Lit

by C. B. Wiant

  I don’t move. And Onyx holds me tighter with each remark spoken.

  “It happened, Nix. It all happened,” he reassures.

  I clutch Onyx’s shirt’s neck hem in a grip so tight my nails leave half-moon imprints on my palm. Onyx anchors me to a reality that doesn’t recognize us, but he recognizes me. The Arena was real.

  My right butt cheek vibrates. The source is Onyx’s leg. He jumps at the second vibration and dumps me hard on the linoleum. I ripped his collar. His shirt has a deep V.

  “Aviana! Goodness! Onyx, now, what is going on? How do you have a phone?” Dr. Tillery flurries to my aid while Onyx shouts, “Yeah,” into his illegal cellular device.

  “Ok,” Onyx replies to whoever is on the other end of the cellular conversation. He looks down at me confused, why am I still on the ground? He rubs the triangle of exposed chest.

  “Good, thank you.” Onyx shoves his phone back in his pocket, grabs me by the wrist and launches me upright.

  The door opens.

  Dr. Ramona Morgan pops her head in, “Aviana are you ready to go?”

  25

  Sponsor

  Ramona’s house is an old farmhouse with a wraparound porch. It’s much too large for just her, but she plans on opening a portion of her house for in-house counseling and transition—a mental illness halfway-home. Until she’s able to operate as assisted living, she rents as bed-and-breakfast. My assigned room is on the connecting wall. Kneeling on the bed, I press my ear against the wall and listen for guests. I hear nothing.

  Knock, knock. Onyx’s knuckles rumble on the door.

  On the way here Onyx rode in the backseat of Ramona’s Civic completely consumed with his phone. Once Ramona and I left the confines of the vehicle for the structure of the farmhouse, he stayed outside bringing his phone to his ear instead of texting. Whatever was concerning him, he didn’t want to concern Ramona and me.

  The door is open. Onyx invites himself inside. “Would you like to go for a walk with me?” He asks.

  I separate my ear from the wall and jump off the bed. It squeaks and squawks as old wrought-iron beds do.

  As we depart the farmhouse, Ramona mentions ordering barbecue and requests us not to run off too far for too long. She hesitates with her hand raised as if she has one more thing to say. Yet she doesn’t, she simply waves us off. Her hesitancy lingers in her upper lip, the right side ticks higher, her dimple digs deeper.

  Outside, Onyx and I walk along the gravel lane. Ramona has no neighbors, only fields for miles. A smattering of homes are on the horizon. The houses look toy sized. I can pinch them between my finger and thumb.

  Onyx removes a small Altoids tin from his back pocket.

  “You haven’t caught fire since you’ve been back, have you?” He asks, popping the lid. I shake my head no; too distracted with the pomegranate shaped pills in the tin.

  “Nix. The same goes for this reality as it does for the Arena.”

  If that’s the case, I open my palm for a pill. He drops one pill—it lands in my palm like a grenade. I throw it in my mouth and crunch it down.

  “Breathe Nix, whatever coping you think you’re doing, you’re not fooling me.”

  I take a deep breath and exhale smoke like a train. I don’t ignite, but I release a stream of steam. I want to tell him I’m at seven on my scale.

  Onyx lets out a clogged breath, “I asked Dr. Morgan about your meds.”

  I snort because I begrudgingly take the mandated pills. My mouth is inspected to make sure I swallowed after each dosing.

  “She wouldn’t tell me much other than she is weening you off a few.” Onyx clutches the back of his neck. “Just be careful. The medications smother you. You’re still combustable, remember that. Trust Dr. Morgan to find a balance. You can’t go cold turkey on your pills. The withdrawals may fuck you up.”

  His hand drops.

  “I have to go back to the Arena. Dr. Morgan says she’ll continue transitioning you back to the public. I’ll be back in a few days.” Onyx closes the lid to the tin and hands it to me. “Take one once a day.” He shakes the tin, “These are like antidepressants. Taking multiple won’t make a difference. You can’t overdose and you won’t get high or feel any better.”

  I close the small tin in my hands and cling tight, too scared that the tin will disappear like last time.

  “Be good while I’m away ok?”

