The Shimmering State

by Meredith Westgate

  Last year Sophie considered selling the pills when she got the flu and had to miss a week’s worth of work at Chateau Marmont. She knew people who would take them. She needed the money. Still, she couldn’t bring herself to contribute to the cycle of abuse. Or maybe she just wanted to prove to herself that she wasn’t like her brother; that she could keep them right there in her cabinet, untouched.

  Last night Sophie shook out two pills. As her mind got fuzzier, she longed for therapies of decades past, electrodes shocking her brain back to function, frying off any foreign matter. But again she found herself fading as the stranger’s thoughts raced back in, cockroaches streaming from the open sewer, until she could no longer tell what was hers or his, or theirs. Soon her entire form was made of motion, swarming insects contained by static—and Sophie, their collected shape. The infestation in human form.

  A new text from Liv lights up the screen.

  Are you coming?!?! Do not flake on me I just drove 75 minutes in beach traffic ;)

  This would make it Saturday. She missed two rehearsals and a night of work. A Friday night. What could they be thinking? How could she ever explain?

  Sophieeeeee. I’m already on Olympic. Don’t make me text and drive.

  For a moment she hates Liv. Deeply and fully, Sophie resents her privilege; not the same privilege Liv has had all along, which is occasionally hard to swallow but not entirely offensive. She hates her safety. That Liv even considers herself angry. She had not been taken by Ray Delaney, poisoned, tainted. She never would be.

  All Sophie wants is to pretend like nothing is wrong. To meet Liv as planned, for an afternoon of complaining about bad dates, about rehearsals, or the incessant tourists plaguing Chateau Marmont; things that once seemed urgent and now feel like luxury. Even listening to Liv drone on about the challenges of her juice shop, unaware of how lucky her problems are. All of it now feels bittersweet. Sophie would love to have a shift tonight, a series of orders and cocktails and plates to organize the chaos of her mind.

  A wave of the stranger curls inside her, sharp as a knife, and she shakes her head, pushing it back down. That twisted sense of his pleasure. What could she say to Willow anyway? Persistent is the madness. Moreover, to Auguste for missing rehearsals? Fuck the bodies, let them burn. Absences are unheard of. Two in a row, he must be livid. She would tell them she was sick and—incapacitated. Inky liquid, first it trickles, then it flows. Food poisoning. The flu. Maybe she had been hospitalized? What else could they possibly think? She would never skip rehearsal; and she never misses work. Hide so they don’t know your face; hide until the end, then they’ll remember. They have to believe her. Then they’ll never forget.

  Sophie looks down at her arms, her thighs. She scratches her fingernails against her skin, anything to feel her body as her own. Then she tears out a page from the book on her bedside table and holds it up to her forearm. She’d known a girl who did this. She holds her breath and swipes the paper edge across her forearm, feeling the sting. Herself. She does it again. With each gasp, each sharp pain, she feels grounded. She feels the one haunting her slip away. The lines turn red and then pill. She squeezes her arm, watching the blood. Her own.

  She will come back to herself, she thinks. Whatever Mem Ray Delaney slipped her was like a bad dream, a trauma that never happened. Because it hadn’t, not really. Not to her. He cannot control her. She has to be strong. To will herself right. What she saw was no more than a hyperrealistic movie; what she felt was no more than that of any spectator. She is but a startled audience, waiting for the credits to roll. Wishing the lights would come on.

  Persistent is the madness. Fuck the bodies, let them burn.

  She crumples the paper still in her hand. Then pushes at the places where she hurts.

  Maybe what she needs is a taste of something else, of someone else, to get this out of her head? Hair of the dog. Dislodge whatever seems to be stuck. She has felt anxiety before, the spiraling focus that picks up momentum the more it lingers. Like a song one can’t help but keep humming; yes, maybe all she needs is a new melody.

  But where and how? Who would ask the fewest questions? Keegan has Mem, at least he hinted at it. But then she’d have to see him again, and after what she said to him? She imagines his smug smile, like somehow he’d known before she did that, of course she wanted what he had.

  She begins a new text to Keegan, ignoring her previous one that still fills the screen.

