Tag: First Person

The Day, Continued

The Day, Continued (Week 3 winner)

Keys, shoes, pointless umbrella – I had everything I needed and still stood staring at the door. I knew it wasn’t going to open itself. I knew it was up to me to cross the threshold to start my day. 

And I didn’t do it.

I put the umbrella back in the closet. I put my keys back on the hook next to the door. I took off my shoes and put them back onto the mat. I did get as far as touching the door but not until I’d already undone my preparations, waiting to make even that minimal contact with the potential of the outside world until I’d made it clear to myself that there wasn’t a chance of meeting it that day.

From the safety of the big chair furthest from the door, I considered my options. I had built quite a comfortable life for myself within the walls of my apartment. I didn’t, technically, need to leave it for anything. The internet brought all the world I could stand and then some to my fingertips. I was, through my computer, able to meet all of my basic needs from the comfort of my big chair. Groceries found their way to my doorstep and friends appeared on screen at regular intervals.

Outside wasn’t a necessary part of my existence. Or, at least, I’d convinced myself of such. Even so, at least once a week I went through the process of attempting to go out into it. That day wasn’t new – I had gotten dressed and shoed and wrapped my keys in one hand and my umbrella in the other on fifty one other days. And, on each of those days I found myself back on my chair, staring at the door from the furthest distance possible in my apartment. 

That day was my fifty second attempt. My fifty second failure. 

Have you ever failed at something that consistently? I think it does something to you, failing that many times. I’m not really sure I had any hope around my failed attempts. Had I honestly thought that I would open the door that morning? Had I used the same old self talk script to hype myself up enough that I got dressed and put on my shoes? Looking back it’s hard to imagine that I had any belief left.

My chair  supported me and held me, and that had been all I needed for a long time. All I had, anyway. My apartment was a fully furnished single room with an overstuffed chair, a bed that disappeared into the wall, a table that adjusted in height so it worked for all uses, a few pictures on each wall, and three bookshelves. The only wall without a bookshelf was the one taken up by what passed for a kitchen. It didn’t have full appliances – there wouldn’t have been room to live if it had. The range (no oven), microwave (half-sized), fridge (quarter-sized), and sink (single basin) got the job done.

Minimalist is what the wise souls on the internet called how I lived. Having a lable for it added ligitimacy to my mishigas in a way that was almost as comfortable as my big chair. I rubbed the arms of that chair as I contemplated what my day would be since it wouldn’t involve the outside world after all. For almost two months I’d had the pleasure of reorienting my day’s plans around my failure and I’d gotten rather good at it.

Tucking my feet underneath me I leaned back into the chair and closed my eyes. I had books I could read and house chores I could do, but in that moment I didn’t want to do anything beyond sitting in my chair and licking my proverbial wounds. As had happened on the other fifty one days, I went over my options and reasons and ideas as if doing so might help me move forward.

I nearly jumped out of my skin when my computer, not my phone, started ringing. The sound was jarring all on its own and only more so because it was such a rarity. Talking on the phone was something I avoided only slightly less than the outdoors and anyone who knew me understood that calling was something reserved for dire emergencies. Those non-existent calls would come to my phone, though, not the computer.

It took me a minute to decide to act and another minute to get myself up and over to my computer. It wasn’t even on. It was sitting, closed, in its spot on one of the bookshelves. Unplugging it and turning it off was something I’d read about online as a way to limit the compulsive checking of all the things. For the last three weeks I’d been dutifully disconnecting it and shutting it down. The only change it had made so far was that I was getting a bit more activity in with all the time spent bending down to plug and unplug it every time I thought of something I needed to do online. 

The ringing continued as I got the machine up and running. I found myself missing “the olden days” when phones, the ones that plugged into the wall, anyway, would only wring a certain number of times before going silent. My first taste of an adrenaline rush of, in my youth, came from racing across the ground floor of our family home to skid to a stop in the kitchen and retrieve the handset from the phone before that last ring. It didn’t matter who the call was for back then because there was no way of knowing. The simplicity sounded delicious in that moment.

I found myself shaking as I fought to find which app I had that could make a noise matching the ring I heard. It turned out to be one of the social platforms – one that I spent too much time on and that was the impetus to start disconnecting the computer. I paused for a moment of thanks that it was not, indeed, a phone call I was about to need to face. Once the app was open and on-screen I was confronted with the face of a dear friend.

“What took you so long?”

