Week+Seven+Openings+Emilee

1.

 “You can, like, leave now sir.”

 The man pivoted around, slowly. His heel caught something annoying and small, wrapped tightly against the clutter that twisted around his feet.

 “Sorry?”

 “I mean, there’s the door.” His neck jerked towards it. Sharp blue eyes were wide and on the verge of rolling. “It’s free to pass through, you know. And, hey, watch your step? On the way out…”

 “I, that’s—”

 “Dude, man, hey, guy, just get over it. Chill. It’s not like it’s, you know, the end of the world.” he slid through ancient crockery and brass machinery to a splintered counter. “It’s not like, you know, you’re going to be in major extreme danger, just because you can’t replace your super ancient grand-nan’s vase that got broke.” he wrenched open a stubborn drawer and yanked out a wrinkled hoodie. “Just because you can’t find stuff to con people on ebay with, or, like,” a whimsical gesture as he struggled to get the hoodie over his head, “buy a rose-patterned porcelain toilet seat as an anniversary gift for your seventy-four-year-old girlfriend.”

 “Excuse me? I’m going to pretend that was muffled, could you say it again?”

 “Sir, I’ve got a gig in like twenty.” He swept his indifferent glance lightly over him, watching for a reaction as he tousled his own stringy hair.

 “A gig?”

 “Yeah. I’m in a band.”Silence. “A musician?” The man frowned. “God! I mean store’s closed!” He marched towards the unfortunate customer, attempting to wheel him out, drawled contempt in his voice. “Until further notice.” he droned sarcastically. “Major sorry for any inconvenience.” The teen turned towards him meaningfully, words dry and crisp. “It’s like, ‘gone fishing.’ ”

 “You can let go of my arm, young man.”

 He did, with a snort. “Like, whatever.” He shrugged, dug around in his wrinkled pocket for a crumpled pack of cigarettes. He glanced up at the disgruntled man as if wondering whether he should bum a light or not. “Sir,” he drawled, gesturing with an open palm to the glass door with its tinkling doorbell. His fingers twitched impatiently. “Like, please sir,” he murmured around the cigarette in his mouth, “just vacate the area.”

*****

2.  **“Come on, itty-bitty kitten, wake up. Get some feelin’ in them teensy bones.”**

<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman',Times,serif;"> **The tiles were frigid. Shifting, squatting. She plucked at the thick rind of her elbow.**

<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman',Times,serif;"> **“Eh, don’t do this to me. Muster up some spunk. Hold on just a bit longer, ya hear?” Lolling ginger head. Bloated little belly. Tiny fringe of pink sandy tongue.**

<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman',Times,serif;"> **“You was purring just a moment ago,” she mumbled, wiping her nose on a ratty sleeve. “Purring like a motor car.” Purring like the hum of the subway station. A light flickered.**

<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman',Times,serif;"> **“Hey there Mabel.” A voice echoed. “Damn cold out, isn’t it? How ya been doin’ down here?”**

<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman',Times,serif;"> **Dip of her head. “Cold out is right Ronnie. I do fine. I just wish it wasn’t so freezing. This poor thing…” She jerked her head towards the kitten’s limp form.**

<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman',Times,serif;"> **“What’s wrong with it?”**

<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman',Times,serif;"> **“It’s dead.” Mabel watched Veronica’s mouth twitch. “Froze to death.”**

<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman',Times,serif;"> **“Poor thing. Hope it wasn’t slow. Hope it wasn’t painful.”**

<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman',Times,serif;"> **“Yeah.”**

<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman',Times,serif;"> **“Well, take care. Oh, and Mable. What’ll you do with it?”**

<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman',Times,serif;"> **Mabel considered the woman before her, the ratty curls. The sheen of metallic gleam over her stolen grocery cart from the gritty underground lights.**

<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman',Times,serif;"> **“I don’t know. I’m feeling really sorry. I wish I could bury it but the dirt’ll a’ frozen slab like concrete.”**

<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman',Times,serif;"> **“You’ll have to wait ‘till spring.”**

<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman',Times,serif;"> **A barked chuckle. “I don’t know if we’ll make it ‘till spring.”**

<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman',Times,serif;"> **Veronica snorted, tossed her head. “Take care, Mabel.” she said, kicking her loaded cart to get it moving, humming as it squeaked along the permafrost tiles and she heaved behind it.**

<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman',Times,serif;"> **Mabel watched her leave. She hoped, for the kitten’s sake, that it had been quick.**

<span style="display: block; font-family: 'Times New Roman',Times,serif; text-align: center;">* <span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman',Times,serif;"> **“Hey Mabel, it’s just a gettin’ colder and colder. I’ve got this spare hoodie if you—”**

<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman',Times,serif;"> **Her heart poked through her ribs. Her teeth chattered against the tile. She frantically plucked the rind of her elbows.**

<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman',Times,serif;"> **“Sheesh Mabel, don’t tell me…you’re…do I have…to…” The voice must have come from everywhere. Voices poked through her ribs. They poked through the walls and echoed off of her eyelids in slow, drawn-out waves.**

<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman',Times,serif;"> **“Hey, are you okay? Come on, don’t—”**

<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman',Times,serif;"> **From the edge of her blurring vision, she saw Veronica squatting over her, concern twisted on her icy lips. “Come on, Mabel. Wake up. Get some feelin’ in those old bones of yours.”**

<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman',Times,serif;"> *

<span style="display: block; font-family: 'Times New Roman',Times,serif; text-align: center;">3.

