We Are Watching Eliza Bright

by A. E. Osworth

  All that kindness is gone from her face as she interposes herself and her family between Devonte and his record player. “What kind of sick practical joke are your friends playing on you?” she asks, voice only marginally louder. It is after midnight and walls are thin.

  “I don’t understand.”

  “Earlier this evening, me and my boys are sitting down to dinner. Jacob starts to say grace when I hear someone knock once at the door. Except it isn’t a knock, it’s a crash. They broke down the door, Devonte! They broke down the door while we were eating dinner.”

  “Who?”

  “The SWAT team,” says Isaiah.

  Devonte goes cold, like someone is breaking a water balloon over his head.

  “They broke the door right off its hinges. They shouted ‘get down’ and ‘active shooter.’ We all hit the floor, right out of our seats.” Devonte can see, now that he is looking for them, the elbow scrapes that come with diving out of a chair onto coarse carpet, the bruises on cheeks that come with cracking one’s face against the ground. “They said they were looking for you. Devonte Aleba. Someone reported you had gone crazy, were taking hostages. They had our address and everything.”

  Without responding, Devonte pushes past his family and sits at his desk. He is self-conscious about the roll top; he pushes it up as quietly as he can, as if his cousins won’t notice. But they are watching him. David, closest to him in age, smirks, his meanness unaltered by the events of his evening. Devonte powers up his computer and pulls up Reddit and there he needs only type his own name, hit search.

  “That fucking bastard,” Devonte says. Evrlrnr—Evan, that smug shit who thinks his handle is so cool, or that crazy kid with the conspiracy theories, or that man who knows what taking matters into his own hands truly looks like, because now he’s cut off the one real, useful resource the ladies have at their disposal. He’s released Devonte’s old address, from back when Evan knew him well. When they went to school together, Devonte’s permanent address had been—

  “Aunt Ida, I’m sorry. I’ve been going through something, and this guy, he’s fucking nuts.”

  Aunt Ida draws herself up and she seems to grow until she is mythic, terrifying. “Nothing illegal.” It is supposed to be a question, but the force that is Ida transforms it into a statement.

  “No, of course not.”

  “Well then.” And her face does get a little kinder. “Whatever it is, whatever got you here. Don’t do it again. Now.” She looks around, sizing up the place. “It’s a bit small but—”

  Devonte’s stomach drops. Of course they are staying. He learns that Isaiah nailed the front door shut to keep their stuff from being stolen. He blows up an air mattress. On the way to the bathroom, David punches him in the side something savage. Aunt Ida takes Devonte’s bed only at his insistence, and he is left in the living room with his personal childhood wolves. Does she know they will torture him the whole night? That he will wake up with hairy penises Sharpied on his arms and face? And this, this is where we feel for Devonte, regardless of how we felt about him before. We know what this is like. Most of us were teased and tormented too. When it comes to family—when it comes to bullies—nothing changes.

  Chapter Eighty-Five

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

  Chapter Eighty-Six

  Because we can’t find Eliza, let’s look in on Delphine. A proper lady. Someone doing this whole womanhood thing right. Gorgeous. Devoted to JP. Someone who wouldn’t have complained about a joke, gone to the media. Right now, she is at an audition. Taming of the Shrew. Shakespeare, that cultural bastion, relevant (instructive) even four hundred twenty-six years on. She recites, clear-eyed, doe-eyed, a misty expression.

  “I am asham’d that women are so simple

  To offer war where they should kneel for peace;

  Or seek for rule, supremacy, and sway,

  When they are bound to serve, love, and obey.

  Why are our bodies soft and weak and smooth,

  Unapt to toil and trouble in the world,

  But that our soft conditions and our hearts

  Should well agree with our external parts?”

  The casting director isn’t even looking at her. Not even at the headshot, the most simpering one in her rotation right now, used for ingenues, nor the résumé stapled to the back. He is looking at his phone. Internally, she rolls her eyes, even as she continues. It is typical. Probably Seamlessing food or scrolling through Twitter. He turns to the woman next to him, probably an assistant, and his phone tilts a little bit. Delphine sees Eliza’s face on it, a face she has never met in person but has come to know very well over the past two weeks. The bane of her existence. Jean-Pascale had been the breadwinner in their house, and New York City is expensive. Between her mother and her boyfriend, she’d managed to maintain her status: the only one of her group of friends to not sleep two to a room in bunk beds. The only one not working a food service job of some kind. She’d gotten domestic partnered, and therefore had health insurance. And those animals, Eliza and Lewis, took it all away with petty squabbling. It’s just a stupid joke; a stupid game.

  We, of course, don’t agree with her line of thinking. But at least she’s not out here pretending to be interested. Not trying to convince us she’s some fake geek. Not trying to co-opt games for cool points. Neither does she bother JP for his attention while he is playing. She is content with whatever he gives her. Loves him. Will cook for him and put out for him. We cannot think of a better woman; one who leaves us alone and who pays us so much attention at the same time, who constructs her body, clothes, behavior for the way we watch. It is the ideal.