“I thought you were calling me and that slowed me down.”

She stared at me for a moment and I thought I saw the corners of her mouth twitch like she was holding back a grin. My shoulders tensed up as I readied myself for a fight.

“We both know I know enough not to call you.”

She was right. She did know me. She knew me better, or at least more honestly, than I knew myself. That the knowing wasn’t a two way street was something I’d struggled with for far longer than I’d struggled to leave my apartment. Helene. Helene Granscene. Helene Granscene in all her flamboyant, intense, loud, and boisterous glory had been placed next to me in the twelfth grade and hadn’t left my side since. For a time she and I led parallel lives though that’s not something most people would assume looking at us today. 

She’d smiled and shouted her way through high school and college while I slinked along in her shadow. Helene took center stage in all venues while I was happiest behind the scenes, but we were together through it all the same. We shared a friend group made up of people quieter than her and louder than me with the two of us marking the edges. 

“I have a proposition for you.”

My eyes narrowed and I pulled back from the screen. “What sort of proposition?”

“One that’s going to get you up and out of that damn apartment.”

“You’re not going to strong-arm me out the door, Helene. I’ll leave when I’m ready.”

“I said a proposition, not an intervention.”

“I’m not sure you have that in you.”

Helene was a force and always had been. We’d had similar conversations over the last few months and I knew she was shocked that she hadn’t gotten her way yet. History was behind her in that – I’d always capitulated to her desires in the past. She’d managed to get me on a bug-infested safari in Africa and on one of those ridiculous glass bottomed ledges that were all the rage in skyscrapers. When I retreated into my apartment she let it go for a little while. In the last couple of months, though, getting me out into the world seemed to have become one of her projects. She wasn’t nearly as used to failure as I was.

“Can I at least tell you what I’m thinking? Would you actually listen without shutting me out?”

“I don’t think I’m up for it today. Maybe tomorrow.”

She looked down and, even though I am well aware of how technology works, I leaned forward as if I could peer over the edge of the monitor to see what she was seeing.”

The Day

The Day (week 3, day 2)

Keys, shoes, pointless umbrella – I had everything I needed and still stood staring at the door. I knew it wasn’t going to open itself. I knew it was up to me to cross the threshold to start my day. 

And I didn’t do it.

I put the umbrella back in the closet. I put my keys back on the hook next to the door. I took off my shoes and put them back onto the mat. I did get as far as touching the door but not until I’d already undone my preparations, waiting to make even that minimal contact with the potential of the outside world until I’d made it clear to myself that there wasn’t a chance of meeting it that day.

From the safety of the big chair furthest from the door, I considered my options. I had built quite a comfortable life for myself within the walls of my apartment. I didn’t, technically, need to leave it for anything. The internet brought all the world I could stand and then some to my fingertips. I was, through my computer, able to meet all of my basic needs from the comfort of my big chair. Groceries found their way to my doorstep and friends appeared on screen at regular intervals.

Outside wasn’t a necessary part of my existence. Or, at least, I’d convinced myself of such. Even so, at least once a week I went through the process of attempting to go out into it. That day wasn’t new – I had gotten dressed and shoed and wrapped my keys in one hand and my umbrella in the other on fifty one other days. And, on each of those days I found myself back on my chair, staring at the door from the furthest distance possible in my apartment. 

That day was my fifty second attempt. My fifty second failure. 

Have you ever failed at something that consistently? I think it does something to you, failing that many times. I’m not honestly sure I had any hope around my failed attempts. Had I honestly thought that I would open the door that morning? Had I used the same old self talk script to hype myself up enough that I got dressed and put on my shoes? Looking back it’s hard to imagine that I had any belief left.

My chair  supported me and held me, and that had been all I needed for a long time. All I had, anyway. My apartment was a fully furnished single room with an overstuffed chair, a bed that disappeared into the wall, a table that adjusted in height so it worked for all uses, a few pictures on each wall, and three bookshelves. The only wall without a bookshelf was the one taken up by what passed for a kitchen. It didn’t have full appliances – there wouldn’t have been room to live if it had. The range (no oven), microwave (half-sized), fridge (quarter-sized), and sink (single basin) got the job done.

Middle Feet, Continued

Middle Feet, Continued (week 1 winner)

Little feet take many steps and barely leave a mark. Big feet, no matter how few steps they take, are sure to tell you where they’ve been. My feet? They fall somewhere in the middle.

