Work Text:
There's only so much that can be lived when your world is a single room.
Others seem so much more suited for the outside while I just rot in here. But they don't look much happier.
Maybe it really is safer this way.
But I can't stand being alone, so the lock clicks with my paperclip and it comes undone as easily as it usually does.
He's blacked out on his bed, and he didn't even change into something more comfortable.
I kneel beside him and kiss his hand. His skin is thin from age, but the veins are soft against my dry lips.
Later, I'll remind myself to ask if I can cut his nails, but for now I hold his fingers between mine. They curl as his large knuckles bend, and I open them gently, watching the creases across his hands fold and unfold. So large and warm. If only I could crawl into his palm and die.
My work is getting sloppy. It's not efficient to change patterns, locations, clients, he says. Do better. He'll get me new glasses if I need them, but don't lie.
I return to my work, take out a magnifying glass, and do the only thing I'm capable of doing, even if it feels pointless.
I look and look and watch and study the photo in my book and take it all in to learn how an artist sees. It's not enough to just pretend to be someone else-- you have to become.
I paint like I'm filling in blanks. The colors blend together to create mud, and the blues can't be too vibrant. It's not my fault--it's the chemicals. I don't know how to reproduce the right things, but the thought of disappointing him for the last time terrifies me.
I don't know what time it is, but I know it's late.
My skin glows red in the shape of his hand, and he looks at me like a bug on the floor. He tells me to stop messing around.
I touch where he touched me and look up at him. He knows me well, so he decides it's time for him to leave, and I immediately unbutton my pants because it doesn't matter.
The tape rewinder broke so I'm reading while I wait for the VHS player to rewind instead.
Movies waste time when I could be doing something else, he says, so I don't get to watch them often unless I'm doing a good job. But he knows where to borrow the better ones that other people don't know about, since he likes watching them too.
We'd watch together, and at the end he'd mumble something like, There were some nice shots, and I'd nod even if I didn't really understand.
And books aren't much easier. Reading can be hard. I don't like reading the ones that he reads because I don't really get them, so when we're at the library he goes to the left where the adult books are, and I go to the right where the children's books are.
The books there are a little easier. I once read a story where a girl died, and someone thought about all the reasons why they missed her. But I don't remember the rest of the book--only that part.
I look up and notice that the movie has finished rewinding. I lean over to press play, but he walks into the living room and tells me to turn the TV off. I do what I'm told and quietly head back into my room.
I like not being inside all the time, I think. Sometimes he takes me out on walks or drives when he's in the mood.
I'm sitting in his car, and the air is nice. He let me turn the crank to roll down the window, and I like the feeling of the wind on my skin even if it makes my hair messy.
We're going to the store, and I'll be good because I don't like when people speak to me. I've gotten better at moving my hands and shaking my head in conversation now, because he can't talk for me. He says I have to do it myself, even though it's hard. He knows it's hard.
But still, I'm excited. I wonder if he'll let me get something nice.
I only remember things from a long time ago. Ten, twenty years or so.
Sometimes I get scared of the gap getting bigger, because what if he dies, choked on his own vomit? Or I find him collapsed with failing organs? And then I'll be trapped here alone forever and ever and ever. And I don't mean trapped in this room--it's something else. I don't know. I don't like thinking about it too much.
He kisses me on the head for doing so well and making something good. It's the usual reward.
I want to ask him if I can wrap my arms around him, but he holds me anyway. His body is warm, and I hold him back tighter, but he lets go when he's done what needs to be done, and he clicks the door behind me, leaving me alone all over again.
We're cleaning the living room together, and I'm dusting photos of my mother as he tells me a story about her. I look up and see a smile peeking from the corner of his mouth, but he quickly covers it with a fist. When he notices me, his arm drops back down to his side.
I wipe the dust off the last photo. It's a picture of him with my mother holding me as a baby. I want to ask him if there are more photos of me, but before I can open my mouth he tells me to remember to head down to the store and dust the wares too.
I sit on his lap, and his body stiffens. He pushes my arm, saying that I'm too old for this.
Numbers and dates get fuzzy in my head, and I realize I've forgotten how old I am. Despite that, in only three words I tell him that my mom used to sit on his lap too.
He looks at me for a moment before he squints his eyes, then he shoves me off and I stumble to the floor. Standing up, he disappears back into his room without even slamming the door.
Words that don't make sense fall out from my mouth. He tells me he doesn't understand and to go back to my room or else I have to sleep on my own tonight even though he promised.
