She Cuts Herself - Part 1 by Sean Miner

Content Warnings:

Self-harm, Domestic violence, Psychological abuse/gaslighting, Terminal illness, Non-consensual polyamory, Suicidal ideation, Family caregiver burnout, Disability/stroke, Identity loss, Parent-child role reversal, Mental health issues

 

Notes:

Contains descriptions of self-cutting, features scenes of emotional manipulation, includes discussions of terminal illness and mortality, depicts abusive relationship dynamics

She cut herself, and I appeared. But she was me.

 

At least, that’s how it felt. I remember cutting my skin, on purpose, and then I woke up. The dream was strange. I’d been me, but I hadn’t. She was older. Colder. Less rational, or maybe just more into pain? But one thing she wasn’t, was afraid. I remember it feeling... familiar. Natural. Like giving in to an old comfort.

 

I woke and I stood. I don’t know how I’d managed to fall asleep in the museum, but as soon as I realized I had I was mortified, thinking how many people saw me napping there. No one seemed to be staring, at least, so maybe they just thought I’d been resting my eyes. Maybe I’d only been out for a moment and dreamed it had been a long time; I seemed to remember that having happened before.

 

I reasoned that I’d dozed off waiting for Marc. That made sense. And there he came, from the Northwest Coast hall, talking on his phone. He walked too fast and bumped into the little woman ahead of him, then held up a hand and gave her a “sorry” grimace and kept talking into the phone as he walked around her. I thought for a second of just leaving, going into another hall and letting him try to find me for twenty minutes. But I didn’t, and a moment later he met my eyes, smiled, and waved.

 

I could hear someone on the other end — it sounded like his friend Clive. Or coworker Clive. Whichever he was being now. Marc stage-mouthed, “Just One Minute!” and talked back and forth another five before hanging up. He took a deep breath to let it out in a whoosh. “Sorry, babe. Can not get that guy off the phone.”

 

I took a deep breath of my own and sighed out words. “Maybe don’t pick up Clive’s calls at the museum.”

 

He looked at me like I’d said something stupid. “I don’t know who Clive is, babe. This was Clay. Worked with him for five years, you’ve meet him, oh, a hundred times?”

 

Right. Clay. Clive was... someone else. I didn’t say anything. I was realizing that he looks at me that a lot. Then I remembered. Clive was someone from the dream.

 

“Babe?” Marc startled me, snapping his fingers an inch of my face. “We been here long enough?”

 

“Yeah.” I spoke before thinking about it. Maybe not? I remembered the dream better than I remembered the exhibition. But it was just sharks, I could probably find out enough on the museum’s website to write the article.

 

Marc was already moving to the exit. “Great. Tbh, I don’t know why we came.” That’s how he said it: “T-B-H.”

 

“You didn’t have to come,” I reminded him once we were in the car. I was already wishing we hadn’t.

 

“What? Nah, babe! I told you, Imma support your work. Su jobbo es mi jobbo.” He tousled my hair near my shoulder. I realized I had both hands on the wheel and hadn’t started the engine yet. It took a little effort to let go with one and turn the ignition.

 

“I don’t know why they’re wasting you on this stuff,” he went on. “Nobody cares about sharks except during Shark Week. They should let an intern do this, and have you write the important stuff.”

 

I was focused on on getting out of parking. I asked, “Like what?” I felt like a chatbot running off a script, not retaining anything past my next exchange. I wondered how long had I’d been doing that.

 

“Idunno,” he struggled. “World events or something. Wars. Putin.”

 

“Magazine’s about life in New York,” I said. “The museum’s in New York, Putin’s not.”

 

“Something about the governor, then. He’s gotta have some kind of scandal, right?”

 

“She,” I said. “For over a year now.” Then we were outside. Never so happy to have the sunlight blinding me. “I guess that’s the scandal.”

 

“The Mets,” he tried. “You can’t get more New York than the Mets.”

 

“Not the Yankees?”

 

“Do you even know me, babe? The Yankees jumped the shark ages ago.”

 

“We can just go to a Mets game if you want, I don’t have to write about it.”

 

“It’s not about that,” he sulked, but he dropped it.

 

When we got home, I went straight to the sofa, sat back, tried to relax. After a minute, I said “Screw this,” got a beer and popped the cap. I sat back on the couch, took a swallow and tried again, with more success: I closed my eyes and started deep breathing. I got to five.

 

“Hey babe,” Marc said from behind me, “What do you wanna do about dinner?”

 

I breathed deep and spoke as I let it out. “I was thinking pizza.”

 

There was a moment of silence. I could visualize him scrunching his face, like he’d tasted something bad. “Babe, we’ve been having a lot of carbs lately. And we ordered in the last three nights.”

 

“I made burgers last night,” I said. “You didn’t have to eat the bun.”

 

“Yeah but that was just burgers, that might as well be takeout.”

 

I put my arm on the back of the couch and pulled my shoulders around to look at him. I waited to see if he was joking, and when I saw he wasn’t I wondered why I’d ever thought he might be.

 

“It’s fast food, babe, that’s what I’m saying,” he explained. “Can’t we just make something at home?”

 

I felt déjà vu. Had he said those words before, or was it something from the dream? But no, he hadn’t been in the dream, had he? I still felt it as I said, “You can make whatever you want.”

 

“Babe, you know I’m not good in the kitchen. That’s your beat! Can you make something? Mac and cheese even?”

 

“Are you really going to tell me you can’t make mac and cheese? It comes in a box for fuck’s sake.”