I was a precocious child, or so they tell me. I walked and talked early and often. I burned through toys and puzzles, getting bored quickly which led to mischief. By the time I was seven I understood that I was different from other kids and not necessarily in a way that enamored me to the adults. By the time I was in middle school I’d stopped caring. 

Carefree twelve year olds are, in a word, dangerous. It’s only the clarity of hindsight that allows me to say that from here. At the time? Well, again, I was dangerous. 

My lack of care protected me from the normal prepubescent and pubescent angst. I drifted through those years blissfully unaware of the impact I was having on those around me and oblivious to the struggles of my peers. Maybe things would be different now if I’d been more affected back then, and maybe the now was destined to be no matter what.

Feet, in particular my feet, have a tendency to follow paths. My feet walked me right into adulthood without need or want of much in the way of connection. I took care of myself and only myself. I didn’t ask anyone for anything at anytime for anyreason. 

I’m sure you will understand, then, why I didn’t jump into action when I found Gransene sitting on my doorstep.

I could have invited them in, or asked if something was wrong. Hell, I could have called the police and let them deal with Gransene. If I’d cared, there were plenty of options available to me. But I didn’t care. When I opened the door and found them sitting there I did what any logical, precocious, disconnected being would do. I closed the front door and left through the back instead.

Yes, I took the briefest of moments to determine that nothing was immediately wrong. There was no blood, for example. No cries of pain or fear. I suppose if there had been I would have made a different choice. Probably. Instead, I closed the door restoring the barrier between them and me and went about my day.

Gransene wasn’t my responsibility. I wasn’t attached to them anymore than I was attached to anyone. They had appeared in my life a few months before they appeared on my doorstep and with just as much notice. I had walked into a shoe store in search of a pair of bright yellow shoes. The style didn’t matter, just the color and fit. I’m sure you have similar urges from time to time, and on that day my focus was on finding a pair of shoes in a bright enough yellow – nothing more, nothing less. I’d satisfied similar urges at this particular store and walked in reasonably certain I’d be able to complete my task quickly.

When you go shopping, are you looking for random strangers to glom onto you and bring you news from another realm in hopes that you’ll help them slay a proverbial or literal dragon? No, of course not, and neither was I. Gransene was sitting on one of those little stools that only exist in shoe stores. The aisle they were in was the aisle that had what I thought might be the perfect pair of shoes. I promise you, had I been on a different quest or on no quest at all there is no way I would have chosen to join them in the same air space.

Gransene, though I didn’t know their name at the time, sat there on that stool in the middle of the aisle. They were muttering something that wasn’t necessarily in English and I’d decided I didn’t care what they might or might not be saying. I was, after all, there for the shoes. It wasn’t until I reached out to take down a pair that looked promising that Gransene stood up and put their hand on my arm.

I froze. I don’t do strangers, I don’t do mutterers, and I certainly don’t do muttering strangers who make physical contact without direct invitation. Gransene looked me in the eye and I felt my heart speed up.

“You’re the one.”

I wasn’t sure if this was some incredibly awkward pick up line or an accusation born of mistaken identity but, as if I were in a movie, I looked over my shoulders – both of them – before responding.

“Excuse me?”

“You’re the one.” 

I felt myself heating up from my neck outward and was unsure of how to read that particular sensation. I was used to floating around people without them having the most impact on me and here was some stranger who, with a single sentence repeated twice had me feeling feelings and heating up. All I wanted was my yellow shoes. I decided, as any misanthropic human would, to pretend they weren’t there or at the very least weren’t stable. I walked past them and reached down to grab the yellowish shoes on the shelf.

That was when they touched me. Hand to arm, skin to skin. They reached out and put their hand on my arm and stopped me in my tracks. 

“You’re the one.”

Their hand was cool and dry on my hotter than usual skin. I stared at their fingers because that was easier than looking them in the eye. Their fingers were long and pointy, with nails that tapered into what looked to be painfully sharp points. Or rather, into points that would feel painfully sharp to anyone who ended up beneath them. There was an odd contrast at play between their delicate and soft fingers and those angry nails. 

Instead of letting myself get lost in figuring out what was going on or engaging with them any further, I slipped my arm out from underneath them and left the store. No pair of shoes was worth that sort of drama.

