Chapter 22
TOMMY JAMES & THE SHONDELLS
The Fuckening is here.
She’s never late,
staying for three days, maybe four.
No week-long trickle.
No spotting drama.
Only war.
I trained for this.
My body’s a machine gun now.
Bleed. Burn. Bail.
My stomach cramps like it’s grieving.
My uterus is painting the toilet bowl red.
“Alright, girl. Get it all out,” I mutter, hands bracing against the wall through the next cramp.
“Purge it. Take the lining and all the lies.”
This timing’s poetic.
I told Andrew I needed a few days to think,
that I wasn’t ready to send him the Baby Contract.
I told him I was overwhelmed, heated,
on edge, confused, emotionally flammable.
Now I’m ninety percent sure it was PMS,
my hormones murdering me from the inside out.
Last night, I couldn’t leave him half-blind in the courtyard without his glasses, so I called him a car.
He bitched the whole time—
“I got it, Allison. I’m not fuckin’ helpless.”
I tapped through the app, ignoring him.
Then waved goodbye.
No kiss, no hug. Like a virgin.
He waited with Mickey, the two ranting about Jersey-born, I-do-it-myself pride.
At least now I know I wasn’t losing my shit for no reason.
It was blood on the brain
and war in the womb.
Let the purge begin.
I cleared my schedule in advance to prep for battle.
Period underwear drawer’s locked and loaded.
Fuck tampons and cups,
she’s not here to be blocked.
She came to bleed.
I flush and walk to the closet, folded in half with my hand pressing against my stomach.
I grab The Fuckening Basket from the shelf, wincing,
then shake the ibuprofen bottle.
One sad little pill ricochets off the side,
laughing.
“Oh, you gotta be fuckin’ kiddin’.”
Heating pad? Missing.
Candle? Burned to the stub.
Chocolate-covered cherries? Gone.
I don’t leave the penthouse during this.
Rest only. Movement is treason.
There’s only one thing left to do.
Today, 7:23 am
Celie
Emergency. The Fuckening is here.
Wine. Chocolate. Wipes. Heating pad. Advil.
And a red candle if you can find one.
No apple scented. Go, go, go.
Celie:
Working.
I got three pins in my hair, two in my lungs, and no free hands. Sorry bitch.
Celie. If you don’t help me, I will die.
I just sneezed and lost a quart of blood.
Babe I love you but holla back in four days when you’re done bleeding and lying. I forgot I don’t talk to you during The Fuckening.
A growl leaves me.
I toss my phone across the floor.
Then crawl to it, snatch it up,
and stand like a ninety-year-old woman.
“Hey, Brooke.”
AI Brooke: “Yes, Miss Allison?”
“Cue The Fuckening Playlist.”
I sigh, snatching a hoodie off the hanger.
“Need a little pre-game for my heroic solo journey to Duane fuckin’ Reade.”
AI Brooke: “Now playing: Crimson and Clover by Tommy James and the Shondells. Bleed responsibly.”
All my senses are heightened.
Manhattan’s smothering me—
garbage, beer piss,
steam from a food cart I can’t run away from.
I can smell the sins of this city.
I can hear heels punch concrete.
I can taste blood pooling in my gums.
I’m walking the streets slower than usual,
hand on my stomach,
groaning under my breath,
one foot dragging behind,
one hot flash away from bursting into flames,
one cramp from biting someone.
No bra, black hoodie, black joggers,
black shades swallowing half my face.
My hood’s up. My hair’s tucked.
Sunlight dodged.
Migraine knocking.
Cervix clawing.
Hormones howling.
Strangers keep glancing,
wondering if I’m famous or feral.
Could be anyone.
Selena back from the dead…
Edward Cullen…
They’ll never know.
Then a sound drifts down the block—
some street musician bleeding into six strings,
a guitar riff cutting through traffic
and gut-punching me.
I freeze—
mid-cramp, mid-step, mid-breath.
It’s slow, mournful,
“Dream On” stripped down to bone and smoke.
Aerosmith doesn’t show up in your life
unless you want it to.
I glance left.
It’s a guy in a wool coat.
Worn beanie. Fingerless gloves.
Amp strapped to a luggage cart.
I reach into my pocket for my phone
to text Andrew,
to say, you won’t believe what I just heard.
I wrap my fingers around the device,
then stop.
Aerosmith? On Fifth? At 9 a.m.?
Come on. Seems a little too… convenient.
I release the phone,
my hand backing away from the pocket.
I left Andrew less than eight hours ago.
Now he’s got the universe in on his plan,
shoving him in my face, playing our band,
making me crack first.
He sold his soul just to stay on my mind.
I said I needed time—not signs.
And I almost fucking fell for it too.
“Nice try, Universe.
“You manipulative little shit.”
Gonna have to try harder than that.
I pivot toward Duane,
and the second I do,
an MTA bus slams a pothole.
Filthy street water arcs through the air
and slaps across my face.
I freeze, shutting my eyes,
pressing my lips as it slides down my neck,
tasting city grit on my tongue.
When I open them, it’s dripping from me.
From lashes. Chin. Fingertips.
