At 7:30, I am dry, dressed and draped in a long, flowing gown: soft burgundy velvet with full sleeves. In the antique mirror,  I admire the obtuse triangle exposing almost the entire back save one wide strip between my shoulder blades. My back is my best feature. It is taut, strong and firm, and seen the most. I am playing with the corded belt that separates the bottom from the top and twirling. Nodding an ok is all I can manage. That is better than usual. Teasing my hair in a way that flatters the right side of my face, I stare at my profile from different angles. My frustration rises and tempers. My hair is  naturally messy and I want to “figure it out.” It is best to cover it but I want you to see me a certain way when you see me. Ok, I say again.  Everything I do is rehearsed. I move my bangs back to the front center of my forehead and let the hair fall as it may; in waves to the top of my shoulder. Thinner than it looks, auburn when there is sun.

“I am the great illusionist,” I hold my arms out in front of the clunky oval mirror and form an old-timey overdrawn smile. Sickly, the way carnival workers grin to lure someone into their water gun game. It is wide and on the border of cackle and lie. This is for my own enjoyment. “The magician and her gown.”

I twirl one more time admiring the dress and then I return to my makeup bag to apply my mascara. I have been getting ready for nearly an hour. The weed makes everything take longer. I don’t look at the clock because I gratefully forget and I have nowhere to be tonight. I am dressing up to get in an accident. I want you to take this in slowly. I apply my mascara slowly. I have nowhere to be tonight. I am trying cat eyes even though my hand is neither steady nor precise. I pucker my lips. I am dressing up to get in an accident. I close my eyes and open them and try to find the blotches lining the top lid but I also am practicing constant forgiveness so I ignore the uneven wings. When I open my eyes at you, I want you to see everything including my errors, the smudged line and my long wet lashes fluttering like drops of lighting at your doorstep. If there is anything I want you to remember, it is every single thing about me.

I’m stoned but I decide to drive. I’m wearing treaded combat boots underneath my gown. This makes me feel safe; rebellious yet utilitarian and I walk towards the metal gate keys swinging from my ungloved, shaking hand. Sometimes I pretend I am carrying a pocket knife at my side. I picture it emblazoned with the name Hecate down one side and the great herself on the other; her three heads and two snarling dogs at her feet ready to enter the night. I grab my side when I walk past groups of men as if I am getting ready to pull it out and slice their little fingertips. Just for fun, I giggle in the thought which makes me laugh in real life as I am passing one of the only other people out walking on the street. He catches me. Nothing makes me feel safe.

“I am a sociopath,” I say out loud to the snowfall and the man keeps walking.

At 8pm, I am sitting inside of my car as it is warming listening to Jeff Buckley because it is good and depressing and I am in constant turmoil. Music delivers what men have always promised but couldn’t: an expansive climactic escape, or as my beloved Louise Gluck put it, oblivion. As it heats, I stare at my reflection in the rearview. The blush is too heavy but my eye makeup is light so I feel balanced. I slowly apply the lip balm before I apply the lipstick I bought to match my dress: velvet storm.  My lips are desert dry and I am thirsty.

“Fucking marijuana,” I chirp in a sing song voice and reach for the console blindly.

The thermos stings. Sitting in the car for twenty four hours, it is frozen. Damn it, I click my tongue. I can feel each taste bud. There is no moisture trapped here. It’s like I’ve been eating sand. I stare at the green ring around my pupil. I am back there again. I am always going back and forth.

“You’re a narcissist, Cat.”

“Does that also make me a sociopath?”

“You just want to be crazy! You just like to malinger for attention. You want everyone’s attention all of the time.”

“Malinger, Jay, that’s a good one. Were you reading my diary again?”

“You’re cruel. Everything you say is barbed or loaded. You’re such a fucking bitch sometimes.”

“Maybe I’m a sociopath, babe. Maybe you’re lucky it’s only words that hurt your feelings. Maybe you should be grateful I don’t rip you to shreds in your sleep with my teeth.”

I continue to apply the eyeliner and listen to the front door slam.

“1…2…”

“You know what, Catarina,” Jay throws the door back open.

“Fucking clockwork,” I exit the bathroom to greet him with full face and tooth.

“Ow!” I pull my hand off the thermos.

