A Little Green Ball.


It was Saturday night. I was lying on my former best friend’s floor with her and three others. A pan of half-eaten brownies and the last two slices of cold pizza lay on the floor beside us. The radio played music of loud summers past. Everything was eerily normal.
Her bedroom walls were as familiar to me as my own. She hadn’t taken down the hundreds of pictures of the two of us which smiled from every corner, every surface. The brightness of the ocean, of red and white picnic tablecloths, her hair, and our matching grins lit the room more than her Chinese lanterns or Christmas lights did. We grew up somewhere between the door and the two windows.
On the far wall was a picture of me, the best I think anyone’s ever taken. It was almost two years ago, in a white tent on a beautiful summer day. I was looking up towards the camera as she stood on a chair. We were both laughing: my wide smile showed in the picture, hers in the slight blurriness of the image. The magic of that day was evident in the carefree tilt of my head, the surprise in my eyes. Directly across from it was a sketch of her-- well, of the top part of her. She hated the way the bottom of her face came out, so she had torn it off, leaving only her eyes and hairline. Everyone commented on how beautiful it made her look, in only a few simple lines. I didn’t really find it surprising that she was the prettiest with two eyes and no mouth.
As I gazed at these pictures, holes in time, the others debated whether brownies had calories if you ate them straight from the pan, choked back laughter and made exaggerated sounds of disgust at the decisively masculine banter of the DJ, and went over questions from the SAT they had taken that morning. Abdicate and abjure. Chocolate and sexism. After awhile I could feel them all sink into the floor, stop holding in their stomachs. Grammar and syntax went out with thoughts of healthy food and school on Monday. This was the very purpose of a weekend, for them.
I lifted out of my body and floated up over them, helped along by the warm breeze coming through the windows. I watched from eight feet above. We were messy people, sprawled out on the floor, on beanbags and each other; a lazy shape centered around food and dotted with cans of diet soda. When something funny was said we would roll over or fold up, contracting, moving toward the center and toward each other. Then, as the minutes passed, we would lie back again, retreating a bit. I looked at myself down below. As the conversation turned to boys, some of whom they knew, some of whom they pretended to, that girl in my body nodded encouragingly and laughed at all the right moments. My body seemed to remember the routine when I didn’t. That girl took a sip of Diet Coke, even though she had sworn off soda. Her gaze drifted idly to the owner of the bedroom, who sat in a desk chair above the others. What was she thinking, that girl inside me? Was that remorse in her eyes? Loathing? Contempt? Curiosity? I didn’t know. I wondered if she did.
The one she watched was not the best friend I remembered. Her smile was tighter; her eyes had an expression of disdain which just wasn’t there a few months before. Both hands gripped her diet root beer can with impressive force. What was she capable of, now? And did I want to find out?
The song on the radio changed seamlessly, changed to something right and perfect and I fell, fell, fell down with a sharp breath and was swallowed up by my own body.

I blinked, twice. The ceiling looked back at me.