 

He tilted his head and looked to me like an uncertain parrot. “Babe, you don’t sound like yourself.”

 

“I don’t like ’babe’,” I said at the same time that I thought it.

 

“What?”

 

“I don’t like you calling me ’babe’. I don’t think I ever did.”

 

“Well what the hell am I supposed to call you?”

 

“What’s my name?”

 

He squinted. He was confused over my question. But then I saw what came next. For almost a second, he looked blank, before he came to and said, “Dani.” Then he tried to make a scoffing sound, but he couldn’t sell it.

 

I stared. “You couldn’t remember.”

 

“What? Of course I could, babe--”

 

“I hate that,” I reminded him.

 

“Hate wh-- Oh.” He was uncertain. “But I’ve always called you that.”

 

“And I’ve always hated it.”

 

“Why didn’t you say something before?”

 

Why hadn’t I? And why had I now? I felt a weird compulsion to be honest. “I don’t know.” I said. “But now you know.”

“But I have to get used to calling you some other name.” The last word was a whine.

 

“I had to get used to hearing it,” I said. “But I’m done now. And it’s not ’some other name.’ It’s my name.”

 

“Dani!” he said quickly, like it was a defensive block.

 

“You boil the macaroni until it’s soft,” I said. “In water. Then you pour off the water and you add the milk, some butter and the cheese powder. And you mix it. Or don’t. I’m going to bed.”

 

I walked upstairs, bringing my beer with me. I deep-breathed every step of the way.

 

In the bathroom, I put the beer on the back of the sink, and looked in the mirror. I looked better than I felt. I still had eyeliner on. I decided washing my face before sleeping was best practice, and as I did I saw a familiar weird random hair right between my eyebrows had reappeared. My old foe, I thought, and reached for the tweezers.

 

It resisted, but came out on the second try. I looked at it on the end of the tweezer and felt triumph, which immediately turned to... sadness? Disappointment? Something empty. It’s part of me, I thought. Why was I fighting it? I brought it to my cheek, felt only the point of the tweezers. I pressed harder, felt it dig into my skin, the hot line of as I drew it down toward my chin. I put it down, ran my finger over the red scratch that was forming, and let out a breath that I hadn’t realized I’d been holding.

 

I rinsed the hair down the drain and went to bed.

 

Marc was sleeping next to me when I woke. On his nightstand was a bowl with a fork and few cheesy macaroni on the bottom.

 

I slid quietly out of bed and went to the bathroom. I needed to shower. I hadn’t even gotten undressed the night before, so when I turned on the waters I let everything drop to the floor and got in. It wasn’t quite hot yet but I didn’t care; I needed the staccato pounding on my skin. In a few seconds, the water was hot enough to almost hurt and I took down my loofa and body wash and scrubbed until I felt raw and new. I let everything rinse down the drain, then turned off the water and began to towel off.

 

My eye fell on the tweezer still on the corner of the sink. I continued to towel dry as I stepped out of the shower and in front of the sink. The mirror was clouded by steam so I wiped circles with the towel until I could see, then looked for the line I’d left on my cheek. It was almost faded away. I couldn’t feel it with my fingertips anymore and it no longer stung. I picked up the tweezers in one hand and pressed my thumb against the point until I could really feel it. Then I stopped and put it back behind the mirror.

 

The saucepan of mac and cheese was still out on the stove. The milk was still out on the counter. So was the box, and the bag from the cheese powder, and the butter, which was already softer than peanut butter. I scraped the mac and cheese into the garbage and ran hot water into the crusty pan to soak. I put away the milk in case it hadn’t spoiled yet, then started coffee. The rest I’d get to later.

 

I didn’t feel like doing much but I also really felt hungry for an omelet, specifically. Hunger won out and I took out ingredients and a cutting board. I’d done onions and taken a paring knife to a tomato when Marc came into the kitchen.

 

“You’re cooking with this mess still out?” he asked.

 

I stopped cutting. “I didn’t make the mess,” I said evenly.

 

He made the scoffing sound. Like a loose raspberry or tiny, flapping inner tube. “Are you really gonna be like that, babe?” he asked. “That’s kind of petty.”

 

I half-turned my shoulders to look at him and he took a half-step back. I wondered why, and realized I was holding the paring knife in the hand now turned toward him. The realization felt good, and I looked down to run my thumb up and down the side of the blade, for a moment thinking more about it than him. That felt good, too.

 

I met his gaze without moving my head. “I cleaned up half of the mess,” I said. “You can clean up the rest if you want. And if you don’t, I’ll probably do it eventually.”

 

I went back to the omelet as he sullenly threw away the packaging and the butter. He didn’t touch the pan.

 

I took a lot of pleasure making that omelet. I smelled the foaming butter with satisfaction, and poured the eggs. After adding the tomatoes and onions I ground in pepper, then added thyme and a few slips of Parmesan, and triple folded it. I let it get a little more brown than most chefs would stand for because it’s what I wanted.

 

I slid it onto a plate and sat down with coffee. Marc was already at the table with his coffee. He looked up and frowned. “You didn’t make one for me?”

 

I closed my eyes and realized that I somehow still had the paring knife in my hand. Or again. Deep breathing again, I slid it down my thigh, past my shorts, and felt the cool metal on my skin. I twirled the point lightly and remembered the tweezer the night before. I got lost in the feeling. It comforted.

 

“Babe?”

 

I pulled the knife. The blade cut.