My right index and middle fingers are lightly frosted. I am back again. It is 8:20 and I am sitting in my car filled with fear. You’re stoned. There is no reason to be afraid but I am. This is how premonition works–it takes over and starts to drive. It repeats the feeling you will have when the time hits. This is instinct.I know what a chiming church bell symbolizes. I know what a year turning means. I know I am an hourglass. Am I wilting again?  I am caterpillar skin and blooming flower bed. I am going to be late for something and on time for something else. It is 8:21 pm when I begin driving.

I am one of the only cars on the road. Everyone else is an Uber driver. In protest, I refuse to take an Uber in bad weather. It’s mean and even though they will get paid a lot, I am always afraid that what I carry with me in my hand will be dealt with them. What a senseless death. Unless, of course, it awakens that person to trust their gut in their next life. I snicker.

“I am not a REAL sociopath,” I say out loud to the rearview trying not to spend any more time lost in the reflection.

No, this is between me and God. I don’t feel high but I am driving 2 miles an hour and openly talking to myself with vigor.  This is not that unusual except the same conversation is replaying over and over which concerns me. Oh, that little tug about instinct and remorse. Sometimes one begets the other.

Why don’t you tell me again?

I told you already.

No, in linear order.

WHAT THE FUCK IS LINEAR ORDER?

It doesn’t work. I’m shaking. I’m tense. I have to drive over the bridge and it’s a snowstorm and I’m slightly stoned. Fuck. Why did I choose to wear such a ridiculous outfit? I life my arms off the wheel for a second remembering the way I looked dancing for the mirror. The car swerves slightly to the right. Grip the wheel. Cat. I am not in the mirror. I don’t need to admire my tongue pressed between canines in slither. I don’t need to tilt my head to the right to see my neck grow with self-longing. The light is turning yellow and there is no turn on red on Spring Garden. Relief is short lived as cars pile up behind me. I turn on some music. It is slow and long and sullen. What is this? A playlist I made called Space. It’s not soothing but I don’t change it. My reaction time is slow and unusual. I am in a trance. I am in a trance in a car moving towards the bridge. Long chords direct me over the bridge that will tumble right in front of me. The violin sets the tone of portentous fate closing in on me and I am shaking from both the cold and the dreams and the imprint of the thermos on my tips. I am in a trance in my car driving over the bridge. I am in a trance at the next light waiting to get on the interstate. I am at the next light over the bridge as E minor begins. Then I snap out of it.
“Thank you God,” I say out loud.

I have driven over the bridge with incredible speed, or without any memory of it. I start telling myself a story so I’ll continue the game. Once, when I was younger, a small girl, I went to my mother for comfort. I said, mom, I can’t seem to make friends. She said, Catarina, you’re a bully. I said, that’s not it. She said, I’ve seen the way you talk to Leana. You treat her like she’s your servant. I said, that’s not it! Except I screamed it. She said, you never let anyone finish saying anything. I said, I’m trying to finish something now and you won’t fucking listen. She said, you are a precocious bitch and you will not talk to me like that. I said, that’s not all I am, and I slammed the door so hard that a picture fell and broke in her room. She stormed out and chased me with a notebook and slapped me across the face. It was the only time she hit me. I may have deserved it. There are many parts of the story that I left out. More importantly, that was the last time I tried to open that conversation.

I sulked for days, resentful, embarrassed that I was worth hitting. I had never been hit. I had been touched, but I had never been hit. My resolve changed after that. I knew what it felt like to have someone use force against you; power, braun, words. I had none of that. I was only about nine or ten years old. Explosive tantrums were my defense but they didn’t gain you respect, only sweets shoved into your mouth to quiet you; the interminable oral fixation that was soda or thumb or snack. They got you plopped in front of a television or sent off to the neighborhood or a small treat, small toy or some token of affection but they didn’t get you ears. After the red welt  formed on my cheek, I was mollified. Admiring it in the glow of the television, I played Kirby’s Adventure alone in my room for the rest of the day. I couldn’t face my mother. The mark faded long before I went to the kitchen for a glass of Coke but I held it there; the invisible Mead mark. I didn’t call Leana even though she called me. I didn’t watch TV with my brother or ask to play double on Mario Kart. My face changed shape that day and I let it. My face changed and so did my mind.

And then suddenly, I let go of the wheel to lean into the crash and immediately grabbed the locket swinging from my neck like a talisman to keep me from blacking out even though I saw the brick wall getting closer. Even though I saw the black wall, I didn’t see the crash. That was all that was promised.

 

(being a storyteller is easy but telling the truth to yourself is hard)