A little less than a year ago the five of us lay on the floor listening to this song. We watched the sun set, long rays streaking into the bedroom, her air conditioner making the experience safer somehow. They sang This is my sundown and we echoed them. The building guitar reminded me of early summer, of blissful nothingness, of pure contentment. I looked back at her. Her expression hadn’t changed, but the muscles in her face tightened, stood out quite a bit more. I knew it.
And then I was shrinking. I was shrinking until I was but a little green ball, a pea dropped in the black interior of my skull.
I uncurled and walked over to my eyes, huge clear windows, and looked out at an unchanged picture. Inside I leaned against a soft membrane and watched thoughts flicker by. Flashing lights, laser streaks of pink and of bright blue. A whole picture flew by, of verdant hills shining golden in the early morning, stretched out like a wave. My favorite brownie recipe, in index-card handwriting with my mother’s abbreviations: the letters flew by my little face, and I scooted farther back. Images of each of my four friends, blurry as if seen through peripheral vision. A bad sketch of her mouth, the top torn off. Something dense and heavy, perfumed smoke, descended on everything. It hurt my shoulders and I rolled into a rubbery crevice to escape it. Music flowed through, like the rolling of a radio dial, the soundtrack of my life overlapping itself, mixing with the smoke. My friend’s eyebrows, alone, moving around and moving across my vision as I continued to watch.
The lasers again, streaming points of light. This time they ran into each other, crossing in brilliant patterns. Then they contracted themselves into string and became a knot. A boxing ring, a match in full swing, rolled slowly by. The smell of her shampoo.
In an instant everything went black and clear. A projector bulb came on, alone in the darkness, and I was watching that night all around me, the picture sent into every dark corner, all-encompassing. The image was grainy. But I didn’t need much aid to know what I was watching... it had played in my own mind enough times. A huge image of me turned to him and laughed-- we both laughed-- and she turned away. The tape started again. It was out in a parking lot, under a neon sign advertising donuts and car repair. I had gotten out of her car and seen him standing there. I’d walked over-- we both had-- and he had come over and said something which I didn’t remember. I turned to him. Then he and I laughed and she turned away. And walked away.
The tape started again. Turn, laugh, walk away. Turn, laugh, walk away. Then it became simpler. We were blocks, dolls, reflected in a mirror and joined with a rod. As I turn away she turns the other way. Both away from the mirror. Perfect reflections. Turn. Turn. It could have been a dance. Turn, turn. Then the music started. My favorite song ran in from the left. She sang, as the movie played out further, A slight betrayal of the self, that won’t quite wash away. Rewind, to the dolls, the mirror. Music followed. Only a few seconds played, over and over. I sat mesmerized as the turns began, turn away, turn away, turn, turn, betrayal of the self, betrayal of the self, betrayal of the self... I tried to shrink back, crawl into the soft flesh around me. Betrayal of the self... My eyes closed, I curled into a ball, plugged my ears. Betrayal of the self, betrayal of the self ... it wouldn’t stop, wouldn’t stop, wouldn’t stop...
I screamed, screamed from somewhere near my heart, screamed in a way that consumed me completely. Golden waves shot out from my mouth, shot out on all sides, and shattered the image; glass cracked, sharp pieces fell and lacerated the membranes and flesh I lay on, shards fell onto my own little arms and tore into them, bits of my own image falling like a shower of death, tearing through everything, everything--
I ran blindly to my gaping eyes, flung myself through the openings, feet first; I stretched, stretched and then rotated, growing into my body as my head remained and expanded--

A thump.

I lay on her floor, fully intact. Conversations continued unimpeded around me, as did the laughter, the pizza consumption. I trembled.

“What the hell’s wrong with you?
I sat up slightly. “Me?”
“Yes, you. You’re pale as anything. And you didn’t answer my question.”
I struggled to get my thoughts in order. Be nice. Be nice. “I’m sorry. I must not have heard you. I think my brain’s fried from this morning. What did you say?”
She studied me with one eyebrow raised. “I said, do you want to see the pictures I added to my journal?” Her journal-- more of a scrapbook, really-- was her pride and joy. She let her friends read it and look through it; too many hours went into it to keep it locked up. “I got the ones from last month in, finally.”
I shook myself, slightly. “Sure. I’d love to.”
“Good. You’d better.” She paused. “Oh, wait. Close your eyes. I changed its hiding place.”
“But... I’ve always known where it is, haven’t I?”
“Yes. But are you stupid enough to think that things are the way they used to be? Close your eyes. No, just you. The rest of you are fine.”
Her face was resolute. I sighed and closed my eyes. Be nice. Be nice. It’s worth it. Be nice. Be nice.
“All right. Here you go. I know, it’s beautiful. I spent all of last week on this. Isn’t it perfect?” She passed it around. The others nodded obligingly, admiring the pictures and the pencil- drawn captions. I let them look.
She stood over me, a suspicious glare crossing her eyes. “You want to see it, don’t you?”
“Sure.”
“Good. Here you go. But only these two pages. I don’t care if you’ve seen the others before, you can’t. Go ahead.”
The pages were beautiful: a mélange of cropped photos, newspaper clippings, train maps, and her own captions. Images of smiling girls, parties long forgotten, nights that never would be.
And then, right in the middle. A picture of me.... of my back. It was trimmed right over my left shoulder. Behind it she had put a picture of him. It was that night. It was that image.
And the caption.
the night of ultimate betrayal. pretty revolting, huh?
“Oh, you like that one? That’s my personal favorite. I love the way I took completely different pictures and made it work. I must be a genius. What do you think?”
“What do I...” I stared down at the page, my most-regretted moment displayed for the world to see, immortalized as a piece of her property. “What do I think?”

Later that night my hand hurt a bit.
Perhaps I shouldn’t have done that. Perhaps it’ll be filed away in my ever-augmenting list of regrets. Perhaps I should have heeded advice and been the nicer person. Maybe it’d be easier to wake up this morning if I did.
But damn, did that feel good.

India Ellis (I’m trying it out...)