I don't know how to say the right words to let him know. I think I just want him to understand me. He can take anything away or make me take anything. Please, just believe me.
It's not my fault. It's not.
I did something bad, so the radiator was turned off for the rest of the night. I lay in bed shivering with only red, blistering lines on my hand to keep me warm.
I think about running away again, but the thought of him not looking for me this time scares me, even though I know he will, because he has to, because he always has to.
And then he'll have to hurt me again, and I'll watch him walk out clenching his stinging palm because there's nothing else I can do but to breathe the same air and make him sad.
Like some sort of human-shaped parasite.
He knows. I know he knows. There isn't a way that he doesn't know.
He knows me so well. There's nothing to me outside of him. He could have me in any way that he could ever dream, and he knows.
But he still doesn't want to look at me--his way of saying no, no, no. No.
I'm crying, painting, crying, painting, and crying and painting this stupid painting.
I stomp my legs on the wood floor and knock over my paints and bottles and cry until my voice cracks.
Because he knows me, every metal bar and sharp corner is covered with something soft. But I still ram my head and hands and body against anything I can find even though my head feels like it's going to crack and I want to throw up.
He quickly walks in, grabbing my blanket.
I kick and scream as he wraps me up tight, but there's something about the feeling of his fingers digging into my skin.
The blanket surrounds me and it's impossible to push him away, so I let him squeeze me until it's too hard to keep crying.
With his breath against my ear, my body becomes still again.
I don't know why I make it harder for him.
Maybe it's because I feel as if there's a way to be happy, but he always thinks he has the answer.
If I want to sleep in his bed, he says I have to wear a bra. He's not awake to stop me, though, so I slip them off underneath the sheets and press myself against his arm, burying my face into him, nuzzling.
I want to pull him under the covers. He's asleep, so I bury us.
My hands move clumsily, and I let them. I even lift my leg over him, and I squeeze myself closer to him. It's cold, so I can't help it--he's just so warm. Maybe I have the alcohol to thank.
He always looks on edge when he sleeps, like he'll wake up at any second. But I'm the only person in the world who knows that he's a heavy sleeper, so I press my forehead against his cheek.
My fingers travel across his chest, past his collar, until they find themselves wrapped around his neck, but they don't squeeze.
A thought enters my mind: I could kill him if I really wanted. It would be so easy. A knife. A pipe. His favorite gun.
Does he really trust me enough like this? It was so easy to find.
I hid it earlier that day between the headboard and mattress. The cold metal in my hand takes the warmth that I stole from him.
He could easily kill me too, if he wanted.
I place his gun in his palm and wrap his fingers around them. He groans and rolls a bit in his sleep, but he takes it from me and grips it like a toy.
Quietly, I move to straddle him from underneath the sheets and then take his hand into mine.
It's shaking, but I touch the barrel to my chin, and I'm grateful that I don't need to hide my smile.
I don't know what will happen from here, because I don't know if the gun is loaded.
Honestly, I don't really know how it works.
I don't know how anything works.
None of that matters, though, because I can start to feel his excitement underneath mine, and I don't want to think about all the ways I've ruined his life anymore. I move my hips, imagining a world where he's smiling and in love because I never existed. This is how we can make that happen.
But the gun hits my jaw.
He stares up at me with wide eyes. His mouth is open, like he wants to yell, but he doesn't know how or what to even say.
I flinch. It's white for a moment, and I'm on the floor and the side of my arm stings.
The sheets are thrown off, and part of it falls over me.
Slam.
And then it's still again.
Sitting up in the dark all by myself, it's so quiet that I can hear the bathroom door close and the shower faucet turn on.
I crawl back into his bed and wrap his sheets around myself, waiting for him to return.
I don't know how much time has passed, but when he comes back into the room he immediately tells me to get out.
Unwrapping myself, I wipe the tears and snot with his sheets. My face, arms, and shirt are wet, but his body seems completely dry. Blinking through the dark, I see that he's also changed into yesterday's clothes.
The rush of a car traces the outline of his silhouette from one side to the other. It's quiet again, but then he pulls out his lighter.
His illuminated profile pulls me towards the edge to catch him. My fingers reach and feel the hem of his shirt, and I pull him away from the air and towards me, leaning into his body as he exhales.
I whisper into his back what he already knows.
Then without a word, he removes the cigarette from his lips and places it gently between mine.