 

I sat up in bed, my mind foggy. For a moment I didn’t know where I was, caught between the dream and reality. I shook my head to clear it, then looked around. Michael was asleep next to me, in a rectangle of yellow from the streetlight; he’d managed to fall asleep without pulling the shade. He was so beautiful like that that I almost smiled.

 

The dream had mostly faded, but bits and pieces hung on. And so did the feeling it ended on; my chest and throat fell tight, my body holding on to memories that were already unraveling in my mind.

 

I took my dream journal from the nightstand and tried to write down all I could remembered. Michael hadn’t been Michael, but someone else. Mark? I’d been writing for something. A website, or a magazine. Not just copy, but articles. But it wasn't a good dream. Because I’d ended up cutting myself. I should tell Rebecca during our next session.

 

I wrote down about the mac and cheese, and the cutting. Then the rest was gone. It was weird, it had felt so… strong. Real. And that dream feeling that it was important, but I guess most of my dreams have that. I think.

 

It must have been adrenaline that woke me up, because a minute later I the tired hit me again. I closed my eyes and felt sleep wash over me like waves at high tide.

 

When I woke up, Michael was already out of bed. I stretched and walked to the shower. Something made me look at the sink, but it was empty and spotless like it always was. Just the toothbrushes in their holders. I set the shower to get warm but got in before it was all the way hot, because it takes forever to warm up on our floor. I let it get hotter than I usually do, so it felt like it was scalding, but it felt good for a change. I scrubbed with a washcloth and my back with the brush. I wished I had a real scrubby sponge.

 

I dried and dressed, and dabbed on a little of the aloe conditioner Michael had made and rubbed it through my hair.

 

I went to the kitchen for breakfast, and Michael was already sitting at the table with a cup of tea, reading the paper by the window.

“Hey,” I greeted him, and he said, “Hmm” through the teacup.

 

I opened the fridge and after a second asked, “Hey, are we out of eggs?”

 

He said, “Mm-hmm.” I looked, and the cup was on the table.

 

“Oh,” I said. “That sucks, I really felt like an omelet.”

 

“I got rid of the eggs because we were going to try changing our diet, remember?”

 

“Oh. Right,” I said. “Sorry, dumb today I guess. We’re vegan this week.”

 

He corrected me. ““Strict vegetarian. Vegan is an ethos. You can’t try out being vegan, like you can’t try out being Muslim. You’re in or your out.”

“Right,” I said. “I remember you saying that.”

 

“I made some chia pudding,” he said. “And we have blueberries.”

 

“Sounds great!” I smiled. I looked around. “Uh. Did you… get rid of the coffee too?”

 

“You said you wanted to cut down on the caffeine. I got instant decaf and some herbal teas. The celestial mandarin is really nice,” he said. After a few seconds, he added, “Zingy.”

 

“Oh. Right. Thanks. I’m sure this’ll help.” I put a mug of water in the microwave.

 

He looked up at that. “It’s better if you use a kettle,” he said.

 

“It’s just one cup,” I said. “It’s not worth bothering with the kettle.”

 

“It’s right on the counter,” he said. “Still has water in it from mine.”

 

I didn’t find an argument, so I just took a deep breath and said, “I’m just gonna go with the microwave. It’s already going.”

 

He looked at me for a second, then raised his eyebrows as he looked back to the paper, and shrugged.

 

While the water heated, I put some chia pudding in a bowl and added blueberries. The microwave dinged and I put in instant decaf, figuring it would at least have some caf. I opened the fridge and looked for a second before Michael, on the other side o the door, said, I got rid of the milk, too. There’s oat creamer.”

 

I took the little container of oat milk creamer, and added some to the decaf. Too much, because it was creamer, not milk, and it came out more off-white than tan. I considered putting it back in to heat up and adding some more instant, but it was all too much too early.

 

I took my bowl and cup to the table. Michael makes a good chia pudding, even if it’s with almond milk. I looked at his empty bowl and noticed something.

 

“Is that honey?” I asked. There was amber syrup on the edge.

 

“Mm-hmm,” he said.

 

“Is that strict vegetarian?” I asked.

 

“Bees are just bugs,” he explained. “Even vegans kill bugs. And we need them to pollinate the plants.”

 

“Well didn’t you say shrimp are just bugs? Can we eat shrimp?”

 

He sighed and looked up at me. “We’re not eating the bees,” he said. “We’re just eating the honey.” Then he looked back at the paper.

 

That didn’t seem to make sense, but I wasn’t sure. I was sure that if I said anything he’s have an answer for it. I decided to let it go. At least I could put honey in my coffee.

 

A minute later he’d finished his article because he put down the paper and turned to me. “Clayton’s coming by later,” he said.

My brain stopped for a second and looked for bearings. “Clayton…” I said. I should know this. “From work?” I hazarded.

 

“Are you okay, Daniela?” he asked.

 

“Yeah,” I said, feeling my face flush. “I’m just having a weird brain morning.”

 

“Clayton the super,” he said. “He’s coming to look at the ceiling in the bathroom.”

 

“Right,” I said. I’m sorry, I had a dream that’s still got me fucked up.”

 

“You should tell Rebecca about it,” he said, picking up the paper again.

 

“Yeah,” I said. “I’m planning to.”

 

“You polishing that?” he asked with a glance.

 

I looked down and realized I was rubbing my thumb back and forth along the edge of the spoon. “I, ah. I guess it’s just some kind of anxiety.

 

“From the dream,” he asked.

 

“Yeah,” I said, quickly.

 

“Mm,” He said, and then we ate and read in silence for a few minutes.