Coffee with the Devil

She was trying to read the newspaper, but stole a glance over the top of the limp page every few seconds. The words wouldn’t run together in her mind; at least, not enough for her to make sense of the New York Times. The letters just jumped around on the page. Down the street? Was that him? She leaned towards the window. No, he had red hair. And no beard. Though he used to own that shirt... Stop. Stop. Be composed. Breathe. Take a sip of tea. She did, her hand shaking slightly as she brought the paper cup to her mouth. Wipe your mouth. Breathe. And don’t look nervous. You got here first for a reason. Be the strong one. Be ready. Don’t look like you’re waiting. Sit up straight. Stomach in. Read the paper. Look intelligent. Be able to quote. Breathe. Breathe.
Slowly, slowly, she made her way through the front page and deliberated over whether to open the paper. Might it look like she had been waiting too long? Best to not turn the page. She studied the pictures on the newsprint, crossed and uncrossed her legs, sat up taller. Was that him? No, he must be at least a few inches taller. Damn. She looked at the clock on the café wall. Four-ten. He was late, of course.
But then she looked out the window again and knew instantly. He came down the street with an easy saunter, his hair catching the sunlight, the ground moving him along. He removed his sunglasses with a practiced flourish, and held the door for a glamorous young woman with three coffee cups in her two slender hands. Typical.
Just in time, she tore her eyes away from the picture windows and went back to her paper, effecting an expression of concerned interest in world affairs. Posing. An upward glance told her he was looking around casually. Then she felt his eyes on her and knew she was being examined. She counted to five in a shaky silent whisper, and then turned her eyes upward to meet his in a manner of feigned surprise.
“Hello, Sean.”
An easy smile crept over his face. “Christy.” He glided over to the table and leaned down to her. She turned her head slightly and he kissed her cheek. Unfazed, as always, he pulled out a chair across from her and sat down. “My God, you look stunning. How have you been?”
She smiled suddenly. Dammit, Christy, don’t let him do this to you. “I’ve been really well. Keeping busy. And you?”
“Never better, never better. I see you got yourself a coffee.” Tea, she thought. “Can I get you anything else? Cinnamon roll? I know you love their cinnamon rolls. I’ll grab you one. Be back in a mo.” He left his jacket on the chair and got in line.
Christy brushed crumbs from her first cinnamon roll off the table and watched Sean warily. He ordered a nonfat decaf mocha latte with perfect diction and a comfortable smile. He dropped a handful of change in the tip jar, laughed warmly with the woman behind the counter, and took his coffee, letting his receipt fall to the floor.
“Here you go, gorgeous. It’s warm.” He set the cinnamon roll down in front of her.
She unwrapped it slowly, smelling the butter and brown sugar. “Thanks. Thanks a lot.”
He watched her carefully, a smile playing around the corners of his mouth. “So what’s new in the world? Hey, I’m late, but at least I gave you a chance to catch up on your reading.”
She shrugged. “Well, the Security Council shot down another resolution. There are still five swing votes, but France is holding out for the veto. They think Bush is going to give up and go at it alone. Scary.”
He brushed that aside. “Yesterday’s news, Christy.” He flipped over her Times. “In fact, yesterday’s paper.”
Shit. She looked down, blushing furiously. Sean laughed, with a hitch in his voice. “Always one step behind , eh? It happens to the best of us. Well, it happens to you, anyway.”
There was a silence. Christy carefully let out her breath.
Sean kept going. “Well, it doesn’t matter. Christ, you look like you’re about to start crying. Don’t start that again. It’s so selfish.”
She looked up, her eyes narrowed. “Selfish?”
“How do you think it makes me feel when you’re sitting there whimpering? You used to do this all the time. Get a hold of yourself, for crying out loud. I wasn’t being rude. You still can’t take a joke, can you.” It wasn’t a question.
Christy sat up straighter, steel in her spine and in her gaze. “Forget it, Sean. Just forget it. Now, can you please tell me what I’m doing here?”
He considered her for a moment, running his fingers around the rim of his coffee cup. “Christy.” Said slowly, silkily. A pause. “Christy. A question.”
“Yes?”
“Why did I break up with you?”
She looked at him incredulously. “Excuse me?”
“Answer me this. Why did I break up with you. I certainly made it clear, at the time.”
His eyes were calm, his face neutral as he waited expectantly. What on earth was he doing? “I don’t understand...” His gaze was unnerving, eerily steady. “Okay... Why did you break up with me? You said... you said that I was selfish. That I had time aplenty for myself but none for you. That you weren’t going to put up with my... scheming, was it? That I was trying to make you be around for me while not reciprocating. Making you into my pet, I believe. At least, I think those were your reasons. Tell me if I missed any.” She didn’t try to keep the bitterness out of her voice.
