Stasi
Chapter 4
Stasi
53 Days till Death
After two months of diligent observation—a study in all things Becca Murphy—I’m ready to start on phase two of my seduction of her heart.
Weaving my way through the parking lot, I find her white Jeep. As usual, her windows are cracked allowing me to slip in the first of my gifts, a poem inspired by a Sappho fragment that made me think of her on my homemade, pressed-floral stationery.
-I loved you, Atthis, years ago-
And I love you still.
With every lie that slips through those velveteen lips.
Despite the veil of perfection that you and your truth hide behind.
I’ll meet you there beneath the cloak of secrecy,
if it’s there that you’ll look at me with desire in your eyes.
Despite your words, we both know your body never lies.
I look forward to tasting the honey sweetness of your honesty.
But for now, I wait with patience for the day you’re ready to admit that you also want me.
When the breeze picks up, the lingering scent of my special-blend rosewater spray—imbued with three drops of my spit and a bit of cum—clings to the air. I breathe deeply with relief as I peek over the edge of her window and confirm the letter has landed on her seat.
My reverie is cut short by the telltale jingle of her keychain that’s weighed down by an eclectic array of charms and keys. Warmth swells within me at the reassurance that she’s nearby.
Quickly, I duck behind the hood of a nearby SUV, and watch Becca hoist herself into her seat. When she turns the key in the ignition, her gaze catches on the seat next to her, my love letter . Picking it up, she turns it over in her hands, reading her name in flourishing letters on one side and the lilac seal on the other. Becca looks left and right, as if she can sense my eager eyes, and then breaks the seal. Slowly, her lips turn upward, and she slides the tortoiseshell sunglasses she’s wearing up into her hair.
With great restraint, I stay in my hiding spot. With gentle hands, she slides the wildflower-embellished paper out of the matching envelope. The few lines of poetry are read quickly, but her eyes linger, reading it over and over, taking in every detail of the hand-drawn doodles I added. If I were closer, I’d be able to see the blush she hides behind her hand and hear the gasp that falls from her mouth.
My girl is pleased.
Becca’s head tilts back against the headrest, allowing me to see the broad smile that spreads across her face. I did that.
The picture-perfect scene is disrupted by that obnoxious Nate guy who was harassing Becca at her birthday party. I’ve witnessed a few heated exchanges between them from afar over the last few months, but the familiarity he displays as he slides into her passenger seat has my hackles raised. Did I miss a chapter along the way?
Becca jumps in surprise, pressing her back into the door behind her. Nate shakes his head. Unfortunately, I never picked up the skill of lip reading, so I’m forced to remain ignorant, but I can infer the expectation as he smirks at her and gestures to his lap.
The joy fresh from my victory is completely crushed when he tears the letter from between her hands and throws it into the back seat. “Push him away,” I hiss under my breath, but Becca only casts a look left and right. She doesn’t fight him.
My stomach is in my throat as several beats pass without movement. But without further objection, she gathers her long hair in her fist, leans across the car, and disappears from view behind the dashboard.
My Mary Janes catch on the uneven pavement, but I don’t spare another glance to see if they saw me. I can’t risk fortifying that gut-churning image of him inside her. Clambering into my car, I slam the door behind me. My keys fumble between my fingers as I attempt to start the engine.
When the ignition finally roars to life, I speed off, nearly hitting the guy who walks into the street without a second look.
“Watch where the hell you’re going, asshole.” My words are slurred by the sobs bursting out of me in choppy spurts.
“No, no, no, no,” I growl through my teeth like I can will away what I just saw.
She wouldn’t do that. She can’t want him.
Going against every lick of sense I have, I chance a look in my rearview mirror, and sure enough, I catch a glimpse of them. She’s still blowing him. Recklessly. In public. For everyone to see. After she acted like kissing me at that party was the most humiliating thing in the world?
That’s not right. That’s not how this was supposed to go.
52 Days till Death
Despite how hard I try to convince myself that I imagined that scene in the parking lot, my memory remains crystal clear. Every time I close my eyes, all I see is Becca bent over in that car while he slips his undeserving cock inside her throat.
My stomach tightens with nausea, the memory so visceral that I can’t do anything but sleep. For the first time since I transferred to her school, I don’t wake up in the morning and follow Becca around campus. I don’t leave bed at all except when absolutely necessary.
How can I when my girl has given herself to someone else? What’s even the point?