 

“I had to put the tweezer away,” Michael chided without looking up from the paper. “You left it on the sink.”

 

“I’m sorry,” I said automatically. Then, “Are you sure? I don’t remember using tweezers.”

 

“Tweezer,” he said. “It’s only one thing.”

 

“And do you cut with a scissor?” I tried to retort.

 

“Scissors are two blades jointed together,” he said, still not looking up. “The two parts of a tweezer are welded into one piece.”

 

“Anyway, I don’t think I used it,” I said. Then I corrected myself, “I mean, I think I remember it, but I don’t think I used it.”

 

He lowered the paper and looked into my eyes. “You remember using it but you don’t think you used it?”

 

“I remember it from the dream,” I explained.

 

“Mm-hmm.” He sipped tea that had to be cold by then. My mug was cold by then. “But since I found it on the sink, which seems more likely: That you dreamed you did it, or that you used it before bed and then dreamed that you dreamed it?”

 

“I’m. I’m really sure I used it in the dream.”

 

“I’m sure you did,” he said, “but that doesn’t mean you didn’t also do it before bed. Do you remember what you did before bed?”

 

I was about to say “yes” when I thought an realized it was “no.” I didn’t remember. I didn’t remember going to bed. Or anything for a long while before bed. I gave up. “Yeah, you must be right.” I giggled. “I told you that dream fucked me up!”

 

He reached across and put his hand over mine and smiled. It was nice. “You’ll talk to Rebecca about it and she’ll help you figure out what it was.”

 

“Yeah!” I said. “I think I just need to get out and get it out of my head.”

 

“Was I in it?” he asked. I looked over the edge of his paper. He was reading about a sustainable water use program in Qatar.

 

“No.” I said. “There was only one other person. Mark, I think. Or Martin. One of those. He was nothing like you.”

 

“Did you have a good time?”

 

“No,” I said. “He made me really angry, somehow. It’s all gone now.”

 

“The anger’s not gone,” Michael said. “You remember that part.”

 

“Yeah,” I responded. “Well, I remember being angry, I don’t remember feeling it.”

 

“Anger’s the feeling,” he said. “If you remember being angry then you remember feeling angry.”

 

“I mean,” I said, “I remember the fact that I was angry, but not the actual feeling.”

 

“Mm-hmm,” he said. “Did you write it down?”

 

“What?”

 

“In your dream journal. Did you write it down.”

 

“Oh. Yeah. All I could remember.”

 

“May I read it later?”

 

“Uh. Sure.” I hesitated. “I thought you thought it was stupid.”

 

“Mostly,” he said. “You usually can't remember more than a sentence and it's usually something like 'Big green energy meadow.' But it's more than you'd remember without it.”

 

“Yeah,” I said. “That's the whole point.”

 

“Yeah, so that's why I want to read it.”

 

“Do you want to go through it together?,” I asked. “Sometimes I remember more things later! I can probably tell you things about them.”

 

“Mm,” he said, shaking his head. “I have to go in and do some prep for a meeting this week.”

 

“How about when you get home?”

 

“Maybe he said. Sounds like fun. But while I’m gone, Clayton said he’d be by around 1, and the place is kind of filthy.”

 

I said, “ What are you talking about, you’re so anal you never let anything get out of place.”

 

“I didn’t say it’s kind of a mess,” he said, “I said it’s kind of filthy. We haven’t mopped or vacuumed or cleaned out the fridge this week.”

“That’s Sunday routine,” I said. “It’s Saturday. You wrote the routine!”

 

“I know,” he said, “but Clayton is coming and it’s Saturday and I’d rather not have him see it like this.”

 

“He’s not going to see inside the refrigerator. And if it’s clean enough for you to live another day in, it’s clean enough for anyone else.”

 

“I’ve been getting used to it all week,” he said. “Clayton’s coming from outside, he’s not used to it. Can you do some cleaning up while I’m out?” He asked. “Before he gets here?”

 

“Yeah,” I sighed. “At least then we can have a relaxing Sunday.”

“I may have to be out Sunday,” he said, “But that makes it even better that it’s done today.”

 

He stood up, put his dishes in the sink, and filled it with hot, soapy water. Then he grabbed the paper, gave me a kiss on the top of my head and went to his office room. After awhile, I reheated the coffee in the cup and washed all the breakfast dishes.

 

About an hour later, Michael came to kiss me goodbye and went out. I took this as my cue to sweep and mop, and disinfect the bathroom. I wiped down the outside of the fridge, and when I finished that, since Clayton hadn’t come yet, I cleaned it out as well. Since the bathroom is next to the bedroom, I decided to change the sheets.

 

When that was done, I decided to write, so I took out my tablet and tried to write poetry, but after ten minutes I switched to reading poetry instead, but I couldn’t get inside of it. I tried writing again, and after frustrating myself for several minutes, I typed: “She cut herself, and I appeared.” I stared at it for awhile. Then I started trying to write from the dream. It came back in bits and snatches, each line lasting just long enough to type it down. First, stray thoughts and images. Then feelings. Some were familiar; the frustration. Others were… hotter; the anger.

 

Then I got to the feel of the tweezers on my thumb. I started to type it but stopped. It didn’t fade. It stayed in my head. I remembered the hot pressure against my thumb. But it wasn’t one of the bad things about the dream.

 

I went to the bathroom and opened the mirror. There they were. Not the same as the dream; those were good ones, probably cost $30. These were dollar store tweezers. But they were sharp. I picked them up, ran my thumb lightly over the point, then less lightly. Yes. This was the feeling. I pressed harder. Yes, that too. Not quite as sharp as the good ones in the dream. I hesitated to close the mirror again for fear of what I’d see there; too many movies. I steeled myself, closed it, and looked.