  Hey

  She sends without caring, desperate without hiding it.

  What’s up?

  No typing. No response.

  Okay, so… I’m sorry.

  What’re you up to later?

  Still no answer. Finally, one more. The real question.

  Still have Mem?

  Three dots appear. Sophie anxiously taps her fingers on her legs as the dots disappear and reappear multiple times until, finally, his message appears.

  Nope.

  And then another incoming text hovers over Keegan’s. It’s Liv.

  Sophie srsly will I see you there or not

  * * *

  Sophie’s fingers grip the steering wheel, its vinyl tacky under her hands as she twists her knuckles back and forth, trying to anchor herself to the moment, to the road. Atop her fingers are those familiar letters. Only a few days ago she last traced their outline, feeling an urgency as she did every time, like a promise she was making herself.

  LOOK UP

  It’s a dangerous habit, watching her hands as she drives. That’s why, following one fender bender shortly after arriving in Los Angeles, Sophie started writing the letters in permanent marker. Most mornings that meant retracing the faded marks from the day before; at times she’s thought the repeated practice already made their outline permanent. Now the practice is like a meditation. The last time she went home for the holidays, her mother said she was poisoning herself with chemicals from those markers on her skin every day. After that, Sophie even considered getting it tattooed, but she chickened out at the last moment in the parking lot.

  Most people already assume it is a real tattoo anyway, and she doesn’t correct them. Her tables at Chateau Marmont find it amusing, commending her for the sharp commentary on people’s self-preoccupation and total disregard for their servers being people, too. The irony. Those two words—six letters, six knuckles—elicit different takes from everyone. People see what they want to in the phrase. Her Rorschach tattoo. She has heard everything from God is with you always, up there! from a cashier at Trader Joe’s to Right on, don’t forget the big picture! from a barista as she reached for a lid at Intelligentsia. For Sophie, however, it simply means LOOK UP, IDIOT. One knuckle too short, the rest is implied.

  Now all of that feels far away. Such certainty of herself hits like nostalgia. How can she be so close to something yet already miss it? Will she ever feel the same? Even the risk, the fear of driving distracted, now makes her wistful—that that should be her fear.

  Sophie had made these plans weeks ago, to meet Liv at their friend Leif’s sound bath. Leif who was always into some new drug or experiential quest. If he has Mem it would be good stuff, not like what she’d been given. Leif’s Mem would be beautiful. Artful. Leif who organizes retreats for his friends to Norway, foraging for wild mushrooms to trip under the stars during the northern lights. This darkness wouldn’t be Leif’s idea of escape, and maybe whatever he has, if it is clean, if it is beautiful, maybe then it would clear out what is tormenting her. Or at least it would loosen the hold.

  A rush of optimism bubbles up inside her and it feels familiar. Sophie feels it then—herself. If this is just lingering chemicals from the drug, it would mean that once more time passes, maybe in another day or two, these visions will be gone. These feelings will leave her.

  She’ll get something from Leif, just in case. Even just to ride out the lingering effects in her system with something more bearable. Anything to tide her over until she returns to herself. Imagine wanting something so simple.
For most of her life, she’s wondered how she could change, how she could make herself more palatable to others. More popular, more at ease. Only now does she realize what she’s had all along—she had been, always, herself.

  * * *

  When Sophie finally rushes through the revolving door, Liv’s face looks vacant. She almost doesn’t seem to see her at first, and when Liv does say hello she barely makes eye contact before rushing off to the bathroom. Can she tell? Sophie wonders. Can she see it in my eyes? Can she feel it, the rage under my skin?

  A girl arm-linked with her partner, lost in laughter, sways into Sophie on her way into the elevator. Sophie shoves her back, and the girl shrieks. She rubs her arm and looks to her partner, who didn’t see, waiting for him to step in from their place now inside the elevator. Sophie stares at them both as the doors close. Then she finds a water fountain to splash her face.

  Keep it together, she thinks, sputtering water from her mouth and down her neck. Her hair sticks to her forehead, and the water is lukewarm, hardly does the trick. A hand on her shoulder, and Sophie reels backward, bumping into the fountain, hitting her elbow. The jolt of pain brings her back.

