“Not sex. Just sleep.”
“ Sleep, ” Kate groaned, following me out of the bedroom, a little wobbly on her feet. “That sounds so good .”
We lay down in my bed together and pulled the blankets over us. I commandeered her arm, holding it hostage, cuddling with it shamelessly.
“Your arm is so soft,” I said again.
We lay in quiet companionship as the minutes ticked by, trying to sleep. It seemed impossible. My mind kept racing, despite being exhausted. A side effect of cocaine, probably , my brain supplied.
“Are you gay?” Kate asked after a while. She sounded startled by this revelation, as though I hadn’t been waxing poetic about Jennifer Lopez’s butt for the past two years.
I wanted to say something like, “Bisexuality is a thing, y’know,” or something snarky and funny that I could play off as a joke if she was suddenly put off by my honesty, but instead I pretended to be asleep and held onto her arm. The high was nearly gone and reality was settling in again. My own anxiety wound tight in my chest like a spring at full tension.
I didn’t sleep at all that night. I just pretended.
June 27th
“N INE ONE one, what is your emergency?”
I was still kneeling in Kate’s blood. It was hot and sticky, soaking through my stockings, thick and heavy. I made to stand up, put my hand on her arm to give myself leverage—her arm was still warm, still so soft. It was just like I remembered from a thousand little touches, friendly encouragements, and that night on my bathroom floor.
I gagged.
“Four people are dead,” I said. There was a lump in my throat I couldn’t swallow past. I spoke around it, croaking and broken-voiced. “Four people have been murdered.”
“I’m sorry, did you say that four people are dead? What is your location?”
“We’re at Sparky’s. Sparky’s Diner,” I specified, choking a little on my own tongue. It was too heavy in my mouth, too thick; I couldn’t breathe around it. Kate sucked on my tongue enthusiastically, making a little kitten noise in the back of her throat —I gagged a little and tried to push myself to my feet again.
“I’m dispatching help to your location.”
“He had a shotgun,” I said. “I hid in the bathroom.” I cleared my throat. The 9-1-1 operator probably couldn’t hear me, and they needed to know what was happening. These conversations were recorded. “I was hiding in the bathroom,” I said a bit louder, finding my voice.
“Are you hurt? Is anyone hurt?”
“They’re dead ,” I said. “He blew their brains out. He didn’t find me—I was hiding in the bathroom.”
I stood up, finally, and stumbled toward the bathroom door again. My own watery pink footprints—toilet water and blood from his shoe prints, smudged together—led the way.
I walked into the first stall, fell to my knees, and puked.
February 14th
J ESSA HELD my hair as I vomited. It was violent and repetitive, the sound of my retching, but Jessa was unfazed. “Just get it all up.” I let loose a pitiful moan and then threw up another few teaspoons of seafood. “All of it, there you go.”
“It’s so bad,” I sobbed, trying to resist the urge to lay my head on the side of the toilet bowl. I could practically feel the cool porcelain against my hot cheek—Abort! Abort! Germs !
I threw up again, hard, wrenching my stomach.
“Oh God, it tastes so bad,” I groaned, spluttering and spitting.
“Why did you eat it, then?” Jessa asked me imploringly, tightening her grip on my hair. My neck was aching so I went with her pull, unwrapping myself from around the porcelain throne.
“It didn’t taste bad when I ate it! Well, maybe a little off, but it’s an all-you-can-eat buffet! You’re supposed to pig out!”
Jessa clicked her tongue at me. “Well, that’s what you get, then. For your gluttony, I mean. This is your punishment.”
“Please don’t preach at me right now. I feel like all my intestines are coming out of my
“ Sleep, ” Kate groaned, following me out of the bedroom, a little wobbly on her feet. “That sounds so good .”
We lay down in my bed together and pulled the blankets over us. I commandeered her arm, holding it hostage, cuddling with it shamelessly.
“Your arm is so soft,” I said again.
We lay in quiet companionship as the minutes ticked by, trying to sleep. It seemed impossible. My mind kept racing, despite being exhausted. A side effect of cocaine, probably , my brain supplied.
“Are you gay?” Kate asked after a while. She sounded startled by this revelation, as though I hadn’t been waxing poetic about Jennifer Lopez’s butt for the past two years.
I wanted to say something like, “Bisexuality is a thing, y’know,” or something snarky and funny that I could play off as a joke if she was suddenly put off by my honesty, but instead I pretended to be asleep and held onto her arm. The high was nearly gone and reality was settling in again. My own anxiety wound tight in my chest like a spring at full tension.
I didn’t sleep at all that night. I just pretended.
June 27th
“N INE ONE one, what is your emergency?”
I was still kneeling in Kate’s blood. It was hot and sticky, soaking through my stockings, thick and heavy. I made to stand up, put my hand on her arm to give myself leverage—her arm was still warm, still so soft. It was just like I remembered from a thousand little touches, friendly encouragements, and that night on my bathroom floor.
I gagged.
“Four people are dead,” I said. There was a lump in my throat I couldn’t swallow past. I spoke around it, croaking and broken-voiced. “Four people have been murdered.”
“I’m sorry, did you say that four people are dead? What is your location?”
“We’re at Sparky’s. Sparky’s Diner,” I specified, choking a little on my own tongue. It was too heavy in my mouth, too thick; I couldn’t breathe around it. Kate sucked on my tongue enthusiastically, making a little kitten noise in the back of her throat —I gagged a little and tried to push myself to my feet again.
“I’m dispatching help to your location.”
“He had a shotgun,” I said. “I hid in the bathroom.” I cleared my throat. The 9-1-1 operator probably couldn’t hear me, and they needed to know what was happening. These conversations were recorded. “I was hiding in the bathroom,” I said a bit louder, finding my voice.
“Are you hurt? Is anyone hurt?”
“They’re dead ,” I said. “He blew their brains out. He didn’t find me—I was hiding in the bathroom.”
I stood up, finally, and stumbled toward the bathroom door again. My own watery pink footprints—toilet water and blood from his shoe prints, smudged together—led the way.
I walked into the first stall, fell to my knees, and puked.
February 14th
J ESSA HELD my hair as I vomited. It was violent and repetitive, the sound of my retching, but Jessa was unfazed. “Just get it all up.” I let loose a pitiful moan and then threw up another few teaspoons of seafood. “All of it, there you go.”
“It’s so bad,” I sobbed, trying to resist the urge to lay my head on the side of the toilet bowl. I could practically feel the cool porcelain against my hot cheek—Abort! Abort! Germs !
I threw up again, hard, wrenching my stomach.
“Oh God, it tastes so bad,” I groaned, spluttering and spitting.
“Why did you eat it, then?” Jessa asked me imploringly, tightening her grip on my hair. My neck was aching so I went with her pull, unwrapping myself from around the porcelain throne.
“It didn’t taste bad when I ate it! Well, maybe a little off, but it’s an all-you-can-eat buffet! You’re supposed to pig out!”
Jessa clicked her tongue at me. “Well, that’s what you get, then. For your gluttony, I mean. This is your punishment.”
“Please don’t preach at me right now. I feel like all my intestines are coming out of my
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