I nod, calm, accepting it.
“Okay. Message received.”
A few minutes later,
I limp into Duane Reade like I’ve been shot.
“Good mornin’,” a guy chirps in passing.
No one says good morning unless they’re a tourist.
I grunt, not breaking stride,
tunnel-vision locked on the candy aisle.
No basket. I’m past stable. Past smart.
Past using-my-brain bullshit.
I grab two bags of dark chocolate cherries.
A few bars.
The most expensive bottle of pinot they’ve got.
Heating pad.
Triple-stacked Advil.
Wipes.
I stop in front of the candles,
staring at them, arms full.
I don’t even want the fucking candle anymore.
It’s too soft for all the shit I went through to get here.
I start to walk away, then stop,
look left then right,
and yank one off the shelf.
Then—
my periody-sense picks up his scent.
Cedar, soft amber, heat.
A smell making me want to bury my face into his neck.
The kind that lingers on sheets,
making me dumb and horny for hours.
Andrew.
My body moves before my brain does.
Because God forbid I pause and think first.
My feet are leading the way,
following the scent,
sniffing the air like a Sanderson sister,
arms juggling all the things,
chocolate bar clamped between my teeth.
I pass the cold meds, the foot care,
some woman yelling on speaker about child support, and “that dumb bitch Emily.”
I turn the corner, breath on standby—
But it’s not him.
Just some poor bastard
in front of the deodorant shelves,
holding hemorrhoid cream,
KY Jelly,
rubber gloves,
and a pack of double-stuffed Oreos.
He freezes.
I do too.
We stare at each other, two lost ghosts.
Then he grimaces. “Can I help you?”
I can’t talk with a fucking chocolate bar stuffed between my teeth.
I shake my head, the shades falling down the bridge of my nose.
He turns away, muttering under his breath,
“This city’s full’a cracked-out chicks, man.”
By the time I hit checkout,
two people are ahead of me.
I fall in line, arms numb from everything I’m carrying, slurping back spit from around the wrapped candy bar in my mouth.
I’m drooling around the edges of it,
my spit sliding down my chin.
I can’t wipe it. Nothing I can do about it.
This is who I am now.
I don’t care anymore.
Then I hear Steven Tyler,
faint, but clear:
“C’mere baby…”
The first filthy note licking the back of my neck. Then Crazy’s drums punch through.
I flinch.
My throat tightens.
My heart slamming.
This is what the universe wants.
It wants me to react.
Don’t fucking move, Allison.
Don’t even blink—swear to God.
I’ve never stood so straight in my life.
Then tiny sneakers squeal past me,
one wrong move,
and the toddler could take us both down.
The mom—
without glancing up from self-checkout—
yells,
“Get your ass back here, Andrew.
“You little shit.”
My eyes stop moving.
My pulse skips once.
Twice.
Then I throw my head back and laugh.
Candy bar in my mouth, drooling,
staring up at the ceiling, laughing.
A goddamn insane person.
A woman on the edge.
Aerosmith all around me.
Alright, Universe. That’s enough.
You can calm down now.
I get it. He’s mine.
I don’t get two feet out the door,
when a pigeon dive-bombs from a lamppost,
swooping down, landing right in front of me,
in the dead center of the sidewalk,
blocking my path.
“Oh great. You again.”
Tony blinks,
then tilts his head.
I narrow my eyes. “Andrew send you?”
He hops forward like he’s got something to say.
“Don’t gimme that look.
“I got it under control.”
The lie tastes like a mouthful of pennies.
I move to step around him.
He side-steps, blocking me again.
“Save it. I said I’m fine.”
I lift a bag-holding hand.
“Not doin’ this with you today, Tony.
“Not in the fuckin’ mood.”
Then a warm plop hits my left shoulder,
soaking into the hoodie.
I groan, turning my head slow.
A glob of white and green slides down my black sleeve.
“Yo—bird got you,” someone calls.
“Yeah, thanks, real fuckin’ helpful.”
I nod, my gaze locked on Tony.
“You watched that shit rain down and didn’t flap once?”
I shake my head and start walking.
Two blocks. That’s it.
Don’t cry. Don’t drop the bags.
Left foot. Right foot. Repeat until safe.
But I’m not safe. I’m being attacked.
By signs.
One right after the other.
“Goddammit. Left my fuckin’ glasses,”
a guy mutters as I pass.
A city bus screams by,
Jersey Boys ad slapped across the side.
‘Who Loves You’ printed across the top,
mocking me.
T-Pain’s Bartender blasting from car speakers.
“Hank, where the hell’s my hat?
“It’s too damn Sonny out here—”
I lower my head, pick up the pace.
My heart?
She’s crawling on all fours through a battlefield, whispering— just hold the fuck on.
Every step's a cramp as I swerve around signs.
I’m almost there.
I can see my building.
Almost—
Then I stop
in the middle of the sidewalk.
My eyes follow a blueberry
rolling past my toes.
One stupid blueberry,
wobbling, lost
just before its crushed under a leather shoe.
I glance over.
A woman’s crouched on the sidewalk,