 

Was this the face from the dream? I didn’t think so. She was similar but… I think my dream self was older. Longer hair, and straighter, finer. Jaw was maybe heavier, but that could have just been from being older. But I couldn’t remember the eyes at all; I only saw mine as they are.

 

Then I remembered another part of the dream, and I brought the tweezers up to my cheek. Yes. The face was a little different, but this is what I’d seen. That made me look between my eyebrows; no stray hair.

 

I pressed, like in the dream, and pulled down. Lightly at first, then harder. The pink line grew, light at first, then quickly blooming darker. It didn’t feel like pain. It felt… hot. It felt alive.

 

I’d gotten as far as my chin when I heard the door open. “Clayton?” I called, a little alarmed. There was no way Clayton would just let himself in. I moved to the living room.

 

“It’s me, Daniela” Michael answered, and as we both stepped into the living room.

 

“Oh. Hey. Weird thing, Clayton never showed.”

 

“Yeah,” he said as he put his messenger bag on the coffee table, “that’s my bad. I forgot to tell you, Clayton was having to go out to get some parts for Olive McCurdy’s sink, so he said to just send him some pictures of the ceiling. So I did.” That’s when he looked at me. “What happened to your face?”

 

I stumbled. “Oh. Um. Just an. Accident. With— “ I couldn’t say tweezers. “A fork.”

 

“Oh,” he said. “You should put some aloe on it.”

 

“Yeah. I should.”

 

“And then get dressed up. I got wine, and I ordered in. Early dinner. I have news, and we’re celebrating.”

 

“Oh,” I said. “Something at work?”

 

He smiled, and showed his teeth. When he full-on smiles like that, he’s really beautiful. “Yes!” he said. Take your time, the food will be at twenty minutes.”

 

I started to get excited. I couldn’t remember ever having brought news from work worth celebrating. I got my nice dress from the closet and put it on. I took some time to put my hair up with barrettes, then put on some lipstick. I considered for a few seconds, and drew on a little eyeliner. As a last minute thought, I sprayed a some perfume on my wrist, dabbed it everywhere.

 

When I was done, the door rang, and Michael brought back dinner. He’s already set the table, and he insisted I sit while he served. He opened the wine to let it breathe while he put the delivery on plates. He set us up with salads first, then said with a big grin, “Just for you, just for tonight!” Then he set a plate of huge Thai shrimp on rice down in front of me.

 

“We can eat bugs tonight?” I asked. He laughed. He had a really charming laugh, when he used it. Finally, he sat and poured the wine, and I was glad we’d sprung for wine glasses because it wouldn’t have been as nice from mason jars.

 

“How’s the shrimp?” he asked.

 

“I haven’t tried it yet!” I said. I grabbed a fork. “Here, I’ll try it. Now what’s the news?” Then I realized that the shrimp were so big I needed the knife.

 

“Okay,” he said as I cut a shrimp in two. “Remember last time we had dinner with Sandra and Ray?”

 

“Yeah?” I said around a bite of shrimp, even though I really didn’t.

 

“Remember how they had news?”

 

“Um.” I hoped I looked like I was thinking. I was actually having trouble remembering who Sandra and Ray were. Michael sipped his wine while he waited. When I thought I’d drawn it out as long as I could, I said, “No.”

 

He looked disappointed. “They said they’d decided to be open.”

 

“About what?” I asked.

 

“Open,” he said. “Their relationship. To other people.”

 

I think my heart missed a beat. I was starting to remember.

 

“You said you were interested.”

 

I hadn’t had wine yet but my head felt light. “I said it was interesting.” For the first time, he started to look uncertain. “Why are you telling me about this?” I asked.

 

He decided to soldier on. “Well. I found it interesting too. Like you did.” He took a bite of rice and seemed to chew it for several minutes. I waited until I couldn’t.

 

“Are you saying you want us to see other people?”

 

“Well,” he said quickly, “you don’t have to.”

 

My heart was beating in my throat now. I felt like I was talking through someone else. “But you’d be seeing other people.”

“Well,” he started again, “not people necessarily. But at least one other person.”

 

I cocked my head, feeling like a pigeon, but couldn’t do otherwise. “Are you already seeing someone?”

 

“No!” he said, seeming scandalized. “But I do have someone I will be seeing. Once we’re agreed that we’re open.”

 

My breath felt short. My pulse pounded in my temples. One of my thoughts escaped my mouth, “You said this was news from work.”

 

He nodded with the excitement I’d felt a few minutes before. “I know her from work!”

 

Everything swam. “What’s her name?” I asked.

 

“Evangeline,” he said.

 

“Of course,” I muttered.

 

I didn’t make this mess.

 

His voice seemed to grow more faint, or my heartbeat more deafening, as he spoke. “She works in HR. You’ll really like her, you have a lot in common.”

 

“Besides you?” I asked. He laughed again but I couldn’t hear it. I shook my head to try to hear again, but found myself focusing on something in my hand, under the table. What was it?

 

“…I wouldn’t just bring a random person into our relationship,” Michael was saying.

 

“She’s not apart of our relationship,” I said, numbly but with pain looming nearby. Oh right. The knife. I was able to relax just a little. It felt reassuring.

 

“Well, it’s a kind of relationship, your partner’s partners.”

 

“She’s not your partner.”