The second time I encountered them was when I learned their name. I was skirting the edge of an outdoor performance of some play without much intention of stopping when I saw them sitting on a picnic table. Not at the table, ON the table. They were sitting in the center of a picnic table off to the side of where the production was happening, but they had their back to the activity. They had their legs folded and one hand up towards the sky with the other reaching out in front of them. No one was anywhere close to the table for obvious reasons, and yet it looked like they were gesturing towards someone. 

I wasn’t going to stop. I even thought about turning around and walking the other direction. And yet I found my feet walking me right up to them, putting myself in their line of sight, and saying, “what’s your deal?” 

They didn’t move or blink, they just looked at me. I stayed there for more minutes than I should, watching them stare at me with their arms up and out. My feet seemed to think I was where I belonged so I stood there, waiting for them to say or do something. 

Eventually, they blinked three times and tilted their head. “It’s you.”

“Is it?” 

“You’re the one.”

My feet decided it was time to go and I turned to walk away. They reached out and touched my arm again, and their skin was cool and their nails were still dagger sharp. The difference was that this time I didn’t pull away. 

“What do you mean and, pardon me, but who the fuck are you?” Tact was not something I typically brought to most situations.

They closed their hand around my arm and gave it a small squeeze. “You need me.”

“Oh, no. No I don’t.” I moved to pull my arm from their grasp and was surprised at the strength with which they held firm.

“You do, and you’ll realize it eventually.” They let go of me and blinked three times again. “Gransene.”

Even though their hand was gone I still felt them wrapped around my arm. The coolness stayed and I seriously thought they might have left a visible mark on me. They hadn’t – I checked – and that somehow was more disconcerting.

“Gransene?”

“Yes.”

“What is that?”

“Gransene is me. I am Gransene.”

I put my hands up, backed away, and let my feet lead me away from Gransene and their coolness.

The third time I saw Gransene was the first time their existence was challenged. I was sitting at a bar, alone, the way I like it, when I saw Gransene sitting in a booth in the back corner. They didn’t have a drink or anything else with them. They were sitting on the seat this time rather than being perched on the table top. If I’d been standing I’m not sure I’d have stayed.

This is part of the 2022 500-Word Short Story project. Comment with “Tell me more” if you’d like to vote for this to move to the next round.

Middle Feet

Middle Feet (Week 1, Day 3)

Little feet take many steps and barely leave a mark. Big feet, no matter how few steps they take, are sure to tell you where they’ve been. My feet? They fall somewhere in the middle.

I was a precocious child, or so they tell me. I walked and talked early and often. I burned through toys and puzzles, getting bored quickly which led to mischief. By the time I was seven I understood that I was different from other kids and not necessarily in a way that enamored me to the adults. By the time I was in middle school I’d stopped caring. 

Carefree twelve year olds are, in a word, dangerous. It’s only the clarity of hindsight that allows me to say that from here. At the time? Well, again, I was dangerous. 

My lack of care protected me from the normal prepubescent and pubescent angst. I drifted through those years blissfully unaware of the impact I was having on those around me and oblivious to the struggles of my peers. Maybe things would be different now if I’d been more affected back then, and maybe the now was destined to be no matter what.

Feet, in particular my feet, have a tendency to follow paths. My feet walked me right into adulthood without need or want of much in the way of connection. I took care of myself and only myself. I didn’t ask anyone for anything at anytime for anyreason. 

I’m sure you will understand, then, why I didn’t jump into action when I found Gransene sitting on my doorstep.

I could have invited them in, or asked if something was wrong. Hell, I could have called the police and let them deal with Gransene. If I’d cared, there were plenty of options available to me. But I didn’t care. When I opened the door and found them sitting there I did what any logical, precocious, disconnected being would do. I closed the front door and left through the back instead.

Yes, I took the briefest of moments to determine that nothing was immediately wrong. There was no blood, for example. No cries of pain or fear. I suppose if there had been I would have made a different choice. Probably. Instead, I closed the door restoring the barrier between them and me and went about my day.

Gransene wasn’t my responsibility. I wasn’t attached to them anymore than I was attached to anyone. They had appeared in my life a few months before they appeared on my doorstep and with just as much notice. I had walked into a shoe store in search of a pair of bright yellow shoes. The style didn’t matter, just the color and fit. I’m sure you have similar urges from time to time, and on that day my focus was on finding a pair of shoes in a bright enough yellow – nothing more, nothing less. I’d satisfied similar urges at this particular store and walked in reasonably certain I’d be able to complete my task quickly.

***

This is part of the 2022 500-Word Short Story project. Comment with “Tell me more” if you’d like to vote for this to move to the next round.

