Absence

A Story by AMordahl

A story I came up with thinking about suicide (not thinking about committing suicide, but just thinking about the topic in general).

The new moon shined brightly in pure, black absence, and the wind blew lightly through the trees, only hard enough to disturb their leaves, but not with enough force to produce a satisfying breeze. Lana had her window open, something she usually didn’t do. During these months in Texas, opening a window"even with a screen"was an invitation for all sorts of disgusting, small pests to intrude into your home. She didn’t feel like it mattered whether they got in now, though. They were actually a lot like her.

Lana sat at her desk, with the radio playing in the background. She usually listened to music, but today, she wanted to hear the news. The monotonous, anonymous man announced bombings in the Middle East briefly, then went on to cover a story about the television awards show premiering tonight. Lana smiled.

She looked over at her bed, but then looked back. It was like staring into the sun, except the image left in her eyes was perpetual. Her door was shut, but not locked"her family was too aloof to enter, and even if they did, she didn’t mind. She actually wanted them to see her now.

Her desk was clear, as it usually was. She had bought it with the intention of using it to do her schoolwork in peace, but instead, went downstairs and studied in the kitchen. Of course, there was all the noise, but it was welcome compared to the shrieking silence of loneliness that seduced her every time her door clicked shut. An owl was perched on a tree outside her window.

* * *

Lana was important to him. Truly, she was. He perhaps was not the best at expressing his affection, but it was there.

She met Manuel at school; he sat behind her in math class and, in his usual flirtatious annoyance, continuously poked and prodded at her back until they had exchanged phone numbers. Manuel tended to get what he wanted. Charming in his sense of humor, charming in his playful arrogance, and charming in his well-toned abdomen, frequently put on display for the student body.

In the span of a week, they had gone from close acquaintances to boyfriend and girlfriend, much to the dismay of many. Lana was beautiful, and so was Manuel. So perfect even Shakespeare wrote about them. Perfection at its finest"raw, unhindered, devoted passion. Passion that enflamed their hearts. Passion that brought smiles and laughter to any situation. Passion that could be heard through doors. Passion that made Lana double-check what the lines meant on the pregnancy test, just to be sure.

* * *

She could not hide the parasite for long enough before her mother grew suspicious. A few pounds can be attributed to stress from school and a new boyfriend, but there was a limit. Her mother found out sooner than she should have, but, at the same time, too late. Lana had been considering an abortion, her mother pleaded otherwise. Pamphlets and webpages and hotlines flooded the house until Lana agreed to go through with the pregnancy.

Birthing a child is supposed to be a wonderful experience. The joy of creating new life proliferates once that a little bundle of potential is placed into your arms. But all Lana could think about was the placenta. The disgusting, sad, mound of flesh"a by-product of beauty. That which sustains livelihood is burned like garbage from the beginning. “Rose,” she said, like the radio announcer informing somebody of a bombing.

* * *

Manuel had been working to save up for an apartment, and he was almost there. They still lived separately, however, and he had wanted to care for Rose those few days. Lana happily obliged"she wanted a break. Why is it that she hated the child? She knew, of course, but she refused to admit that it was because the tumor was thrust upon her. She didn’t ask to become a vessel. She never gave any consent to become a caregiver, or to give up her future.

A kitchen knife sat in her pencil jar, for whenever she needed to cut anything open. Self-laceration was a conclusion too quickly jumped to by visitors. She wore long sleeved shirts not to hide any cuts, but rather, another sort of pain more shameful than those brought on by self.

A mirror sat on her desk, constantly pointed away from her. It forever reflected an empty space on the wall, above the bed. White space, rough but clear. The mirror was perfectly clear"stainless not out of cleanliness but rather out of negligence.

She glanced over at the bed once more, and horrible memories burned into her eyes. Boom, boom, boom, she remembered, as her loose headboard repeatedly hit the wall. She heard the squeaks, from the movement on the bed’s old frame. His breath burned her skin, and she felt blisters forming from the raw passion being burned into her flesh, like cattle being marked. His breath was not a loving breath. His breath was possessive. He was marking her, not liberating her. She remembered his moans, and the tears running down the sides of her head. Passion overtook him, and he started pounding faster. Her head began to bump against the headboard, more force coming with every ram. She remembered the crucifix, hung by nail on the wall above the bed, falling and splitting her head open. Once he finished, he walked to the bathroom and got hydrogen peroxide and a bandage. She never bothered to remount the crucifix, and just let it lay under the bed.

* * *

The kitchen knife was now lying on the desk in front of her, waiting to cut something open. The knife cannot be blamed for its desires. Just as a spoon longs to stir or a light bulbs longs to illuminate, a knife is equally yearning to cut. A knife knows no difference. Whether it be cutting bread, cardboard, plastic . . . nothing matters. The nymphomaniac only longs for pleasure, and concerns itself not with the source.

Lana picked up the knife, and played with it in her hands. She slowly turned it, examining the handle and the blade. It had teeth"perfect for sawing away at something.

She really did like Rose. Fondness is something one can learn. This is why she did not feel bad about not loving her daughter. Love chooses its victims.

The owl sat perched upon its branch, watching what happened. Being an owl, however, it probably didn’t think much of the blood that started to gush out of Lana’s wrist once that the nymphomaniac got its pleasure.

The gradual fading of life was cathartic for Lana. It felt rather nice, actually; she lay there enjoying the loss of consciousness"of existence. To exist was to endure, and she had indeed endured. Passion stained the floor a bright red, never to be cleaned. She fell onto the floor, and relished in the smooth feeling of the carpet, but that eventually faded, too. All that was left was her. She focused her eyes straight ahead, and saw the blurry figure of the stained crucifix. The last thing she saw was the bruises on her arms.

* * *

Manuel also had a desk. His desk was usually cluttered with papers, and now, diapers and formula. He left it cluttered as he dressed for the funeral. The only change was the pile of tear-stained tissues now left upon the wood to rot.

As he stood, holding Rose, watching the services, he felt the bulge of a felt box in his pocket pressing against his side.

Lana’s father seemed to be hurt the most, tissues being unable to hold all of the pain"the passion"flowing from his eyes. He fell to his knees in front of the open casket, and stained her dress with unholy water.

Manuel knew something was wrong when Lana’s father fell over, but didn’t do anything. He only regained consciousness when he heard someone shouting in his ear to call for help, which was when he fully understood what was happening. He telephoned, to no avail, as Lana’s father keeled over and died long before the medics had arrived.

Rose arrived at the funeral parented, but left as an orphan, adopted by an unfortunate high school senior.