 

“Not yet,” he said. “Not until we decide.”

 

“I’m not deciding to do that.” I let my other hand drop into my lap.

 

“Well, that’s the thing,” he said, “I’ve already told her that we’d have the conversation tonight and decide.”

 

“I’m deciding no.” I felt the blade with my thumb. It was serrated. I couldn’t decide if that made it unsuitable, or more suitable.

“‘No’ isn’t a decision,” he corrected me. “It’s a refusal to make a decision. And that’s not a tenable result of this conversation,” he finished with a slow shake of his head.

 

The dress was on the short side. That was good, I reflected. “There’s nothing tenable about this conversation,” I said. “Not unless I’m about to wake up from it.”

 

He looked disappointed and disarrayed at the same time. Disgruntled, I guess. “I did this badly,” he said, mournfully. “I should have waited until we’d had dinner and some of the wine. I just thought…” He seemed to search for words, and when he found them, he sounded hurt. “I just thought you’d be happy for me.”

 

“I’m not happy for you,” I admitted. “I’m not happy about anything.”

 

He nodded. “I understand,” he said, solemnly. Then he rallied. “But this is not one of the negotiable points,” he said. “This is how it had to be.”

 

“Is it?” I said. I moved my hands closer together in my lap.

 

He nodded.

 

I said, “Let’s see.”

 

I jerked the knife over my forearm. The serrations bit deep.

 

 

I woke up.

 

I sat up and looked around, trying to remember where I was. My eyes were gummy as I tried to blink away the dream. Gummy and a little wet. The only light was from the screen in front of me. I was in the kitchen, at the table. I’d fallen asleep at the keyboard again.

 

In front of me was a screen of “m”s. I let the page count come into focus: 70 . It should have been four or five. The time read 2:13. How long had it taken to fill 70 pages with one letter? An hour? I couldn’t have been out that long. Half hour? I closed my eyes and stretched, rubbed my forearm where I could still feel the dig of the keys; I felt their indentations under my fingertips and started desperately trying to rub them away.

 

I hit Save and closed the laptop. I’d worry about the rest when the morning was really morning. I couldn’t even remember just then what I’d been typing when I fell asleep.

 

I tried hard not to wake up all the way as I made for the bedroom. I slipped under the covers, and as I slid the the laptop between the bed and nightstand, I felt Michele shift and take a deep breath, and froze. She reached over and put her hand on my side, rolled over to put her mouth near my shoulder.

 

“Dela?” She half-whispered, her voice thick with grogginess and fry. “What time is it?”

 

“After two,” I said over my shoulder. “Sorry I woke you. I’m exhausted.” With my head turned, I could just see the top of hers.

“Mmmm,” she said, and took another deep breath. I don’t know if she was smelling my hair, or just breathing, but it turned into a yawn. “Talk morning?” she asked. My heartbeat slowed; she was fading fast.

 

“Yeah,” I said. I was fading fast too. Good. I wanted new dreams to get rid of the ghost of the other. “Morning make breakfast.” I caught her yawn and nestled into the pillow.

 

When I woke again it took a few seconds to remember where I was. I lifted myself up on my elbow and hear Michele stir behind me. She slipped her around me and pulled herself against my back. “Morning,” she said into my shoulder, and gave it a kiss.

I smiled and lay back down, turning to face her. “How’d you sleep?” I asked.

 

“Terrible,” she said with a pretend frown. “Someone woke me up in the middle of the night.”

 

“I’m sorry about that,” I said, with an exaggerated frown of my own.

 

She smiled. “I forgive you. How about you?”

 

I frowned again, for real. “I slept fine once I was in bed,” I started. “But before that…” I trailed off, trying to remember and not to remember.

 

She waited and said, “Before that…?”

 

I realized I’d been holding my breath. I couldn’t let go until I’d answered. “Before that, how about some coffee?” I immediately felt better for the exhale.

 

She grinned. “I’ll start it.” She kissed me quick on the nose and jumped out of bed. “You do your morning ablutions.”

 

After she left the room I stretched, dreading and looking forward to talking out the dream. I couldn’t remember that much, mostly just the end. But Michele was right; everything was always more bearable after my morning shower.

 

As I went into the bathroom, an impulse made me look at the sink. Nothing unusual there. What was I looking for? I racked my brain. The tweezers. (Tweezer?) I checked the medicine cabinet; there it was, right where it should be.

 

I stood outside the shower until it ran hot, then got in and lathered up the bath scrubber. I scrubbed down, washing away the grime from my eyes, and the memory of keyprints from my arm. I scrubbed my thighs without looking, but I couldn’t keep my hands from lingering, feeling the soapy bumps under my fingertips. Ow, there! I looked. No, that was just the bruise from Friday. Still, I shuddered. That part of the dream, the cut, the burn of it, had been… so real. It lingered.

 

I could smell the coffee when I opened the bathroom door. I got dressed in a coffee I followed it to the kitchen and sniffed dramatically. “You are a goddess,” I said.

 

“I know,” Michele said through her Puck smile. “Did you finish your grant proposal at least?”

 

“I… don’t think so,” I said. “I fell asleep at the keyboard, I’m not sure how much I got done.”

 

“Is that what had you upset?” she asked. “You have until Wednesday, don’t you?”

 

“Yeah,” I said. “I mean yeah Wednesday, no it wasn’t that. But maybe it should be, though. I don’t know when I’m going to find time, my next two days are packed pretty tight.” I checked myself before I started a stress spiral.

