Evelyn

You stand in front of a closet stuffed with all the questions you shoved in there like a kid cleaning your room, hoping mom doesn’t open the door because everything will spill out. The ‘why did’ and ‘why didn’t you’-s that any normal person would ask when faced with lies and infidelity; tucked deep in your subconscious to avoid the pain.

There they’ve stayed, collecting, never going away, but now the closet is at max capacity, and the questions are banging on the door begging to be let out. The hinges give, and a giant mess falls to your feet.

          Picking up the questions turns into a sunny walk down Memory Lane with a bad guy hiding around every corner waiting to jump you and take everything you’ve got, even when there’s nothing left because the guy on the first corner took it all. And you keep walking, like some sort of blissfully unaware idiot, incapable of anticipating the next beating. This torture goes on for far too long.

At the end of memory lane is mirror shop so you can get a good look at yourself, and baby, you look like shit. What kind of masochist are you? It’s like I enjoy being miserable. But you don’t. At least, that’s what you tell yourself.

You go clean up, because when you look good, you feel good, right? You wash off the blood, cover the bruises with makeup, toss on a sassy outfit, and get back out there.

          Where is there? Good question. But all your life, everyone has told you that “you have to just get out there,” so there you go. The makeup and the outfit are a success. You hook a new hunky mate. Someone equally caked in makeup who says all the right things.

The days play out in coffees and flowers and dinners and cocktails, big smiles and frolicking, until you start to itch. Because you didn’t sterilize the cuts and now, they’re infected.

          You hide to tend to your disgusting wounds every chance you get, frantically changing out the band-aids like it’s going to make a difference, but it’s too late, baby. You need a fucking doctor. But maybe not, because eventually the wounds will heal themselves, probably, right, maybe?

Something in the trashcan catches your attention. Ooze covered bandages that aren’t yours, and there’s only one other person’s they could be. You guessed it: they’re his. Shock and betrayal set in as you realize he’s been hiding his wounds too. In the same moment, he walks in on you and catches you exposed. He gasps, a look of terror and disgust covering his face.

There’s only one way out of this. You raise the gun and shoot him dea…

          Plunging from the sheets in a cold sweat, I check my body for bandages. None. I should be relieved, but I’m not. What the fuck was that? Trying to catch my breath, I replay the dream in my head. I haven’t had one that vivid since the third grade when I was screaming in the middle of the class, but no one could hear me.

Maybe it’s trying to tell me something. Maybe I need a doctor. Maybe I should also quit drinking so much. That’s not happening any time soon.

          There’s a thud in the closet. My heart rate spikes again. Listening, waiting for a follow-up, I convince myself that something must have fallen off a shelf. Another thud.

I jump out of bed grabbing my pistol from the nightstand in one swift motion. Heart pounding, I make my way to the door. I childishly count to three in my head and rip it open. A strange man bound, beaten, sweaty, and scared stares up at me from the floor. Shit.