  She falters on “but now I see our lances are but straws” when she sees that rat mouth and she thinks, Great, another way that cunt has cost me money. Naturally this happens when the casting director looks up. She stumbles further, and she mentally kicks herself. A true professional wouldn’t have let that throw her, wouldn’t have hung up on “but now—but now,” as though she’d forgotten the line. But of course the casting director loves to see a woman in distress, and Delphine’s face changes from serene to troubled. Normally she would have plowed through—that’s what actresses are taught to do. Entirely out of character, she hunches her shoulders and crosses her arms. “I’m sorry,” she says, and she gestures at the phone as though she is still performing. And perhaps she is. “My partner is one of the programmers wrapped up in that mess.”

  The casting director, who had been about to tell her that the role of Kate was certainly going to go to someone famous and not to someone untried, leans forward. “You have firsthand knowledge of this whole thing?” She nods and starts walking toward the door, anticipating the dismissal. “Wait, sorry,” the casting director continues, and she halts. “This version of Shrew is—updated. The director has this vision to do it, if my understanding is correct, sort of Tinder-inspired, very reliant on this internet stuff. This is—kind of perfect, actually. Do you happen to have ‘no
shame but mine’ prepared?” The assistant has begun scribbling some notes.

  Of course Delphine has the other monologues prepared. She is perfect at what she does. She sets in on it, jumps into it.

  “Angrier!” the casting director yells, and she takes the note, twanging against the new energy in the room, pulling the string she can now feel between herself and the table, and for a second it is time travel. A bending of space. This lightless box with its grey floor becomes, somehow, both Renaissance Padua and the stage on which she will perform as Kate, a leading role. The room electrifies and everyone can see the future. “Use what those men did to your girlfriend! Fuel it! Light it on fire!”

  Delphine realizes the mistake, but launches directly into the next line, taking the note anyway. Both the casting director and she see the narrative spinning out before them, more valuable than any acting talent she might possess. What gets a girl hired here is the ability to chum the media waters. To link her name in a direct line to the Fancy Dog scandal, to us. It is the first time she considers that feminism might be a tool. What a depraved vulture. She will correct them, eventually, but only halfway. She will let them think she has always had a complicated relationship with Jean-Pascale’s actions. She will profit, profit by throwing him under the bus.

  Every woman is a cunt. This proves how ridiculous the female gender is. As soon as even the tiniest whiff of success, of fulfilled ambition, scents the air, drips into the water, they’ll always, always turn on men. All the money and the health insurance in the world wouldn’t fix them. Jean-Pascale deserves her attention! He’s the reason she’s got an advantage, the reason she can be at this audition at all! We are livid on his behalf. She should be grateful and instead she looks down on him, looks down on all of us. We are seething.

  She will go on to star in the 2019 Broadway revival of Gaslight. That craven bitch.

  Chapter Eighty-Seven

  On the night they strategize—after Devonte leaves and after they tweet at The Inspectre—Our Heroine Eliza goes back to the elevator and lies down—she can hear everything We do in the warehouse—Our sounds paint themselves into the dark and tiny room and echo up the elevator shaft: One of Us plays acoustic guitar well into the night and then there is The Sex—We are Always Having Sex—a bed-shaking rutting that feels closer than it could possibly be, amplified by the Sheer Number of us Fucking in Various Combinations—but even without all of the Beautiful Noises of Human Love and Connection Eliza’s brain is grinding in on itself—every echoing footstep becomes a break-in until the toilet flushes, and every undulating shadow becomes a stalker in the night as Eliza jolts awake more alert each time until she is fraying at the edges

  She is still awake when the sun inches under the curtain in the morning and her eyes are round as dinner dishes—when Our Suzanne knocks on the wall Eliza says “I’m sorry—I never slept—I think I’m— I must be sick”

  “Want me to bring you breakfast?”

  “No thank you” and she would pull the curtain shut if she had ever opened it but she didn’t—she doesn’t want to lay her eyes on Our faces because it would be too overwhelming and We understand and We do not understand—All Feelings Are Valid and also hasn’t she heard about the Healing Powers of Community and Especially the Powerful Anger Circles?

  She does not eat that day and We grow So Concerned—she waits for the floor to clear and for all our morning Rituals to finish crashing into each other—when Our noises move to more distant locales (and she can hear Us all and she begins to draw a sonic map in her head) she crosses to the bathroom and drinks out of the sink with her hands—if she would venture out there would be a glass for her in the kitchen but she knows We are there and ready to Embrace Her—even with those of Us who leave to work there are enough that We’re always around—too much Chatting and Noise and Embracing and besides—the windows—she should stay away from the windows—it is a Reasonable Response and also We fundamentally Do Not Understand It because We are comfort when We’re together and We want her to have a water glass and to experience Our Stability and We wish she would eat and she should take all the time she needs