“Yes, yes. You do remember.” He watched her face carefully for a reaction. “You remember well. What did you think of all that?”
“Sean, what the hell are you trying to do?”
“Christy. Answer me. What did you think of all those things I said?”
She spoke reluctantly , trying to hold back. “I was hurt. Offended. Mostly because I never... never tried to manipulate you. Never tried to make you into something you weren’t. Never wanted the relationship to be unequal. And it killed me that you could misread me so horribly. I wanted the chance to redeem myself, after everything you said. Because that... that wasn’t me.”
“Well. And what do you think now, a month later?”
“What do I think now?”
He smiled slowly. “Now that you’ve had a chance to reconsider. You do know that you’re wrong, of course.”
“I’m... excuse me?”
“You’re wrong. Incorrect. You can be a horrible judge of situations, you know. You personally. And you were a selfish person all along. Please don’t deny it. It just makes things difficult.”
“Don’t try to...!” She could hardly open her mouth.
“Yes. We don’t get anywhere when you’re being stubborn. Please admit that you’ve done wrong, and we can move forward.”
“Sean, this is... I admit that I wasn’t perfect. I’m not perfect, clearly. But I... say whatever you want about me, but don’t doubt my intentions. Because that’s not your place. I never meant anything but goodwill towards you. And I always, always tried to make things the best they could be. Maybe I screwed up, sure. I don’t have any great powers of oversight. But I tried. I’m not perfect, but I always tried.”
Sean sat in his chair, static in manner and appearance. Waiting for the attack. Or was he.
“You tried, Christy. I know you tried. I’m asking why it didn’t work.”
“Because... because I’m human. I can’t give you a better answer than that, Sean. I tried to be unselfish. And I apologize if that didn’t come across... if that didn’t happen.”
“So you admit that you did wrong.”
“I... yes, I do.”
“And that you were selfish?”
“At times, yes, but-”
“Wonderful. Thank you.” He took a sip of coffee.
Christy was struck dumb. His perfect calm and controlled speech terrified her.
“Now, Christy,” he said, leaning forward slightly. The first sign of emotion in minutes. “The point is not to dwell on your faults, but to overcome them. I only want you to recognize the selfishness within you for your own good. It was an act of love. The world sees you as selfish and I am helping you to exist within the context of the world. Now, you can become a more pure, perfect person. You see, I’m prepared to take you back.”
She could not move. Something in his eyes spoke of hunger, of horrible seduction.
“I could take you back, Christy, and things could be the way they were. You will live under my roof. I will let you live as lavishly as you wish, though within the limits of modesty which you will be exerting. I will love you and you will do the same for me.”
“Sean-”
He held up a hand which somehow silenced her. “Ah, my impertinent Christy. Speak carefully, I advise you. Your headstrong nature will get you nowhere. Yes, you are headstrong.” An angry flash in his eye. “Though you pretend to be meek and compliant. Deception. Deception is from the devil, Christina.” He stroked the syllables of her name carefully, drawing out the s.
She remained silent, staring in horrified fascination.
“What have these weeks been like for you, Christina? For me, they have been filled with you. I love you, you know. Your image remains with me. Have you not seen me? When you were walking to work last week? When you entered your apartment this Friday night? When you sat at this table fifteen minutes ago, eating your first cinnamon roll, pretending to read the paper, watching for me? You have been waiting for me too. I saw it as I watched you this afternoon. Christina.” A chill ran down her spine. “I knew when I saw you here that you were impatient to see me, to have me back. Now you are cleansed. Now your sins are forgiven. Now you are pure and awaiting your salvation. And I have arrived. I am here. Come with me, Christina. Christina.”
A silence. Sean sat leaning forward on the table, his eyes gaping abysses, open farther than should seem possible. His hand lay outstretched, inches from hers. Christy remained motionless, afraid to breathe, thoughts racing through her head in a controlled frenzy.
Then.
She ripped a fine gold chain from her neck. A chain. A cross. And she plunged the cross deep into his hand, between the bones of his knuckles. There was no resistance.

a scream which engulfed her completely
a wind which blew against her bones and smelt of death
a vision of flames swirling around her eyes
she was screaming too but could not hear herself

And Christy sat alone at the table, with a half-finished cinnamon bun lying before her.
She picked it up, along with her purse, and walked out of the coffee shop.