NOXANGELUS

Five months before I brought up the idea of divorce, I had a thought. This could be the rest of my life. And from then on, the seed was planted. Every time we had an argument, I thought, this could be the rest of my life. When she cried, when she begged, when she said, “But I still love you so much, Jamie”, I didn’t know what to say. I didn’t know how to tell her that I wanted to leave her. The thought brought grief as much as relief. Liv and I had good times and bad times, same as any other couple. There were times when I thought she might be my soulmate, and there were others where I wondered what had ever attracted me towards her in the first place. When I first had the thought, I felt this deep sadness. A deep regret, even though we hadn’t actually broken up yet. I thought about how much I would miss her presence. Her laugh when she had her good days, her smile when we were together. But then I thought about the crying, the horrible things she would spout on her bad days. Accusations. Liv’s mental illnesses, in the beginning of our relationship, didn’t afect us much. Sometimes she would go radio silent for a couple days, then come back and say something along the lines of, “Sorry, bad mental health days”, but she would act like herself. She’d even joke about it sometimes. e longer we progressed, the more I bore witness to her anguish.

There'd Better Be A Mirrorball

I was seven, maybe eight years old when it happened. Mom and I lived in a shabby house in a rural area, surrounded by wheat fields and run down wooden fences and dirt roads. The summer days were hot, but the nights were biting and cold. It was quiet. It was lonely.

I’ve always had trouble sleeping, even as a child. At night, the wind howled in such a way that it sounded like someone was wailing outside. My windows would tremble, as if someone was trying to come in. My active imagination kept me up into the late hours of the night, eyes wide and plastered open, determined to stay vigilant. 

I never did have any intruders, aside from common field mice or spiders, neither of which particularly frightened me since they were so commonplace for where we lived. My mother always reassured me that I was safe as could be here–who would even want to break into our house? We had nothing of real value, and to begin with, the area was sparse. Our nearest neighbor was nearly a mile away from us.

At times, I wondered why we even stuck around here. It was unbearably lonely, and we lived what most would call the simple life. Looking back now, I miss it at times. But when I was younger, it was just so damn boring. The few times a year that I visited my father in the city were always exciting, though I didn’t like him much, or his girlfriend. They had never been unkind to me, in fact they were probably better parents than my mom was. But I resented them all the same for leaving me in the countryside. 

My mother hated the city. I didn’t know if it was because of him, or if she just disliked the bustling nature of metropolitan areas. When they were together, we lived in a tiny apartment that smelled like pancakes in the morning and cigarette smoke at night. I couldn’t pinpoint exactly when the relationship had begun to deteriorate, but I certainly noticed when they stopped arguing. It was always so quiet. I almost wished they would go back to it.

I’m getting distracted, though. None of this really has to do with what happened.

The night was another sleepless one. I was laying in bed, staring up at the ceiling, counting the cracks. Mom had suggested it once, probably just to shut me up. I had just about memorized that there were three large cracks, with maybe sixteen hairline ones branching off of them. Nevertheless, when I couldn’t sleep, I counted, trying to ignore the taptaptap of the window.

It was well into the night when I felt this overwhelming feeling that something was different, but I didn’t know what. It’s difficult to describe. I stopped counting the cracks and sat up. 

Something’s wrong, my mind screamed at me.

It felt like I wasn’t controlling my own movements. I got out of bed and walked over mechanically to the window. I stared out.

There was a figure in the field.

I felt sick. Her nightgown was billowing in the wind, the wheat and grass bending around her. I left the room, went downstairs, opened the door. It was freezing. I couldn’t imagine why she was standing out there in just her nightie. How long had she been out there?

My bare feet sank into the soft dirt as I walked out to the edge of the field, never breaking my line of sight. That entire time, she didn’t move a centimeter. I couldn’t hear anything over the wind, and I assumed she couldn’t either, but I opened my mouth and shouted at her anyway.

She didn’t turn, didn’t acknowledge my presence at all. It felt like hours that I stood there on the edge, yelling, but in reality, it was probably only a few seconds. I was afraid to walk into the field, afraid that the grass would swallow me up.

The moonlight was bright that night. Her skin seemed almost luminous, and her hair flew wildly around her head. For a second, I had a horrible thought that she looked like a monster, one of the creatures that I imagined tapping against my window at night.

Then, something dark bloomed across the small of her back. It was small at first, just a pinprick. Then it began to spread, soaking the nightgown. In that moment, all I could do was stare. 

Something’s wrong.

She collapsed forward, face down, and I couldn’t see her anymore. It was like my fear had come true. The field had swallowed her up.

For two days, my mother’s body rotted in the field, maggots and birds picking at her decaying flesh. I covered the windows in my room with sheets, and I cocooned myself in blankets despite the sticky, suffocating heat. I didn’t sleep for those two days. Every time I closed my eyes, I imagined her standing in that field. Sometimes she would turn around and look at me, except she didn’t have any eyes.

Years later, I found out that some idiot kids had killed her. Shot her by accident with their father’s gun. They had been playing with it in the field, and when it happened, they scurried home. They kept their mouths shut like clams for forty eight hours before one of them caved and poured out the whole story between snot and tears to their parents. The police were promptly called, and I was found in the house, half-starved and sleep deprived.