 

“Well,” Michele said, “good news. You’ve got an extra couple of hours today; I cancelled today’s appointment with Melanie.”

I caught myself before I reacted, answered neutrally. “Did something happen?”

 

She looked into her coffee and gave her combo smile-shrug that meant it was nothing to think about. “Nah. I just wasn’t feeling it.”

 

“Oh.” I said. Then I thought to smile. “Well. Thanks for clearing the calendar. Grant shouldn’t be a problem now!”

 

“You’re welcome!” she sing-songed.

 

We heard the neighbor next door should for her kids to hurry up. Michele glared at the window. “I should call in a noise complaint,” she mused. “Nosy bitch.”

 

I tries to soothe before it built up. “We don’t know it was her.”

 

She turned the same glare at me. “Maybe you don’t. But I do.”

 

I focused on my coffee, which I was holding in stiff hands. “Do we have to talk about that night?” When I looked up, Michele was still looking at me and I could pick up different expressions fighting under the surface. She finally settled on consideration. Smile-shrug. “Nah. I’m sorry, I know it upsets you. Just…”

 

“I know,” I said. “Thanks.””

 

”So what was it, then?” Michele asked, sipping her coffee but looking at me.

 

“What was what?” I asked, confused.

 

She rolled her eyes. “That had you upset. If not the grant proposal.”

 

Oh,” I said. “Oh, nothing, really, it’s just while I was asleep I had a fucked-up dream.”

 

“Oh. Was I in it?”

 

“No.” I frowned. “”Well… No.”

 

“No well no?” she asked? “The ‘well’ sounds like a yes.”

 

I shook my head. “There was someone named Michael, but he was a guy.”

 

She cocked her head and squinted. “Were you his girlfriend?”

 

I hesitated, like I always do when she gets that cocked-head squint. “Well.. Yeah. But it wasn’t you.”

 

She scanned her eyes back and forth like she was looking for something she was missing. “Were you living together?”

 

I stared hearing my pulse in my ears. “Yes, but—”

 

“In an apartment?”

 

“Yeah, but—”

 

“That sure sounds like me. You dreamed I was a man?”

 

“No. I told you, it was a fucked-up dream. It was a nightmare.”

 

She didn’t lose the squint but seemed mollified. She asked, “What happened in the dream?”

 

“I cut myself.”

 

Here eyes went round and she looked at my legs “Again?”

 

“In the dream.” She relaxed. “But I wasn’t really me in the dream, either. I was… like me but a different me.”

 

“You were another you who still cut herself?”

 

“I didn’t cut myself in the dream. I mean, I’d never cut myself before, in the dream. And I did it… I think I did it to get away.”

 

“Isn’t that why you said you cut yourself before?”

 

“Yeah, but—” I hesitated again. We’d avoided an argument already, I didn’t want to start a new one. ”Maybe you’re right. Maybe that’s what it was about.”

 

She sat back. I saw too late how sullen she looked. “So you had a dream that you cut yourself to escape a bad relationship. With the male version of me.”

 

I closed my eyes. “Oh, fuck, Shell, please don’t do this.”

 

“Don’t do this? Oh, is this another one of the things I do? Is this what I do that gives you nightmares?”

 

I still hadn’t opened my eyes. I tried to speak calmly. “Shell, we talked about this. This is the thing where you start seeing criticism where there aren’t any. You told Melanie you’d listen next time—” I started as something shattered. Behind me, and I opened my eyes.

 

“Fuck Melanie! And fuck you!” She yelled in her shrill little angry-pixie voice that would probably seem funny if I didn’t know what went along with it. “You wanna escape then fucking do that! Fucking leave!” She punctuated each sentence with a thrown cup or bowl. She wasn’t trying to hit me with them, just sending them to shatter around the room. This was familiar. I didn’t think she’d ever hit me, but as she grew angrier they came closer and closer. I left for the bathroom. A breaking plate followed me, and then so did Michele.

 

“That’s it, run away!” she shot down the hallway. “That’s what you want, right?” As I touched the bathroom doorknob, her footsteps were hot behind me. I slipped in and shut and locked the door. I felt deja vu as the knob rattled and the pounding began, then both at the same time as she used on hand for each.

 

My hands were in my hair as I sank to the floor with my back to the wall. I let go of my head and gripped my knees. The pounding became occasional, replaced by screaming my name, obscenities, accusations. I shut my eyes but that just made let me focus more on the sounds at the door and of the blood pounding in my ears. I started to rub my hands up and down over my thighs, feeling the raised scars through the fabric of my slacks; my nails dug into the fabric, trying to scratch through.

 

When dishes started thudding and breaking against the door, I jumped up and threw open the medicine cabinet. The tweezers were where I’d seen them, not twenty minutes before. As I picked them up, the crashing sounds at the door became background noise. I ran my thumb over the point. Once, then harder, and I could hardly hear the sounds at all; I remembered that feeling, from the dream… from before the dream? I didn’t know how much I could remember from before the dream. Where had I met Michele? It seemed lost in an uncreated past. Either way, I knew this sharpness. I knew it was sharp enough to cut.

 

I pulled down my slacks and placed the point among the crisscross of old, white scars. I pressed, and pulled.

 

 

I woke up.

 

I woke confused, to a banging. Dad was shouting for me.

 

“I’ll be right there, Dad!” I yelled, and put my head in my hands. Wow. That had been a doozy. I must have been even more sleep deprived than I’d thought; that always gives me the weirdest dreams. I wondered how much of the dream had been Dad calling me.

