty boy to do dirty things, surely. She gets what she deserves.” Mrs. Erick’s belly would feel warm at the thought of this, the way that happiness grows from the bottom of us, up. Mrs. Erick would say this same thing to her pancaked friends. They would nod their heads and say, “yes, yes,” as if Mrs. Erick just became a spiritual counselor for the bereaved.
When Connie was eight years old, her father sneaked into her bedroom and raped her. These facts are evident to her still, and yet, not. This is the way she lives, knowing and yet still continuing to live. The days move slower than normal for her. She does not believe in the existence of people as most of us do. That we have a head for a reason, legs for a reason, a heart for a purpose. Connie pulls her body up in the morning like an endangered bird. She eats as if she can eat forever, but chooses not to, what’s the point? She hugs people, but her hugs always seem at the edge of touching. Touching someone’s shoulder to her chin like a wasp might do. As if to say, “I live life quietly because there is nothing else I can do, but I could kill you if I wanted.”
Connie goes downstairs and finds Mrs. Erick asleep on the leather chair in the living room. Her hair looks like a helmet. Connie grazes her fingers over Mrs. Erick’s fingers. She meant to say “goodbye,” perhaps, but Mrs. Erick begins to snore and Connie is reminded that Mrs. Erick is just an animal, like any of us.
Connie slowly walks upstairs. This is a day like any other day. Her socks touch the carpet. It feels real, but also like a coiled snake. She remembers once, David tried to explain to her that everything in life contains something terrible. That a dog’s brain can go awry, the dog you had for years and loved and gave half of your lunch every day. It can decide to bite out your throat in your sleep. The pollinating bees in your backyard that help your flowers live, they can hear you breathe.
Connie holds her breath as she opens the door, holds her breath as she comes to the edge of the bed, holds her breath as she bends her body like a weed to peer inside the black bag. And then Connie, also, disappears.