<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman',Times,serif;">Sometimes, if you looked deep enough, you realized that you weren’t yourself and your life was small and frail, like a tender wisp of grey. You realized that the itch on your scalp was because you’d glued the mask too tightly, and slightly you were beginning to ache, and blithely you would smile, and smile, because that’s all you were ever taught to do.

<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman',Times,serif;">I skipped this step. Purposefully. Because I also knew, a trick taught to me by something funny and familiar, how to look deep inside myself and melt away, and forget about it. And ignore it. Ignoring too is something you can’t rely on instinct to do. Because, as a raw sentiment, it is very rarely tamed and easy to catch.

<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman',Times,serif;">The point I’m trying to get at is that //I know// my mirror is another person. I know this because I had a good long conversation, decided I didn’t recognize half the things I was saying, it was a very two-way conversation. Do the math. Divide by two. It is even and perfect.

<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman',Times,serif;">My mirror also sometimes behaves like a lunatic. “You speak lunacy.” I tell it, and often, and it only widens its eyes and stares back at me and its cheeks are smattered with freckles, and I know that even though I say this, my lips touch tongue, my tongue wanders up my jaw, my jaw works up and down and over and in knots, my mirror ought to be a little more careful. Well. I like to jump to conclusions, but I th//-ink// I’ve won already for today.

<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman',Times,serif;">It wasn’t ever really much of a struggle.

<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman',Times,serif;">I tilt my head down just like this, see, and I poke-nudge-squeeze at the bulge of my ribs. They’re pretty flexible, I say out loud, and squeeze only two like chopsticks and I’ve never seen them outside of my skin but I think they’re thick and kind of like fangs. Wouldn’t it be ironic if it were a real monster, constantly inches away from my heart? If so, I’d be pretty twisted. Face and jaw inside my belly conundrum, like //did I devour my own head?// As in every single time my heart pumps pure raw sentiment, as I grow older, as the bones crack, separate, perish, is the monster always hungry?

<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman',Times,serif;">These are ridiculous things to ponder. No-wonder my mirror thinks me a quarter mad. I think I’m wholly mad myself. Half the time, anyways. And if you split the two in two, affably it makes four.

<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman',Times,serif;">I swing my ribcage, which is difficult enough I assure you, and it sways underneath my fingernails, and I press a little harder and it fascinates me. It’s like meaty, fleshy, violet muscle coating stringy strenuous strands (alliteration, anomaly, probably…) and that’s coating more strands (like hair, like cheese, like glistening saliva) which melts into ribs. I can feel it move, warm, like skin should be, like flesh should be, not (cold) like blood should be. I realize I’m kind of like a puppet and a puppet master. I’m kind of like a pawn slave and normal master. I’m kind of like on top (of the world) and not on the bottom, taking turns, rolling around, and like running water. Over my hands. Which are thick and long and my thumbs should probably be a little thinner to be beautiful.

<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman',Times,serif;">Otherwise my ribs suit me perfectly.

<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman',Times,serif;">There is no solidness to me. I do not know granite, I drink of steam and snack off of vapors (which are delectable with a little lemon baked or pan //fried//, you know the kind you see in the clouds?) and I walk on silk and I speak like mahogany and velvet or are those my eyes and you’ve heard this all before.

<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman',Times,serif;">Oh don’t tell me. I can see it. I know what you mean with the wide-rimmed stare.

<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman',Times,serif;">You think I’m mad, don’t you?

<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman',Times,serif;">Here. Give me your hand, this won’t hurt I just want to hold it. Push it against my chest. There you are, you feel like smoke. Your eyes spin with stars. Feel my heartbeat? Is it faint? Does it fall? What about the slight slip, slop, teeter totter rise of my chest? Do you feel the wisp of whisper-kiss coming from my mouth? Oh don’t blush so red. They’re only like rose petals. Albeit, dry. Albeit dry and cracked and foaming a little.

<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman',Times,serif;">Now. Would someone a little less human feel like this? I am wilting away. I can die too. I am human enough.

<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman',Times,serif;">Want to know a secret? Since you’ve proven yourself so curious, I will whisper it if you lean close.

<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman',Times,serif;">There is another person growing inside of me.

<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman',Times,serif;">Somehow, the only solidness right deep past my arteries, veins, probably through some bone I guess it depends where you stab, no cartilage, dodge the sinew, mind the flesh—well, it’s this ball. All tight and curled up and really vulnerable. I coo to it sometimes. It’s like a baby. Though I’ve never had that kind of instinct, I can’t help but nurture the poor thing. I mean, I feel awful guilty when I swirl it around with my crooked pinky finger. Stir it up a bit, like a beetle in the palm of your hand. It’s small too, like a beetle, and kind of like a centipede, and a caterpillar, and I wonder what kind of monstrosity it is really like? If I prod around, and I feel awful guilty about it, I can feel a jabbed shoulder blade. A stark snarked lip. A flat hand, a spindly elbow, curled feet, twisted ankles, slight hips that move back and forth whenever I swallow and gasp.

<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman',Times,serif;">I hug my neck in close to my chest. It was a nice feeling, the strain, tight and cooperative, the hard tough ball of smooth planes of skin. I could keep myself to myself for a while, clench my eyes and for a moment, a breath, a hot fetid shared breath, I was safe. I wasn’t alone. That was alright. I’d gotten used to the me inside the me. The other me. Wanting to break. Hatch. Like shattering glass, the porcelain doll underneath my skin wanted to hurriedly shatter the display case.

<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman',Times,serif;">I only wonder what will happen when she does.