  “Stay alive,” I reply. Onyx smiles and walks down the street. I watch him fade away. I watch the sun fade away. I fade away until I slip away with the downpour of rain.

  Soggy and in need of a good wringing, I slop inside and strip with the intentions to shower and reacquaint myself with a razor. The psychiatric facility frowned upon anything sharp. I hide the Altoids tin between my soggy clothes. I’m naked when I walk into the kitchen to find not only Ramona, but Ramona and company.

  “Lady, where are your clothes?” A man’s voice asks. A blonde walks around the tall man.

  I point behind me because I can’t fathom words to comprehend how Giant and Genevieve are here. Genevieve screeches and races towards me. I’m pleased with the ambush but confused about the protocol.

  “Are you back for good now?” Genevieve asks into my neck.

  “I’m fine.”

  “Good.”

  Is it? Because it shouldn’t be this simple to not have to explain years of my life. Yet with Genevieve, it always has been. We shove our skeletons in our bulging closet and move on. Let it go. I’m here now. Me—my wiry pubic hair bush that could scrub like a stainless steel sponge, and my legs with hair long enough to braid—are all here and thoroughly welcomed.

  I dart up the stairs for a quick shower. I return in a pair of Ramona’s baggy sweats with letters scripted across my ass. We gather around the kitchen counter and eat wings and drink beer. No one addresses my disappearance. We slide into an easy surface-level friendship. I’m the guest at a family reunion. The lulls in the conversations are a lullaby. My eyes fight to stay open. The hoppy IPAs have me sluggish and heavy.

  We discuss Ben’s whereabouts. He’s a topic. Everyone loves Ben. Especially his third wife, whom he just recently married. Their families merged, Ben considers his wife’s three kids his own (in addition to the two children from his previous marriage). The happy family moved to Germany—Ben, Bridget (his wife), her children: Taylor, Thomas, and Renee, and his children: Ben Jr. and Beverly.

  We did not discuss Hudson. I knew better than to defer to Genevieve and Giant for an update. Ramona will eventually crack and give me information on her terms. For now, during conversational lags, we circle back to Ben, and each time we discuss him, one of his children has a different name. Taylor became Bailey. Renee is Amy. Genevieve and Ramona are drunk.

  “No, she didn’t,” Genevieve squeals.

  Ramona replies at a higher octive, “SHE DID!”

  I lean over to Giant, “Are they still talking about the women from New Jersey?”

  Giant shrugs, “There’s a Real Housewives for each city, who knows, I think—.” He stops speaking mid-sentence. He’s distracted by a boxing match on his phone. He fist-pumps the air and turns to me for a high-five. I stare at his palm. I’m not willing to give him the highest-of-fives.

  “You haven’t changed at all,” Giant says with his signature megawatt smile. He ruffles my hair, and I let him because it’s nice to have someone play with my hair.

  Ramona is laughing hard enough tears spring to her eyes. Her chair kicks out beneath her, and she ends up on the ground. Genevieve attempts to assist Ramona but ends up on the floor. They laugh in girlish banter over television reality while we pause our actual reality.

  It isn’t until Giant and Genevieve are on their way out the front door that Genevieve whispers in my ear, “You’re ok with Ramona taking care of you right? You can stay with Mark and me in Columbus. There may be more rehab opportunities in the city.”

  “I’m fine.”

  Genevieve hesitates to leave me. “Are you be
tter? Do you think you will be a better Av?”

  “I think it will be better for all of us if I’m just Av.”

  The next morning maracas shake in the living room. A fresh lavender scent accompanies the sound.

  “What are these?” Ramona asks around the chac chac chac noise.

  I’m re-folding laundry, watching Judge Judy. I fold a red towel into thirds lengthwise, then roll it over into thirds width-wise.

  I turn away from the small claims court. Ramona holds an Altoid’s tin. chac chac chac. Under her arm, she holds a full laundry basket.

  I reach for the tin, “Hold up Ramona, wait, those are mine.”