  She pokes her head out to make sure the floor is truly devoid of Us and she heads for some dusty bookshelves lined with Our secondhand reading—We are who We are so mostly it’s heavy with Judith Butler and Maggie Nelson but We like that good sweet book candy as well! We are not humorless! We love A Whimsy! it’s possible to find Our very favorite fluffy stuff—Our literary teddy bears—some high fantasy titles in the bottom corner and some young adult titles in the bathroom—ladies dressing as boys to become knights and queer teenagers finding romance in the rural Midwest—exactly what she is looking for—she sits on the bed still in her pajamas and feels the gloss on the cover and the raised yellow letters and she can’t remember the last time she’s touched a physical book—We are So Happy to share

  Eliza shoots through two books from the comfort of her elevator and then it is midnight and she is finally tired so she sleeps but she dreams of being Haunted—the big red lever is pulled by a wayward spectre and the elevator drops and she jolts and sits up gasping—safe—nothing actually happened in the waking world and she sighs through her mouth—she is drenched in sweat

  She steps up to the curtain and opens it and stares down at the space between the elevator floor and the floor floor—between the potential for Movement and the Promise of Stasis—and she thinks she might be hungry and she tries to lift her foot and place it outside into the hall—her leg simply does not follow the instruction—she’s lost all get-up-and-go and she thinks what is another day of reading fairy tales? of taking some Radical Self-Care Time away from capitalism and declaring oneself A Being in need of Rest in a world that wants to monetize every second of Our time?—eventually Our Suzanne knocks on the wall

  “How ya feeling?” she says through the curtain

  “Still not good” Eliza lies and tells the truth—Fear is an illness and it isn’t

  “Good enough for food? want me to bring breakfast up?”

  Eliza hesitates because it is such a burden and she doesn’t want to be a burden but she is so hungry and she cannot imagine the long journey to the communal kitchen so she finally decides to answer “Yes” but immediately she feels bad and she feels that Yawning Chasm of Fear and the need to cocoon oneself after trauma and so she doesn’t stop her friend even though she feels terrible about it

  Our Suzanne returns and knocks again and says “I’ve got tea and eggs and toast”

  “Just leave it out there” Eliza replies “I don’t want to get you sick” and on some level she knows Our Suzanne can’t catch what’s keeping her in bed—though fear is a contagion, We have spent all our lives dealing with fear and it’s now static in the background—We have become accustomed to everyone wanting Us dead and gone and We all remember the moment—different for each of Us but fundamentally the same—when We realized that Safety was a lie and that We had to make it ourselves if We wanted any of it

  “Okay” says Our Suzanne through the still-closed curtain but she doesn’t sound convinced and neither are We—when Eliza hears Suzanne’s footsteps grow distant and go down the stairs she reaches under the curtain and pulls the tray in and winces at the scraping sound and the slight slosh of hot tea—she eats and wonders what to do with the plate and cup so she tiptoes across to the bathroom with panic rising in her throat each second she is out and rinses them as best she can in the bathroom sink by scraping the stuck egg off with her fingernails and she wonders if she should leave them outside the curtain and she decides no that’s too weird—like she thinks Our Suzanne is a maid—she’s sure she’ll be able to go down to the kitchen soon—sure she’ll be able to walk a greater distance than across the hall—she decides she’ll wait until then—she keeps reading

  Our Suzanne shows up again midday and says “I brought you lunch—No-meat sandwich and chocolate milk for a little bit of Understandable Regression—can I come in?”

  “Just l
eave it out there” Eliza says through the curtain and Our Suzanne raises an eyebrow because Eliza sounds muffled like her head is buried in the pillow “I don’t want to get you sick”

  “I promise I won’t get sick—the Rage burns all the germs out” Our Sweet Jokester Suzanne is cajoling because she thinks it will get her the best response and she doesn’t want to push her friend but it is frustrating for Our Suzanne at the same time—as much as she loves Us Suzanne is a person who leaves for work during the day and she is unused to spending all her time here—We know We are A Lot and Eliza is her connection to outside—when no reply comes she continues to speak, more insistent this time—“Eliza, I need to get your breakfast dishes”

  Our Suzanne hears footsteps and when Eliza peels back the curtain her hair is crazy and her bed is unmade and despite having slept her eyes are surrounded by dark circles and the room smells stale—Our Suzanne twitches and wonders how a room without a door can smell so Strongly of anything let alone the ephemeral subtle stench of depression

  We want Our Suzanne to be a little more understanding because it has only been a day though it has felt like years and years and We all know that recovering from trauma requires care and time and even though We think she needs Community Care that Eliza needs to feel the Beating Heart of Her Own Agency and that Mercury is in retrograde anyway and all communication will go very poorly but that doesn’t matter to Suzanne’s underlying lizard brain and her instinct says run away from this—that this is a black hole that will suck her in and that it already has

  Our Suzanne breathes deep three times because she is a Pinnacle of the Ability to Handle Large Emotions and Eliza tries to smile but her facial muscles look to be out of order as they do the work of pulling her lips back without an ounce of Happiness to help them and she says “Thank you so much Suzanne” as she takes the sandwich and the tea “Let me just—” she reaches behind the door and pulls the semi-dirty dishes out and she says “I did my best” by way of Apology