  “Sorry!” Liv says. “Are you okay? Sophie?”

  “Sure, yeah. You startled me.” Sophie tries to smile, but it comes out a grimace.

  “You didn’t have to come, you know,” Liv says flatly. “I was only joking.”

  “I wanted to,” Sophie says. “I’ve been looking forward to this. I just—I didn’t sleep well, and then traffic was ridiculous. I’m a bit fried.”

  “I can tell. Have you eaten anything?”

  “What?”

  Liv is still talking, but Sophie feels dizzy, surrounded by bodies all moving freely past her and around, and part of her wants to stop them.

  “Sophie?”

  “What? Sorry.”

  “I was just saying, this will be great. You can just relax and drift off. The last time I did one of these I practically hallucinated; I was dreaming up crazy things with my eyes closed, but totally awake. I wish I’d written some of it down, like full-on fantasy stuff—but you always think you’ll remember, right? I can only imagine what this’ll be like, with Leif at the helm.”

  “Have you seen Leif yet?”

  “Not yet, I’m sure he’s upstairs setting up. Or knowing Leif, hiding.”

  Sophie thinks they might as well get upstairs then, but cannot tell if she actually said it, and now they’re standing inside the elevator, the doors closing as Liv watches her. The overhead light is so harsh, Sophie realizes, as she’s staring right at it.

  Her eyes flare when she looks back down.

  “Are you sure you’re okay?”

  “I’m fine, I just need to sit down I think.”

  “Anyway, I thought I’d see you there,” Liv continues, in the middle of a conversation with herself. “Of course with that crowd, Harry was there, too, but god, Sophie—it felt so fucking good to not be there alone. Like finally, some good karma. You know?”

  “Sorry, where was this?”

  “At Amelie and Luca’s party in Venice! I was just saying, I took Lucien… You should’ve seen the look on Harry’s face when Lucien brought up his mother’s art. Absolutely priceless.”

  Sophie picks at a cuticle until she feels a sharp pain, then looks down at the drop of blood pilling, preparing to roll. She holds her finger to her mouth, and tastes salt. Her blood, hers.

  “Jesus, Sophie, could you at least feign interest?”

  “What? Sorry?”

  “How many times have I listened to you talk about some new crush at the Chateau? Or celebrated another of your accomplishments with the LABC? It seems like every other week we’re celebrating something of yours.”

  The other people in the elevator stare. Sophie tucks her finger into her palm and squeezes, grounding herself to the pain, and pushing the rising sense of darkness down until finally the elevator opens at the twentieth floor.

  “I thought you’d be happy for me,” Liv says. “I found someone I really like.”

  “I am happy for you,” Sophie says as they file out of the elevator. “Really.”

  The space stretches forever. The entire floor is open, save for the columns that repeat in all directions, following lines where walls might once have been. Overhead is a tin ceiling with a few exposed pipes, and everything else is white-painted brick, giving the space a cool temperature. Yoga mats are arranged like a starburst fanning out from an open core. Silk pillows are placed next to each mat. Most of the spots are already taken, and Sophie senses Liv’s frustration as they walk farther and farther across the floor.

  Sophie scans the room for any sign of Leif, her mind desperate for his potential stash. As they walk, a red light begins to emanate from the center of the space, and suddenly the coolness of the room is charged, changed by the color radiating outward, where it fades into a golden hue. Sophie cannot tell if it’s the red or her own exhaustion, but she feels once again unsettled.

  The two mats they find together are in the orange middle ground, and when they sit Sophie puts her head in her hands and breathes deeply.

  “I think it’s starting,” Liv whispers.

  “Really? But we haven’t seen Leif.”

  “I caught a glimpse of him, over there,” Liv says, pointing toward a black curtain across the room. She laughs. “Classic Leif. I’m sure we’ll find him after.”

  “Are these lights on the whole time?” Sophie rubs her face. “I didn’t realize it’d be so…”

  “Depths of hell?”

  “Exactly.”

  “You can just close your eyes once it starts.”