Power Play

Power Play (March 2020, Week 2 Day 4)

I saw you. I saw you look at your date when I walked in. I saw the smirk you gave him and his return of it. Maybe you thought you were being clever or subtle, or maybe you didn’t give any thought to me and my feelings – it was hard to see past the smirk. If I could have chosen a different seat, further from your smug gaze, closer to my reason for being there, I would have. I wasn’t that lucky and, as you might be realizing now, neither were you.

I sat through the presentation with your eyes boring into the back of me. I focused on the speakers, their ideas, their plans. You focused on me. I wonder now why you even chose to be there. I’m not usually that much of a distraction. Eyes skim past me most of the time, barely registering my presence. I navigate my way through stores – even electronics stores and perfume aisles – without a single employee offering help or samples. I have to stay after class to get my questions answered because my raised hand is invisible. I have to do my own sleuthing at grocery stores because there’s no one willing to help me find elusive items. Everywhere I go I’m ignored unless I ask for attention. But not to you – to you I was a strong magnet for your hatred.

A few years ago you would have won. Your baleful stare would have unsettled me even though I might not have realized that was the problem. The “you don’t belong” message that shot at me from the very fibre of your being would have rung loud and clear and I would have believed you. I would have apologized my way out of the room, making myself a spectacle in my attempts to regain my invisibility. I would have tripped over a purse or a chair or a cane while I struggled to flee with as much speed as I could muster. I would have ceded my sense of belonging to you and would have added yet another place to my “no fly” list. Yes, a few years ago things would have turned out differently, for both of us.

You’re used to having that kind of power over the people around you. Used to getting to create the environment and cast the players to make every room your room. It’s almost not your fault, though of course you could have made different choices along the way. That you didn’t – haven’t – says a lot about you. You savor your power even though you’ve done nothing to earn it. You tumbled into your circumstances just like I tumbled into mine, only I can see that and you choose not to. You surround yourself with weakness. It’s the only way to maintain your position.

Your date was a follower. You didn’t notice the furtive side glances he made every time you shifted in your seat. You didn’t see that he wanted to leave long before things got heated. 

October 17, Continued

October 17, Continued (March 2020, Week 1 Day 7)

I’m not supposed to be here. My last day of life should have been October 17, 1983. 10-17-83, a collection of numbers that couldn’t organize itself into anything interesting. Maybe the sheer blandness of the date is what saved me, or maybe it was “fate.” Trust me, I’ve looked for “The Answer” every day since and am no closer to a eureka moment. That’s why I left home, how I ended up here.

Have you ever started over? Sure, you’ve probably gotten a new job or maybe a new husband. Or maybe you’ve even moved across the country to “start over.” But have you *really* started over? With a new name? A new personality? A new body? 

It’s been easier than I expected, to be honest. I had told myself story after story about why I couldn’t leave, why “home” was the only place for me. What a joke. And by joke I mean tragedy. And by tragedy I mean – I don’t really know what I mean. What I do know is that I’m never going back. Of course, that was part of the deal. The ultimate one-way ticket with my memories as my only carry-on item.

The me here gets much more attention. I went from being almost as bland as the date I should have died to being downright striking. That wasn’t a guarantee. I could have ended up some homely child with a limp and stubby thumbs, or an accountant. Old me blended into the background of most rooms. Old me had to get others to share my ideas if anyone was going to hear them. Old me knew that taking up space was all I had to offer. Old me – well, anything else needs to wait. What you need to know is that for once I pulled the right card and arrived in this body. This body topped with luscious hair, good fashion sense, and enough height to be intimidating without intent. This body with eyes you’re having a hard time avoiding, with skin you want to touch, and with a smile that rewards you. This body that is strong enough to do for itself and compelling enough to not have to. This body is all mine. No complaints.

Forgive me – I neglected an important something. You’ve come all this way and I owe you an introduction. 

My name is Melody and I am here to share my story. You could call it my job though I prefer calling. Whatever you label it, sharing my story is what I agreed to do so I could start over. Would you make the same choice? Or would you push forward, living on borrowed time, knowing you shouldn’t be there and that no one would have missed you if you *had* died on schedule? Perhaps hold that answer until after you hear my tale of woe? Ah, you’ve already decided. So be it. 

