The Opening

very short fiction

The women walk up my stairs giggling.

Are they going to laugh at me?

I sit very still, as if that might hide me.

They freeze when they see me. One of them clamps a hand over her mouth.

Then they come closer, whispering to each other. One kneels in front of me and takes my hand.

“Are you okay?”

I try to answer, but my tongue is thick, useless. What comes out is broken. I don’t even know what I was trying to say.

On the side table, my protein drink sits untouched. The powder has risen, formed a pale, foamy skin at the top. I think: I need to drink that. I need strength.

The crouched woman is looking in my eyes, almost smiling. The other stands, her hands on her knees. Their mouths are glossy, one pink, one red, like they’ve been sucking on popsicles.

The gold discs on the crouched woman’s skirt catch the light. They flash and bend, warped little mirrors, like giant mermaid scales.

“I keep the door open,” I manage. I don’t know exactly what I mean. That they’re allowed in. That I’m not locked up?

The standing one with the red lips glances around, but the attic is mostly dark. Just the nightlight.

The nicer one with the pink lips looks straight into my eyes. “Don’t you want to come down? The party’s really fun.”

A pause.

“Do you want me to bring you something? Snacks? A glass of wine?”

The other woman edges back from the darker part of the room, pressing closer to her friend.

“Yeah,” she says. It’s a pretending voice. “We’re dancing. You like dancing, right?”

How does she know that?

I try to lift my arms, to show her fifth position, but they won’t rise. Too heavy. I turn my feet out instead, hoping they understand.

The crouching one stands, her dress catching the light. She is still holding my hand, the weight of my arm pulling at hers. “Blink twice if you need help.”

“Rhonda, stop it,” the other woman mutters. “Craig told us about this...” She says it up against Rhonda’s ear, jaw locked, like if she doesn’t move her lips I won’t hear.

“Okay, okay,” Rhonda says. She places my hand gently on my knee. “Do you need anything?”

And there it is. The opening.

It’s been down there for days. Every time I ask him to bring it up, he says the same thing. He’s not my servant. If I want it, I can come get it.

He wants me to come down. Sit with him. Be normal.

“My red sweater,” I say. Clear this time. “In the laundry.”

Rhonda brightens immediately. “Okay. I’ll go get it. Be right back.”

She smiles, wide, all her teeth showing.

They leave.

I wait.

The music drifts up through the house, something I can feel more than hear. Voices rising and falling. Laughter. A man shouting once. Heels striking concrete. Car engines.

I sink back, too tired to hold myself up.

If I sleep, maybe she’ll come back and lay it over me.

It’ll smell clean. Like outside. That cold air smell.

Maybe just a trace of her perfume.

That would be nice.

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I never do this. I never send anything out this raw.

This is a chapter from the novel I’m writing. The story is spilling out of me like it’s already inside in liquid form—just turn the spout and out it spills.

Would you read more? Would you read it if I published it in serial form? Do you forgive me for sending you a draft I didn’t labor over for thirty days?

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Did you read my “Day in the Life of a___Writer piece?