  Ramona’s knuckles turn white with her grip. She turns on a dime towards the kitchen. SPLAT. Ramona abandons the laundry basket overflowing with clean clothes. A long-sleeved white shirt tumbles out. The sleeve reaches for Ramona. I step on the flat wrist in my chase, “Wait, wait, wait…”

  The faucet water rushes into the sink bin. Ramona mumbles to herself how addicts can’t be trusted.

  “WAIT!” I yell. I rush to the sink in time to watch the crimson dye slide into the drain. I kick the cabinets, “Those were my pills!”

  “YOU BROUGHT ECSTASY INTO MY HOUSE!” Ramona slams the handle down on the faucet. Water ceases its descent.

  “THE FUCK I DID!” I’m sweating, staring at the slick stainless steel bin for pill residue.

  Ramona crosses her arms in indignation. “Then tell me what they are.”

  Fuck, this will not go smoothly. “Onyx gave them to me.”

  Ramona’s arms uncross, then cross again. “He didn’t run any medication past me. I didn’t see a familiar pill identifier. The pills were children’s vitamins or ecstasy. Most likely ecstasy by their size and unique stamp.”

  Disappointment pulls the crow’s feet around Ramona’s eyes. “You can’t just take pills from people Aviana, even if it is your brother.”

  “I’ve had them before in the Arena. When I went through the forest. But they disappeared when Hudson did.”

  Ramona pinches the bridge of her nose. My beliefs haven’t changed, but are continually meet with conflicting evidence and implausible rationales. “Aviana, delusions are challenging. The pills are real. Your brother is real. But the Arena—I’d like to work on the topic of the Arena with cognitive-behavioral therapy more.”

  “I didn’t hallucinate the Arena.” I grind my teeth, biting back offensive words.

  “I’m not trying to discredit your perspective, but I need to avoid this conversation today. We’ll discuss this in session.”

  What she doesn’t say is, I can’t process you today.

  26

  Couple

  Ramona sends me off to bed at 10 pm, my new curfew. Additional rules apply;

  1. I’m the new housekeeper.

  2. Visitors are rarely allowed and must be a guest of Ramona.

  3. I am to attend all house meetings & therapy sessions.

  4. Obey quiet hours, which means I’m in my room at 10 pm.

  And then there’s the list of what is not allowed; drugs, alcohol, pets, travel & the internet. Following the rules should help create lasting, safe habits, for me to be safe in the safe world, that I now safely live.

  My thoughts run a course as if they’re small metal marbles in Pinball, bouncing, ricocheting and colliding. Ting, ting-ting-ting.

  I fall back with an oof into a mountain of pillows. I do not, and I believe will never, understand the purpose of decorative pillows. I throw three white pillows and instantly regret my actions. I pick the discarded pillows off of the ground and cringe at any oil transfer. Another consistent perplexity, white fabric. Why?

  I puff out a breath. Instigating an argument will not help me feel any less stagnant.

  Once the redundant pillows are safe, I fall back onto the single bed. The bedsprings groan like a dirty old man. I shift. The mattress burps the bed over an inch. I sling my arm over my eyes and attempt to turn my mental Pinball game off. Ting, ting-ting-ting.

  What am I doing? I’m too reckless to be this bored. Even my complacency is complaining.

  Ramona talks about normalcy like it’s a destination. I need to adapt to reality instead of fiction. Yet I can’t get past this bookmark—the headstones of murders I committed—the daisies that push up from the bodies I put six feet under.

  I press my forearm against my glabella—the space between my eyebrows. The bodies I killed wouldn’t be buried. I cremated them. My murders were left to ash and dust. Will the human remains scatter like dandelion seeds? What if ashes could pollinate into new humans? And like dandelions, what if they didn’t require a whole taproot and could root in shallow standings?

  My arm slips off the bridge of my nose at the image of a waving field of cloned Beasts.

  A door opens and slams loudly. Someone hushes the aggressive door handler. A giggle responds. I hear whispers through the wall. I don’t remember Ramona saying she rented the adjoining room and the remaining section of the farmhouse to a tenant.

  The couple on the other side of my wall fall into their bed. The wall vibrates. My bed skooches. We’re head to head.