  An actress Sophie recognizes from a sitcom she watched as a child, when the actress was also a child, sits down on the open mat in front of them. Her face looks off—similar to when she was young, but stretched and skewed so as to look almost grotesque.

  “Do I know you?” she says.

  Sophie turns away, but watches from the side of her eye as the actress slides a tin out from her purse, places a tiny gummy on her tongue, then slips the tin back in her purse. Everything is so casual, so contained. She licks her fingers and bobs her head to the ambient noise, letting her hair fall in front of her eyes.

  Hide so they don’t know your face; hide until the end, then they’ll remember.

  “There he is!” says Liv, hitting Sophie’s shoulder.

  Leif’s face hovers bodiless, peering out from behind the curtain. Liv laughs loudly and waves, until he blushes and waves back before disappearing again.

  “I’m going to go say hi,” Sophie says, standing.

  Liv grabs her hand and pulls her back down.

  “Sit! It’s starting!”

  The lights dim to darkness and the voices begin to soften until it is entirely, terrifyingly, quiet. Sounds trickle in, natural at first, then defying logic or instrument.

  Leif’s music undulates like movement set to tone. Every time Sophie shuts her eyes, she races through thoughts, more flashes of moments she wants to forget. They surface with hallucinatory clarity until—just like that—the music shifts and the visions blur. When at last Sophie opens her eyes, the steam holding the red pulsing light appears charged with sound, as if chords could be painted. The space circulates with sound. She sees it. She feels it. The sound moves Sophie from one thought to the next, the red music a fever ready to erupt. The bodies, covered in red.

  Sophie missed her opportunity to talk to Leif, and now she’s stuck here. Captive in the hazy humming atmosphere filling the room.

  How erotic when something familiar turns unknowable, uncanny, dismembered. You have to feel it. You have to feel it.

  Sophie keeps her eyes open, but the thoughts persist as the music builds. You have to feel it. The things we know best are the most surprising, once opened up. Sophie knows such things now, too. About the ways a body bends until it snaps. About the weight of a life when a car hits it. How that, too, is a sound. How the body hits back hard.
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br />   This is not her. But where is she disappearing to, if not inside? What’s worse is what builds now as the music rises. Her thirst for it—for life. To be the one to snuff it out. Sophie tugs at her hair, the prickling pain pulling her back.

  Everyone around her is just lying there. So trusting with their eyes closed, throats exposed. Thirsty for ritual. Like waiting for some mass sacrifice. I’ll give them ritual. What they’re waiting for is me. Red steam, the hollowness of this space. I will show them sacrifice. I will spill the beauty from them all. Cattle marching to death. Follow me.

  Stop it, Sophie says, and she knows this comes out loud because she feels Liv’s elbow in her side, that fucking bitch. Sophie pinches her legs, trying to stay present. The music builds, soft staccato laced with a deep throbbing bass that feels like fate. This isn’t real. This isn’t real.

  She presses her face into the thick rubber mat, in case losing her breath might cut off the voice. How much more could be left in her? The visions and desires latch on, defining her as they populate her own thoughts, suddenly tied to things that once existed, harmless, inside of her. What if this is just her now, forever changed?

  “Sophie?”

  She wants to slit her fucking throat. She jumps to her feet, slaps her own face, and Liv looks up at her with an expression that sends a shiver of shame through Sophie, while also tantalizing something deep.

  “Sit down,” Liv whispers through her teeth, like a parent scolding their fucking child.

  Sophie shakes her head; she can’t even look at her, she can’t let Liv see whatever is behind her eyes, lest she see what she is thinking, lest she see through the redness and the haze. She doesn’t trust herself. Not surrounded by such immersive, pulsing red. She turns toward the yellow edges by the windows, but feels trapped.

  So many bodies laid up, and ready. For what?

  She runs, jumping mats and stepping on a hand here and there, rustling the crowd until she notices a security guard on the other side of the room slowly walking toward her path. Fucking ready, says the voice inside her head, but she moves faster, faster toward the elevator, willing her body forward in spite of her insides, in spite of the redness pulsing everywhere, wrapping itself around her thoughts until, like her, they are gasping for air.