Two Rooms [East Boston]

by Aileen Ma

There are only two rooms in her flat, and her best friend Emily has been denied access to both the bathroom and bedroom/living/kitchen for the past week, two days, and counting. It is only a matter of four days until all of her days off for this year and the next will be exhausted, but she could care less.

She was fine earlier this morning too, having just decided that yes, from what sunlight had crept through the curtains it did seem like a beautiful day, and that yes, it would only be right to go out and buy some eggs to make a splendid eggs benedict. Maybe some cream cheese bagels too.

But somewhere in between getting on her coat and running to the bathroom it came back. It came back and pinned her to the cold linoleum ground of her tiny bathroom, left her shriveled up with pain that bled through her eyes, and scars that burned on her body, paralyzed with fear.

It’s been so long, this shouldn’t be happening, run the thoughts in her mind. The feeling of choking, and then realizing that maybe that is the easy way out returns, and there is no good way to put it. There will never be a good way to put it.

She tries to reach for the handle to the bathroom door, cross back over to the other side. Her main room. But she cannot reach.

Resolves to only think about the eggs benedict she wanted, and the cream cheese bagels too. But a second later it all comes rushing back, in gashes and torrents that make her sob dry tears.

Why, why God. If I broke up with him 2 years ago, why does this still happen to me.

On the floor, her body, still limp, thrashes in a sudden motion.

If I left a gash in his arm and a line down his face, why wouldn’t he stop.

Her eyes shudder, cold sweat forms at her temples.

Why did he act so gently. Caress the my bangs that had fallen in front of my face and whisper in warm tones, “Sweetheart, you will love this. You know you will.”

She screams inside. Tries to contain the frantic waves of kicking and screaming and clawing that her body will take on.

And why didn’t I love it then. If I was the one who had let him order the house special for me at the steakhouse. The one who had given him the goodnight kiss first, let his hand rest around my neck, and work its way through my hair.

Her hands go to her throat. Leave sweat marks like blood. Make the screams within die down, bottle up, not surface. Wishes for a fainting spell, perhaps one that lasts forever, yes, that would be good.

Why.