I was shipped off to live with my father and his now fiance, away from the wheat fields and clear moonlight. They put me in therapy and constantly walked on eggshells around me. They treated me like a fragile china vase, which I suppose was appropriate, considering the circumstances.

As the years passed, I sometimes found myself forgetting the whole ordeal had happened. It was like I’d tricked my own mind into believing that my parents had never divorced, that my mom had died a peaceful death, and that’s what ended the marriage. I never lived in the countryside. My sleep problems were because I stayed up watching TV too late. 

I watched as her lighter lit up, then burnt out. The chk, chk, chk echoed in my ears as I stared at her face, illuminating, then darkening over and over as she flicked her lighter.

“Can’t get a flame,” she mumbled around the cigarette.

“Maybe it’s a sign,” I said.

She laughed and took the cigarette out of her mouth. “You’re right. I shouldn’t. But now you’ve followed me out here for nothing.”

I shrugged. “I always follow you out here for nothing. It’s not like I smoke.”

Her eyes met mine and a smile spread across her face slowly. “I guess you’re right.”

I could hear the muffled music from behind the closed doors. It felt like my heart was still rattling from the heavy bass.

She turned, breaking her gaze. “Fuck, it’s cold out here. Aren’t you cold?”

“Not really. I was sweating in there. Everyone’s all pressed up against each other.”

She laughed softly. “Yeah, that’s true. I didn’t really want to smoke anyway. I just needed a second. Thanks for coming with me.”

I leaned my back against the rail. “Isn’t this your scene? I feel like I usually have to drag you out by the hair.”

She stared ahead and frowned. “Yeah, it is. I don’t know. Not feeling it tonight.”

“Something on your mind?”

She furrowed her brow and opened her mouth to respond, but then closed it. She looked conflicted.

“Callie?” I said.

She leaned against the rail and stared down. For a fleeting, horrible second, I thought she was gonna climb up and jump. Instinctively, my hand flinched. She let out a nervous exhale and stepped back.

“I don’t know. I just feel kind of off tonight. I’m chalking it up to general anxiety. Maybe the crowd’s just too much right now.”

“Do you wanna leave?”

She shook her head. “It’s nice being out here. Feels peaceful.” 

“It does,” I agreed and looked out past the railing. “It feels lively.”

We were facing the street. Neon lights from storefront signs shone against the people walking.

“Jess,” she said. “Can I ask you a weird question?”

“What is it?”

“When do you think we’ll stop feeling like children?”

I took a second to process before responding, “Um. It’s difficult to say.”

She rocked back and forth on her feet. “I thought I’d have things figured out more. But it feels a little like I’ve just started living. Everything’s confusing.”

“That’s okay,” I said. “You’re young. We’re young. We’re all confused.”

“I’m tired of being confused.”

I half smiled. “Everyone is. Your twenties are some of the hardest times of your life. If you look at it in the grand scope of things, we have so much life left to live, so much more to learn.”

I tried to sound confident in my words, but the truth was, I felt exactly how she did. 

She took a deep breath and looked at me. I stared into her dark eyes. It must’ve just been a second or two, but it felt like an eternity. I could hear the muffled music, feel my heart pounding in my chest still. The neon lights reflected on the left side of her face. An overwhelming, inexplicable feeling rose in my chest.

I want to kiss her.

“Callie,” I said.

The doors behind us opened and a couple of drunk people stumbled between us. I stepped back in surprise.

“Shit, sorry,” one of them blurted out. “I’m dizzy.”

I looked at Callie, who still had a surprised expression on her face. She made eye contact with me and tilted her head to the right. Back into the bar.

She grabbed my hand and we went back in. It was still crowded with music blasting and people dancing against each other. She made her way through the crowd, clasping my hand the whole time. My hand began to sweat and I was afraid it would slip right out of hers, so I grasped her tighter. 

I thought she was leading us to the exit, but she turned right instead of heading straight out. I wondered where she was taking us. She pushed through the crowd, determined to get to whatever destination she had in mind. I had no idea how she was navigating. I could barely see through all the people.

Before I knew it, we were in the ladies’ restroom. There was a long line, but Callie marched past it and into the stalls. I could hear people talking to us, asking what we thought we were doing. I felt dizzy, and I wasn’t sure if it was because of the heat or alcohol. Callie pushed on every stall door, her hand still holding mine. Most of the stalls were occupied, but she happened upon one that opened.

“What–”

She rushed in and dragged me in before slamming and locking the door behind us.

The music was blasting in my ears and my whole body was beginning to sweat now. She let go of my clammy hand, and I wiped it against my shorts.

“Why are we here?” I about shouted at her.

She had this glassy look in her eyes, like she wasn’t all there or something. “You’re so fucking pretty, Jess,” she told me.

I blinked. I hadn’t been expecting that. “Thank you,” I yelled back. “You’re also fucking pretty.”

She laughed and turned her face away for a second before looking at me.

“I want to kiss you,” she said.

My heart was hammering in my chest, and it wasn’t because of the music. I didn’t say anything back to her, just stared for a few seconds. Callie and I had always been good friends. We’d never shown romantic interest in one another, and as far as I knew, Callie didn’t even like girls.

She smiled at me with her glassy eyes. It looked almost like she was about to cry.

I didn’t even realize I had leaned in. Before I knew it, we were kissing. Her lips were soft against mine. I put my arms around her despite how sweaty we both were. Her face was sticky. I tasted salt on my tongue.