 

I worried at first that he’d fallen, but my shout had quieted him, and that wouldn’t have happened if it had been a something big. But he wouldn’t stay quiet long in any case. I had to get up still foggy, still trying to remember what was dream and what was real.

 

He was in his bed in the living room. That’s the only place he could be, if he hadn’t fallen out. I knew what he needed, the same as every morning.

 

“Good morning, Dad,” I said. Over the months, I’d found the best tone was professional brusqueness. Keep it friendly, but not too positive, or he gets crankier. “Everything okay?”

 

Obviously everything wasn’t. He was stuck in a bed. But it was the code we’d worked out.

 

“Yah,” he blurted with a nod. That was the code we’d worked for “I haven’t shit my diaper yet.” So it was a good morning so far, and I started getting him into his transport chair to go two yards to the commode. He managed a half dozen demands and complaints before he was seated. I’d taken too long. Breakfast. Sausages (which digest badly for him). Blow his nose. Go outside after breakfast. Transport chair is…. I couldn’t even make out that complaint, I was focusing on too many other things.

 

I thought my mental mantra over and over the whole time: It’s not his fault, it’s not his fault, it’s not his fault. Stroke is a bitch. Brain damage is worse. But God, I’m tired, I thought as he strained on the commode. I realized for the hundredth time that I was no more tired than the day before. I wasn’t sure I could remember what it felt like to not be tired.

 

I wiped him when I was done, and then that was gone. That’s a weird thing that started after a the first month. Once I’m done wiping, I retain no memory of it, just a blind spot in my experience of the day. I really think if someone told me winning lottery numbers while I was wiping him, I’d never even remember it happened once I’d hiked his pants back up.

 

I made him breakfast. Mashed up his sausages with his eggs, spiced up the whole thing with pepper and adobo so he’d eat it, and helped him with the fork. He could handle bigger chunks now than he could just three months ago, when it had to be nearly pureed. That was good, but didn’t really make it any easier. At least he took his breakfast pills without trouble.

 

It was too cold, of course. Then too hot. Then too bland. Then too salty. Not enough sausage to egg. No, he wanted bacon instead. It’s not his fault, it’s not his fault, it’s not his fault. After I’d cleaned up and helped him to clean himself with the wipe, he still wanted to go out, so we did. I helped him get seated at the picnic table in the front of the house, which he seemed satisfied with. I put three coins in front of him for his hand exercises and he glared at them. “Can’t make you do it, Dad, but you know you need to,” I said. He tried to smack them off the table, and managed to make the dime fall into the space between two boards. He seemed satisfied with that, too, so I let it go.

 

As I picked the dime up from under the table, there was a growl of tires on road gravel and we both watched Cliff pull up on the other side of the road. He got out and ambled over with the tape-on smile people used so often when they had to see Dad. Show they’re properly inspired.

 

“Hey, Nell!” he said as he crossed the street. “How’s Mitch doin’ today?”

 

Dad started to spit curses that were thankfully unintelligible. Or maybe not thankfully. Maybe people would do better if they could hear what Dad was thinking of them.

 

“I think he’s wondering why you’re askin’ me instead of him,” I offered.

 

Cliff’s smile slipped to a grimace for a second, and he looked abashed and turned to Dad. “How you feelin’ today, Mitch?”

 

Dad just gave a vague wave with his better hand and refused to meet Cliff’s gaze, glaring stubbornly past him at the neighbors’ Douglas fir.

 

Cliff hesitated, then rallied. “Well, it’s just that Andy’s retiring, and he’d having a thing about it tonight. He was sayin’ he’d like you to be there. If you felt up to it, of course.”

 

Dad made the wave again, along with a waggle of his head that was not clearly a nod or a shake. Cliff was lost.

“I think he wants to think it over,” I told cliff. “That right, Dad?” I took his pointed nonresponse as a yes. I looked back at Cliff. “I’ll let you know, Cliff. Thanks for stoppin’ by.”

 

He nodded and weaved a goodbye. “Good seein’ ya, Mitch!” he said as he took a few steps backward toward his car. “Lookin’ great!” Then he grimaced again, hotfooted to the driver’s seat and pulled away.

 

“Fuk’r” Dad said once he’d gone.

 

“That’s what you say about everyone, Dad.”

 

“Yra fuk’r too,” he muttered.

 

I allowed myself the luxury of a deep breath, and a sigh, clapped my hands down on my thighs. “Been a long time since that was true, Dad,” I said.

 

After a second, he gave a little cough. Then another, and I realized it was laughter. Then another. And then one more started him coughing for real. And that was the end of that.

 

Over the next two hours, Dad needed his inhaler, a blanket, coffee (and help with each of twenty or so sips of it), three changes of seating at the picnic table, the bathroom twice, two more medications, a snack, a dozen sips of smoothie, a chapter of his book read to him, his email read to him, and, finally, his nap. I don’t know what I’d have done if he hadn’t needed a mid-day nap. His nap was my moment to rest.

 

Like most days, once he was asleep, I went to my bed and lay down. Like most days, I spent most of the next hour intermittently crying.

 

The work wasn’t the bad part. It was soul-crushing, thankless and endless, but, in the end, it was just work. The bad part was the way Dad wasn’t Dad anymore. He’d always been gruff, but he’d also been sweet, patient, and good-natured. He’d been the shoulder everyone he knew could cry on — even his most stupidly manly bowling buddies. Or, for kid, a shoulder you could ride on — one kid on each shoulder.

 

Like I said, brain damage is a bitch.

 

 

Come back for part 2 next week!