30. THEO
30
THEO
Music blares from somewhere downstairs. A high-pitched voice whines about love and lust through melodic guitar chords, and Anika screams along with such passion it sounds like she’s in pain.
‘Fucking hell, Anika,’ I yell, palms pressed against my ears. ‘Who the fuck do you have to sing about?’ I say less loudly, already knowing she can’t hear me.
I try to continue writing, telling myself this summer, I would finish this bloody fucking thesis. ‘The Origins of Apotheosis in Ancient Egypt’ seemed a relatively interesting topic while in Egypt, but the desire to write about men who believed in their own importance reminds me too much of my father. Divinity negating sin. Replacing error. Forgiving fault. But I told myself I would finish it without telling anyone and become the fucking doctor that he never did. And, when I have that diploma, I can say I became a doctor without complaint, that I mastered something he failed at, and I did it better than he ever fucking could. Flipping through the pages, the word bruised appears about some clay pot, and it causes me to stop.
Magdalen with her back against the dirty wall. What she’ll see when she looks in the mirror. My breath becomes unsteady, and I close my eyes. In, out, in, out .
But it begins as it always has. Images of Magdalen are replaced with the same hazy memory. It’s become less clear as the years have gone on. The split wood of the attic ceiling. Was it morning or night? Yet the whole scene unfolds despite the fading details...
I try to breathe through my nose, but it’s as if someone has stuffed cotton down my throat. I remember a torn, dirty skirt. A hot trail burns my cheek, and I slap it to bring myself back to reality. Am I fucking crying?
It’s been ten years, you fucking pussy. Ten years to get over this same thing. Get a grip, Theo. Remember who you are. Remember to breathe. It’s fine. You’re fine. It’ll pass, you weak piece of shit. Everyone’s over it. Get the fuck over it. You fucking freak. Jesus Christ, you should have done something. You cry now, but you didn’t do anything! Should’ve told someone, anyone. Written it down so it wouldn’t fade away like it has. Was she crying? Do you remember how she shoved his face, how her nails pressed into his cheek? They were so short, they did nothing. Were your nails as short? If you would have fucking moved, do you think you could have gotten a scratch on him? Remember how his drool covered the palm of her hand as she tried to break free. Do you remember that? Of course you do! You’ll never forget it; because you let it happen. You let her hurt. You let her hurt for so long. And you watched. You watched, and even if there were tears in your eyes and a tremble down your spine, you still fucking watched and left quietly through the attic door. She’ll never be the same again, and you just watched.
I need help. Help. Think of how quiet she was after. Remember the zipper? How loud it was when she was quiet. Birds stopped chirping; I know you remember that. I’m fucking hurt, and I need help.
My shirt is unbearable, wrapping around my neck until I realize I’m gagging. Standing up, I pull at the neckline, faintly aware of a tearing sound, but it still clings to me so tightly. Blindly, I find scissors and try to find my neckline, but I can’t fucking see. I hold the scissors by the bladed part, thinking I can just slice the shirt, but everything is fuzzy. Briefly, I think of my mum. Of her clapping on the bleachers at my tennis match. I still feel the blood pulsing through my fingertips, but now they’re her fingertips, clasped together with uncontained joy. I lost that match. She’s so happy. Amore, amore, amore . Okay, I put the scissors down. Amore, come! You were excellent. Oh, you were so excellent. Mamma, I lost. Stai zitto, your swing! I almost cried it was so good. Okay, Mamma. You hungry? Yes, Mamma. Okay, let’s get something to eat . Okay, Mamma. Gelato, I feel like a nice big gelato. Chocolate! Mhmm, I love chocolate in the summer. Yes, Mamma. I like chocolate, too.
I wake up on the bathroom floor to someone banging on the door.
‘Theo, did you fucking die in there? I need to pee and Mamma’s blow-drying her hair downstairs.’
‘One minute,’ I say, my voice far away, still in the memory. Her music has stopped. I look up and count how many rings there are in the bathroom curtain. Thirty-two. I feel very small down here.
Anika clears her throat. ‘You—’ She starts. Tries again. ‘You okay?’ I can see her feet shift behind the door, and I bolt upright, banging my knee against the toilet bowl.
‘Ehm, yeah. One sec.’ I flush the toilet. Hearing any concern in Anika sends a dreadful realization that I have been here too long. How did I get into the bathroom? I remember things in blurred greyscale. Blood and chocolate. Fuzzy fingers. My head feels swollen, like someone has filled me with water. ‘If I told you I shat myself, would you believe me?’ My voice is still not fully there, but she doesn’t seem to notice.
‘No, you fucking didn’t!’ she cackles, and I check to see her shadow bouncing from one foot to the other. I take a deep breath through my mouth: relief. Time. I have time back.
‘Try not to sound too excited,’ I say. Wiping my face, I turn the water on and blow out a hot breath.
Her laughter slips past the door, filling the bathroom with brightness. ‘What the fuck did you and Magdalen do? You’ve been out of it for days now.’ Her chuckles become bubbly and uncontrollable. ‘Do you think Maggie is shitting herself as we speak?’
Anika stomps her heel on the ground, so amused by her own company she forgets I’m in here. ‘Wait, let me ask her.’
‘I thought you had to pee?’ I call out, turning off the water after an appropriate amount of time, and unlock the door. But as I begin to turn the knob, I pause, stomach sinking quickly. ‘What do you mean ask Mag—’
When I open the door, Anika’s head is hanging out the railing of the upstairs hallway balcony. ‘Magdalen Savoy, are you currently shitting yourself as we speak?’ she screams down.
‘I’m going to need you to repeat that,’ a voice yells from downstairs, and I think I might actually shit myself now.
Her voice is light and slightly winded, as if she’s been running. I try not to picture what she looks like, cheeks flushed. I know that look all too well. We’ve expertly avoided each other for nearly a week.
Anika huffs with agitation. ‘I said, are you currently shitting yourself like my brother just has?’
‘For fuck’s sake.’ I bury my head in my hands and Anika snaps her attention to me and stands up from the railing. ‘Don’t be embarrassed! I’m sure Maggie is overcome with the same bodily discomfort as you.’
‘No, Anika. I can promise you she’s not.’
‘Magdalen, if you don’t answer me right now, I’ll assume that shit is currently leaking out of your ass.’
‘Must you be so descriptive?’ I huff, but I’m secretly glad of this bickering.
‘Yeah, I must.’
I look down at my shaking hands and squeeze. The dizziness has subsided and I no longer have to focus on the beating of my heart, on how to breathe or on the thirty-two curtain rings. But the smallness lingers, the weight of the memory’s shadow hovering over my own, pressing down, knotting my muscles until I feel my whole body cramp. As I stand in the hallway, Anika zooms past me, slamming the bathroom door.
The door to my bedroom is open; through it I can see my desk with the open textbook. Ancient Egypt feels impossibly far away, so I walk past the room, diverting my eyes from the spot where the scissors lie. It’s almost ridiculous now. I should laugh at my own stupidity and resolve never to let it happen again.