My first story ends quietly on October 17, 1983 – it’s not like there was a line of people concerned about my fate. That’s one thing most of us here have in common. Sure, there are a few who made the choice to leave because they’d done all they could, had all the impact they’d intended, and wanted to create a new life for themselves so they could be amazing all over again. That seems exhausting and selfish to me. But it’s not up to me to yuck someone else’s yum. I just distance myself from those ones. They’re easy to spot.

My second story starts on January 18, 1984. Why the gap? Well,  01-14-84 is a date with much more going for it and these things take time. How quickly do you think you’d work through the feelings of being alive the morning after you were supposed to have died? For me, waking up on October 18, 1983, sent me into a tailspin.

Back there you’re taught from the beginning about the order of things. About how its an honor and a responsibility to die on your day. How the death of some is important for the continuation of many. How questioning our place and time is akin to questioning the existence of God. I’d known my day since I could remember – it’s actually my first memory – and had expected to go as planned. I’d heard whispers about people who didn’t die. I’d heard the grumbles about the drain they placed on the community. It wasn’t something I wanted for myself and it’s not like the old me had anything in particular to live for.

If you’d asked me then I would have said waking up on the 19th was the worst thing in the world. I spent some time alone before outing myself. Agers – that’s the polite term for people like me who don’t die on schedule – aren’t exactly shunned but they’re not celebrated, either. Maybe if I’d been more liked or even noticed things would have been different. As it was, emerging back onto the streets three days after I was supposed to be good and dead didn’t win me any friends. No one wept with joy or threw a party. No one offered me a place to stay or a seat at their table. If I’d been bland before I was as good as invisible after. Well, not invisible – unwanted.

At first, I attempted to go back to business as usual. That only lasted a day. All of my things had been cleared from my workspace and, while they begrudgingly found somewhere for me to sit, it was clear they’d moved on and didn’t need or want me in the mix. I went through the motions of building components for the project I’d been working on but when I dropped off my completed set at the end of the day they didn’t even touch it. It sat, ignored, at the end of the line. It didn’t matter that it was perfectly constructed. Agers’ work wasn’t sellable.

It was on my way home that I saw the Change Stand. I’d passed it many times before but it was only on this day that it caught my eye. The stands were scattered around town, each the same in set up: A portable table weighted down with sandbags, a white tent with three walls and a roof, pamphlets and clipboards covering the table, and an ageless man or woman standing smiling at passerby under a large sign with “READY FOR A CHANGE?” in deep blue, red, or yellow lettering. It was rare to see anyone stop and talk to them, and they never called out or made a fuss. They had information to share only if you asked for it. That was the agreement they’d made with the officials and they stuck to it.

Since I’d never stopped to talk to them and had never gotten close enough to see what was on the pamphlets, all I had to go on was what the rumor mill could supply. Some said they were a cult, others that they were simply a religion. Some said they were charlatans looking to steal your resources. No one said you should talk to them.

I’ll be honest – I knew which routes to take to avoid the Change Stands. It wasn’t accidental that one “caught my eye.” That day, I aimed myself towards one. As I made my way down the block I watched the woman under the sign. She was wearing what I assumed was a uniform because it didn’t seem like something anyone would put together without direction or obligation. I’d come to associate the Change Stands with blue, red, and yellow because of the signs but the people in the stands were never dressed in those colors. This one was wearing a purple top with a plunging neckline made more obvious because of the shocking paleness of the woman’s skin. Since she was leaning on the table I could see that she had on a pair of green pants that left no mystery to her contours and a pair of tall, strappy boots in creamy brown leather. To top off this colorful ensemble she wore an orange beret. Taken together the effect was striking. I wasn’t sure if I wanted to talk to her or keep going and find some rainbow sherbert. 

She didn’t make direct eye contact with me until I stopped just out of her reach. I don’t know if I thought she might reach out and grab me to spirit me off somewhere or make a grab for my wallet. The rumor mill hadn’t specified what might happen to you if you did stop to talk to one of them. I suppose I was hedging my bets while satisfying my curiosity. 

When I stopped walking she turned to me and shared a smile. I found myself smiling back, feeling warm just at her acknowledgment of me after days of silence.

“Hello!”

I stuffed my hands in my pockets and looked down before letting my “hello” escape. 

“Are you ready for a change?”

October 17

October 17 (March 2020, Week 1 Day 2)

I’m not supposed to be here. My last day of life should have been October 17, 1983. 10-17-83, a collection of numbers that couldn’t organize itself into anything interesting. Maybe the shear blandness of the date is what saved me, or maybe it was “fate.” Trust me, I’ve looked for “The Answer” every day since and am no closer to a eureka moment. That’s why I left home, how I ended up here.

