Please, God, if there is one, let me go home. Renee is an amazing woman— she’s good looking, witty, charming… she’s too good for me.
Renee invited me over so we could work on a craft idea that we’ve been discussing, but as she sits close to me (too close)… hot glue strings on her hands, blonde hair haphazardly pulled back, paint on her clothes…
She looks divine.
“How are you doing over there?” She asks, without looking up from her painting.
My hands fly around my work area, trying to look busy. “We’re doing.”
She laughs softly to herself. “Thank you again for agreeing to help out,” her hazel eyes pierce my soul as she looks up. “Though I must admit, I didn’t invite you just for some arts and crafts.”
“Then— then why?” I manage to sputter. Smooth, Jade. Real smooth.
“Don’t get me wrong—“ she starts, “I do enjoy doing these types of projects with you.” Renee clears her throat, and looks away. Are her ears always that red?
“I enjoy doing a lot of th- things with you,” she finally continues. “I like walk- walking along the beach with you—“ her hands move all around, gesturing this way and that, “—gossiping about our coworkers.”
Oh no.
Please stop talking.
She continues to speak and gesture through a fit of nervous giggles, “I like going to the rich people mall with you just to- just to make fun of their stupidly expensive clothes.”
She inches closer to my workspace on the floor.
With a trembling out stretched hand, she reaches for my own. It’s easy to look down and see our matching nail sets. It would be easy to imagine that we are as good of a match as our nails.
“And… if I’m reading the situation right,” she breathes out, like she’s pushing the words out of her lungs, “so do you.”
Renee is right. I do enjoy all of that. I can sense what she’s about to say before she even takes in the air to say it:
“Would- would you want to be my girlfriend?”
I shut my eyes. Her face looks as if it was carved from a Greek sculpture. I can’t bear to see it anymore.
There’s nothing I want more than to be with her.
But saying ‘yes’… that’s something I will never be able to say to that question.
I pull my hand back as I stand up and turn around. My hands seem aimless, grabbing at my hair, my neck, my clothes. Anything to fill the other half that I’ve just ripped away. “Renee—“
“It’s ok,” she interrupts. “I understand.”
I hear her stand as I whirl around to face her. “No, trust me, you don’t.”
Her eyebrows furrow like they always do when something confuses her. “You can tell me straight up, my feelings won’t be hurt,” she comforts.
I can’t tell her ‘straight up’. I can’t tell anyone. No one can ever understand. “I need to go.”
Shoving my things into my bag, I rush out of the door as fast as I can. Leaving her behind. Like I have to leave everyone behind.
If she knew who I really am, she’d be disgusted. She would scorn me.
There’s only one option left.
I run to my car, fumbling for the ignition, and take off like a bullet train to get back to my apartment. I race up the stairs to grab my suitcase.
Packing everything of value I can as tightly as I can into the suitcase, my gears start turning. I need a way to disappear.
It’s not the first time I’ve done it.
Once everything has been packed, I take out a knife, specifically I took from my bitch of a neighbor, carefully. With gloves. I handle it with such care, I can’t mess with the DNA.
I grab the bags of my own blood from my fridge and dip the blade of the knife in in before throwing it on the floor.
Remembering my forensics class, my splatter the bag of blood in such a way so it looks like it came straight from my body.
I grab the journal that accounts for all my crimes, the one where I’ve written in a style and font that is a carbon copy of my neighbor’s. I sneak in through the window while he sleeps, and slip the journal in one of his drawers.
Once I’m out of his house, I grab a black hoodie and do funky makeup as fast as I can to make me look as different as I can.
I’m running out of time. It’s 2am, and I need to be clear out of town.
I leave my apartment door cracked as I leave and book it as fast as I can till I find a car several streets down that I can Hotwire.
One could say that me trying to make amends went well— too well.
I made the sister of a girl I killed years ago fall in love with me.
The constant chatter. It was in front of me, beside me, above me, below me. All the rumors of the new government laws, but I simply didn’t believe they could be true. With all the deafening buzz it was easier to tune it all out. The rumors we were hearing were that of a tyrannical government, but that’s not our truth. That’s not our democracy.
At least, that’s what I thought. My husband lays on the hospital floor— sedated. My baby, my sweet newborn baby, that I didn’t even get to hold. All I could do was watch from the hospital bed as the midwife walked away with my child.
All I’ve wanted is a family. Now, that my moment has finally arrived, it’s been ripped my arms before I could even hold them. Know their gender. See if they have my blue eyes, or my husband’s dark curly hair.
“PLEASE!” I cried, trying to reach out to my midwife. But she was clear out of reach, and my body was stuck to the blasted bed.
Once the government announced that a family could give their child to them to be exclusively raised by government staff, there was chatter that it was only the beginning. That soon enough, the government would take our children by force. I used to laugh off the sentiment. Now, I wish I had done something. Believe them? Drink more alcohol? Start a protest?
Maybe I wouldn’t have had this baby at all.
Any alternative would be better than seeing my midwife’s sweat stained back walk out of the pristine white hospital room. Than hearing the aggressive beep beep of the heart monitor.
My legs, bloody and shaking, wouldn’t move. I put my arms on either side of the creaky bed to hoist myself up and out so I could get my baby back. I just spent the last 34 hours of my life pushing it out of me, I deserve more than two second of watching someone holding my hard work.
Two nurses hold me down, I can barely see a third coming back with a needle. My vision is so blurry from hot, salty tears that stream down my face like a waterfall.
“HELP,” I try again, there must be some humanity in these nurses.
A fourth nurse I couldn’t see before begins to caress my hair, slowly shushing me like a toddler throwing a tantrum. “It’s alright sweetheart,” she says iba sickly sweet voice, “you’ll be alright.”
I try to fight back, attempting to flail my arms, kick my legs.
“GIVE ME MY BABY BACK!”
But I am too weak, and the nurses’ grips are too strong.
One little pinch, and my world goes to black.
Dear Elanora,
I don’t have much time, and I hate I have to write to you instead of demonstrating face to face the severity of my situation. I cannot move easily— my legs have been incapacitated by my fall I took a week or so back. I also cannot tell you where I’m writing this letter, and you wont be able to contact me anymore. One last time, I wanted to solidify my position: the family is broken and dangerous, and I refuse to be a part of it anymore. You are a wonderful sister, and I’m sorry I can’t bring you with me. I am slow enough with my troubled legs, you would be better off running on your own time. Bide your time, be the perfect daughter, and once they trust you again— run. Run fast, be smart, but most importantly, be prepared.
Love you to the moon and back, JPM
