by C. Riley
Are you sure it was blood?
Well, the blonde (who isn’t here now) is pre-med. She’s never spoken more than a stiff sentence to me, but she pointed to the red swirling in the stall, my cheek resting on the porcelain rim and sounded an alarm of girls. It’s hard to know what to believe anymore. Isn’t it funny how everything at parties is red? The cups. The jealousy. Our tongues. The juice in the Gatorade cooler, like this dark basement is a playoff game. Like maybe we’ve been training for this. I’d think it was blood, too.
Where were you before this?
I was at a party, and then I wasn’t. You know when your alarm slices through a dream? And it’s always the moment just before you turn around to see who you’re running from? That’s what tonight was. I borrowed this blue shirt because I thought it would make me feel beautiful. I knew this was the last night before the campus became a whisper for a week, and this was reason enough to throw confetti into a glass and drink six in a row. But that’s all I remember — the staircase that led to a damp room full of breathing bodies and then the hot lights of the stall. There is no in between. I will never get that back.
Where did you go?
Sometimes I like to sit with my knees tucked into my chest. Someone told me once it seemed like I was uncomfortable. Really, it’s how I know I’m safe. That’s what I do sometimes with liquor. Instead of becoming the cobwebbed corner of the living room — I punch my tonsils. Coat them in what makes my forearm fuzz straighten its back. I don’t stop there. I reach for every container that’s fuller than my self-esteem, don’t pay attention to whether it belonged to someone else’s lips. I want to be here so I leave every time. I mean, I want to be here so I let my mind leave every time.
What’s your social security number?
Unfortunately, you’re asking me this a year before I memorize it and recite it to the bank teller or to a beige job application. But I know where to find it. Faded type on a ripped blue card in the front pocket of my wallet. That’s why I’m crying — I know exactly where to look and still don’t know the answer.
C. Riley (she/her) wholeheartedly believes in the power of storytelling and iced coffee year round. Her work can be found in What Are Birds? journal.
Hyades Magazine 