Have you ever started over? Sure, you’ve probably gotten a new job or maybe a new husband. Or maybe you’ve even moved across the country to “start over.” But have you *really* started over? With a new name? A new body? A new personality?

It’s been easier than I expected, to be honest. I had told myself story after story about why I couldn’t leave, why “home” was the only place for me. What a joke. And by joke I mean tragedy. And by tragedy I mean – I don’t really know what I mean. What I do know is that I’m never going back. Of course that was part of the deal. The ultimate one-way ticket with my memories as my only carry-on item.

The me here gets much more attention. I went from being almost as bland as the date I should have died to being downright striking. That wasn’t a guarantee. I could have ended up some homely child with a limp and stubby thumbs, or an accountant. Old me blended into the background of most rooms. Old me had to get others to share my ideas if anyone was going to hear them. Old me knew that taking up space was all I had to offer. Old me – well, anything else needs to wait. What you need to know is that, for once I pulled the right card and arrived in this body. This body topped with luscious hair, good fashion sense, and enough height to be intimidating without intent. This body with eyes you’re having a hard time avoiding, with skin you want to touch, and with a smile that rewards you. This body that is strong enough to do for itself and compelling enough to not have to. This body is all mine. No complaints.

Forgive me – I neglected an important something. You’ve come all this way and I owe you an introduction. 

My name is Melody and I am here to share my story. You could call it my job though I prefer calling. Whatever you label it, sharing my story is what I agreed to do so I could start over. Would you make the same choice? Or would you push forward, living on borrowed time, knowing you shouldn’t be there and that no one would have missed you if you *had* died? Perhaps hold that answer until after you hear my tale of woe? Ah, you’ve already decided. So be it. 

My story ends quietly on October 17, 1983 – it’s not like there was a line of people concerned about my fate.

Quiet Chaos

Quiet Chaos (October 2019, Week 3 Day 1)

It’s quiet now. I’m getting used to the silence. I don’t like it, exactly, but it’s familiar. Understandable. Mine. I own it, this silence. It’s one thing we never shared. 

She didn’t do silence – ever. Even in her sleep she surrounded herself with sounds and made a fair share of them, too. I think it was the only constant thing about her. The only thing that everyone who knew her understood. She took the noise with her and left me with the silence, and that wasn’t something the lawyers could do anything about.

The children bring noise with them, of course, partly because they’re children, even as old as they are, and partly because they’re hers. Great bursts of noise and energy accompany them on their monthly visits. In those moments, I let their sounds wash over me and I welcome the cacophony. I pretend they don’t remind me of her even though there’s no way they couldn’t. It’s like my DNA just did a pass-through when they were being made and hers stuck like glue. Her eyes look at me with pity. Her voice tells me stories. Her hands reach for me without making contact. But I don’t speak of such things or bring her up in any way. Doing so would ruin our visits and might make them stop coming. Once a month isn’t enough but it’s a far cry better than never.

I think I could handle constant noise from the children. Our children. No one would let that happen, of course, but it’s something I think about in the silence. Their noise is different. It’s sweeter. It wraps around me and presses gently like a hug. It didn’t feel like that with her. Not for a long time, anyway. I have tried to remember what it was like back at the beginning, back when things were good. Back when the constant noise didn’t leave me feeling like maiming myself. It was a long time ago. That’s what I remind myself, that time played a hand in everything. 

Time is the only thing I have more of than silence. I don’t like time. It lies. It tells the truth. It doesn’t warn you which is coming next – truth or lies – and tangles you up in a mess of expectations and reality. Tangles me up, anyway. I’m supposed to own my feelings. I’m not supposed to project them onto others. I’m learning, slowly. I have plenty of time to get it right.

It’s not always quiet here. I’m not always quiet. There are some noises I like more than others, and some I have to learn to accept. When things get to be too much for me, silence is usually what I crave. It always has been, which is why time and noise conspired to play me like a fool by putting her in my path. Life is a balance of quiet and loud, calm and chaos, planning and impulse. Those are my words, not theirs, and certainly not hers. 

Everything

Everything (October 2019, Week 1, Day 4)

“Wine is great, thanks,” was what I said though “wine is easier to choose,” is what I meant. Why did dates, especially first dates, have to start in bars? I am far more equipped to discuss which Dewey Decimal number is my favorite and why than I am to figure out which complicated beverage will both taste good and will represent my personality to its fullest. No one – No one – picks a library for a first date. Not yet, anyway.