  A female moan reverberates through the thin wall. I close my eyes and join their game, giving up my Pinball thoughts. My hand wraps around my breast then slides the contours of my body to slide beneath the fabric of my sweats. I’m not as wet as I’d prefer for the ministrations in mind. I pull my fingers from under my pants and suck them into my mouth, rolling the pads of my tips on my tongue.

  The moan leads my imagination and tugs with each struggled breath. My legs widen. I turn into the plethora of pillows and bite into an offensive white pillowcase. My vocality kept secret.

  The couple’s headboard rocks against the wall in a steady rhythm. I cross my fingers for a breakthrough.

  I’m playing myself, and the beauty of self-tending is that I’m already the highest scorer. I have the moves.

  Heavy breathing joins the cries of pleasure and me panting into my pillow.

  I’m about to feel release. I’m on the precipice when I hear, “Fuck Av,” in a guttural male voice.

  My eyelids blast open. My slick fingers feel sticky in sudden awareness. Plucked from the salacious eavesdropping.

  The banging ceases on the other side of the wall.

  I spend the rest of the night paranoid and recalling the male voice, did I hear Fuck Av or Fuckin’ A.

  Too much caffeine zips through my veins. My tombstone teeth have stains from the bitter contact. I’m running on steam and chemicals after spending the night evaluating not only what I heard, but how I heard it, and whether I heard it through my ears or in my head. Conceivably it was all in my head, and there aren’t tenants but rats. Conspiratorial rats similar to those in the 1922 novella by Stephen King.

  I’m full throttle scrubbing the baseboards beneath the dishwasher when pattering feet rush into the kitchen and propel over my body. Ramona slides across the freshly polished floor with the grace of a Risky Business sock slide, except on her face.

  Powerful, thudding boots move towards the kitchen behind her. I rise like a meerkat and peak over the counter and see Hudson. He appears the same as he did in the cave, right before he disappeared. Except his outfit is different and his right forearm has a few black & gray scales tattooed. The scales are in the same location where he punched the mirror. I want to run my fingers across them to see if they are actual tattoos or magical reptilian remnants from the Arena.

  Ramona dusts the embarrassment off her slacks. There’s no dirt, she simply feels dirty.

  I rise, feeling as if I’ve walked miles under a long sun after a harsh night. My hair is wrapped in a handkerchief. I’m in Ramona’s oversized sweats. Knees wet from scrubbing. Pits damp from sweating.

  “Aviana?” Hudson asks blankly, as if English isn’t his native tongue and my name is not a proper noun.

  I lash out, “I heard you fucking last night.”

  Ramona sucks in a breath at my lack of
filter.

  Hudson walks closer to me. Shock paints his features so that I can’t see his true expression.

  “It’s been eight years. Is this what you’ve been doing? Fucking every cunt you come across?” I’m seething.

  Disappointment creases his brows, “You’ve been gone-”

  “You told me to stay alive. Do you even remember the Arena?”

  “Of course I remember!”

  “THEN WHAT IN THE EVER-LOVING FUCK-?”

  Ramona touches my arm before I can give more fucks to the situation. I didn’t realize that I was gesticulating—I’m basically crawling onto the countertop, withering in anger. “Aviana let’s have a civilized conversation.”

  27

  It didn’t have to be this way

  I had the nerve to blame Hudson for something he didn’t deserve. Sure, he confessed to Ramona that he ran away from the burning cabin. Fleeing wasn’t the most honorable decision. Yet it was the only decision he knew to make at the time. He didn’t elaborate on my betrayal and how it blinded him.

  Bitterness clung to him like charcoal dust. His foundation, like all organic matter, is the element of carbon. Though unlike diamonds, coal is hardly pure. Hudson is not pure. When Hudson was under pressure he dusted and easily removed himself. Yet his impression still stayed. His stain on me remained. Fucking charcoal dust.

  Hudson declared he never knew about the damages done to Genevieve until after he returned. Tracy was held accountable for my disappearance. There was no official blame given for the arson because the statute of limitations is three or five years—eight years have already passed. They swept the cabin, and all its charred detritus under the duff layer rug.

  Hudson has been seeing Ramona routinely for years to process, compartmentalize, and come to terms with the Arena and the lies he dressed the truth in.