You Shouldn't Have Invited Me Inside

You shouldn’t have invited me inside your home.

It was Sunday. We had gone to the cinema, but before that we had crossed the bridge. You wore black and I wore grey. It was the perfect storm that day, figuratively.

You said the city centre looked like a zombie apocalypse and we laughed. Then the wind picked up and blew us back. My hair flew back while yours stayed still.

You stopped when you saw a queue near the pop-up vans serving mocktails. You stood next to someone in cheetah print trousers. As you held your head forward, I slipped out of the queue and stepped back into the crowd.

You didn’t remember who you were sitting next to in screen seven. You went straight to the toilet before the movie started. We waved at each other. The lights dimmed. The screen expanded at the edges. You smiled at her. You laughed when the characters in Resident Evil made a joke, jumping at the jumpscare.

But you didn’t go home with me. You didn’t walk back through the harbourside. You didn’t eat that venison straight from the hands of a stranger.

Happy anniversary.

You are here now, but you are legally blind. You scan your items at the checkout while your vision blurs. You think it is a sign that your prescription changed, but you remember that you are a victim. You scroll on the screen, checking every item. Your income is low. You avoid looking over your shoulder to dodge the annoyed glances and the pity of the store clerks.

Now the bag is too heavy. The other is falling off your shoulder. You need your receipt to scan against the glass exit barrier. You feel like a rope is tightening around your neck as you pass the security guard. You didn’t steal anything, but you avoid eye contact anyway.

Out on the street, cars keep coming. You cross, dodging the thorn vines along the narrow path. The trees keep you calm. Tarmac and bricks. Grey clouds overhead block the light, padding you from feeling anything.

You feel the trauma bubbling up to the surface. You see a church on the corner and think what a shithole it is. You would rather go to hell. You try to stay calm so you won't drop the bag and attract even more attention to yourself.

Over a few days, you order things online. You wait for them. They come, one by one. You open them and dispose of the cardboard in the blue bin at the back.

You remember where you are. You are in a madhouse with a bunch of addicts. You are the only sane one, but you are watching yourself become something else. Trapped. Sometimes it is loud.

You look at the note on the fridge: emergency contacts. You lie in wait. His Crocs are thrown down the stairs.

But you are not the villain. If he didn’t do it, you wouldn’t have done it. You are just a stranger. A squatter.

Down the street you walk with your flashlight at nine in the evening. Complete darkness surrounds you. The beam cuts a trembling circle against the snow. Somewhere out there, you find just her neck and lower half. She is lying in clothing you recognized, but rarely saw her wear.

You ran home.

That was the day your four-foot mother met her end. It began with my Kubrick stare. You mistook that look for vulnerability. It never looked odd on me with my soft features and my breakable, thin wrists.

You watched me every time I embraced her. That solidified in your mind that I was harmless. You didn't realize that I only embraced her when you were around.

You found her head in the food bin. The manual cranial perforator sat right next to it on a perfectly absorbent paper towel. You could hear the tactile click of the automatic clutch disengaging as it bit through the inner table. The flexible Gigli wire saw rasped as it cut through the diploë. You wondered at the spongy, blood-filled layer sandwiched inside the hard skull bone.

Then you did the foolish thing: you swallowed.

You threw up, and I cleaned up after you, just like a loving partner should. You think about all the times she made your favorite dessert, not about how careful I was not to touch the soft tissue underneath.

You took the brain out yourself after I cut the rope. It must have been because you were emotional. You usually are. This is the first time I have seen patience from you.

You picked up the bayonet tissue forceps and the Metzenbaum scissors, sliding them beneath the dura mater. That tough mother you always tried to escape through drugs, alcohol, and sex. You wondered if there was anything inside that could tell you whether she really loved you.

All you can remember is that she left your father, and your father left you. You threw her brains at me, but I placed them neatly into the bin out of respect for you.

I watched the corrugator muscles twitch and seize under the skin of your forehead. You tried desperately to form an expression of grief that your hollowed-out character could barely comprehend, Mr. Dorian Gray. I do believe I am grieving her much more than you are.

You tried to step back from me, but the sex we had the night before while I was planning this took you by surprise. You tripped, and the stress made you lose consciousness.

But you have nothing to worry about. I only wanted to rid you of this generational curse.

It was incredibly windy that day. You remembered telling me that you feared losing your hair, because on your mother's side, things were not looking good for the men. I listened. You saw a moment of weakness in me, and you laughed.

The gale tore through the trees across from Za Za Bazaar as you ate your uncovered yogurt and granola. The catkins disintegrated from the silver birch tree, and one fell onto your hair. It looked like brown, T-shaped scales resembling tiny broom heads.

Like a dead bird, I flicked it off your hair and told you to protect your precious yogurt.