I’ve only been “on the market” for about four months. I know that there’s the chance that, someday, I’ll get a ping on one of the apps (I’m on four so far – one for each month of my “renaissance”) with an offer to meet up at the local library. I also know that the chances of that are slimmer than the chances of reconciliation with Seth. So, yeah.

Being single is not for the faint of heart. Figuring out what collection of information conveys the right balance of quirk, smirk, and flirt should be something you can study. At least a workshop or a meetup or something. All the advice is conflicting. “Be Yourself!” “Go Aspirational!” “Cleavage over Content!” When all I want is True Love, this part should be easy.

Easy is ordering wine in the inevitable bar on the requisite First Date. So, I do.

This one has potential despite the location. He actually looks like the pictures he posted (win number one) and he was already here when I arrived (win number two). That I need to drink wine instead of something harder is ok, and that he’s managing the order at the bar means I can watch him without needing to be subtle. 

I know that looks aren’t everything. Really, I do. Not everything and not anything have a lot of distance between them, so I look. I look and I notice. I notice how his clothes fit on his body (confidently snug) and that he has defined forearms. I notice his hair (easy style) and his laugh (full bodied). I notice the grace with which he navigates an older, drunker man stumbling away from the bar, and how he takes a moment to make eye contact and check on the man’s travel plans (with an air of being ready to jump in and intervene if necessary). You might not think that last one falls into the “looks” category, and maybe it doesn’t. It’s still part of what I notice in this moment of distance, and it’s definitely part of what has me smiling. So, as I said, I know that looks aren’t everything.

Seth was (probably still is) a looker. That’s what my friends like to keep reminding me, as if I might have forgotten. “A tall, dark, drink of water,” is what Mika likes to call him. She doesn’t seem to like it when I tell her she’s welcome to drink him right up. Perhaps that’s taking the metaphor too far? Or hitting too close to home given her history of flirtation? It doesn’t matter. Seth will forever be my concrete example of “looks aren’t everything,” since looks were where things stopped for him.

Standing

Standing (October 2019, Week 1, Day 2)

I am standing, alone, on the sidewalk in front of Her house. She doesn’t know I’m out here, about to change her world. I am standing there, collecting fifteen years of questions and working to put them into an order that has any chance of making sense. I look perfectly normal, like I belong in this neighborhood. People walk past me and give me a polite nod or a smile or sometimes a “nice day!” as if I’m one of them. Children trundle past me under their backpacks bigger than them and look up at me with their big eyes. Dogs give me inquisitive sniffs, checking to see if I am friend or foe or, perhaps, second breakfast, and continue on their way.

I could belong here, but I don’t. She decided that for me long ago. Long before she could have known how I’d turn out. Before I had hair or arms. She made a choice, or a series of choices, that guaranteed that I wouldn’t belong here.

On most days I don’t mind. 

##

I am standing, alone, in my bedroom. I’m leaning against the door as if someone might try to push their way in. As if. I am as far away from the computer screen as I can get without throwing the machine out the window. I asked the question and, ready or not, got an answer. I am aware of how hard and fast my heart is beating and how upset my body is at my resistance to it’s urge to run. I need to think, to plan. Wondering about Her is one thing. Searching for Her is another. Finding Her is, apparently, more than I was prepared for – today, at least. 

##

I am standing, alone, in the dingy office. I don’t want to sit down, to decide I’m staying. I want to get the slip of paper and go. It’s not that easy. Of course it’s not that easy – nothing involving forms ever is. I shift my weight, seeking solace from the throbbing in my pinky toes, wondering why I chose these shoes. I know they do their job. They make me just a bit taller, just a bit more adult. Adults respond best to people who exceed their expectations, especially where “the youth” are concerned. I am dressed to impress and that requires uncomfortable shoes. I need that slip of paper and I know that these moments of discomfort are just part of the package. 

She comes back, finally, with the information I need. She puts on a concerned face as she cautions me against making any rash decisions. I don’t tell her about the hours I’ve spent thinking this through, or about the pages and pages of journal entries, or about the long search history on my browser. I do what’s expected and nod slowly as I reach for the paper, putting my own concerned face on to finish the scene. The pain in my pinky toes is nothing compared to the power of that slip of paper.