51 Days till Death
Another paper crumples in my cramped hand as I scribble across the page.
She needs another letter, that’s all. That’ll fix things. That’ll make sure I’m the only thing that crosses her mind. A reminder of my love will make her forget the taste of his cock.
Easy.
We’ll be back on the right track soon.
I just need to show her.
But instead of poetry, terms of endearment, or flowery confessions of my long-fought love from afar, what I’ve created is crude, possessive, and demanding. It’s no work of art, the page filled with rudimentary hearts that are over-lined with harsh, corrective strokes that failed at perfection, and three rows of three words written nine times.
I love you. I love you. I love you.
I love you. I love you. I love you.
I love you. I love you. I love you.
At the very bottom, ‘You Are Mine.’ Is circled and underlined at least a dozen times.
There’s a stark difference in the writing of the repeated phrase and the claim, the latter in the much more juvenile block lettering of my adolescence, while my proclamations follow the soft, flowing penmanship I’ve developed as an adult. I drop the pen and startle to my feet.
My therapist told me this would happen if I stopped going. But she was wrong. She was wrong for so long. Working with Lady Aphrodite has healed me. She’s shown me a new path. She’s taken my hand and given me the tools I need to pursue my destiny in a way that’s safe for me and Becca.
Attachment issues. Obsessive love disorder. Fixations.
Labels I’d rejected attempt to reaffix themselves to me. I shrug them off.
She was wrong. I’m fine. I won’t go back down that road.
There’s nothing wrong with me. All I need is love .
Love is the answer to everything.
She’ll see. They’ll all see . I was right. I was right about it all . I’ll show them.
With a practiced stretch, the scrunchie on my wrist snaps against my skin. Once, twice, three times. I bring the bit of fabric to my nose and pull in a deep breath. A hint of her sweet scent seeps into my nasal passage and my shoulders relax just a fraction. With another whiff, my fingers loosen a bit. On the third inhale, I drop the other ruined sheet of stationery from my fist and then gather all the discarded papers in a pile.
Shame perches on my shoulders an unwelcome visitor as I shove the evidence of my episode in my bottom dresser drawer and crawl into bed.
“Everything is fine,” I reiterate the affirmation and click off the light.
50 Days till Death
Sleep avoids me like my goddess, her absence leaving my room as devoid of life as the dawn sky that peeks through my curtain. Peeling off the sweaty pajamas that cling to me, I drape a cotton robe over myself and return to my desk. Instead of returning to the letters, I open my laptop, click on my bookmarks, and navigate to my favorite source of news, Becca’s profile. There’s a new photo.
Without clicking on it, it’s difficult to make out the grainy, filtered photo, but the familiar symbol of a sprig of lavender is clear enough. Heart in my throat, I tap on the square. The top half of the letter I left her is the focal point of the photo, the envelope—seal-side up—and a freshly picked California wild rose from her front yard are placed somewhat aesthetically at each side.
Some of the heaviness I’ve been hoarding in my chest escapes through my gasp of pleasant surprise. Excitedly scrolling down, I quickly read the caption. When life gives you a silver lining, cherish it. But it’s not the sickly-sweet caption that holds my attention, it’s the comments that unfold below it.
Gag me.
Delete this.
Did you write yourself a love letter? Pathetic.
Desperate for attention much?
Embarrassing.
My throat constricts and sweat beads across my brow as the cruel words take me back to the days when I used to allow people to talk to me like that. The little relief I’ve found is poisoned with the ignorant judgments of my peers once again.
That neglected little girl inside me tugs at the edge of my consciousness for the smallest bit of comfort. I deny her. I deny myself.
Maybe we’re not worthy of love, after all. Maybe I was just a fool to think things could change.
46 Days till Death
On the seventh day of mourning the horrific scene I witnessed between Becca and that shitbag who isn’t worthy of breathing the same air as her let alone receiving pleasure from her perfect lips, I remember who the fuck I am. Or better yet, Aphrodite reminds me with her incessant demanding presence. Get back up. This isn’t over.
With her annoyed yet affectionate persistence, I finally find the willpower to stop moping and refocus. Our entire lives have been leading up to this. Maybe this is just a test of my love.
Before I can resume my pursuit, I need to deal with the offensive smell of my unwashed body and the ratty tangles that web through my hair.
“Let’s get this shit over with,” I sigh to myself as I drag my ass to the shower. But as the cool water spills over me, it holds me close and reinvigorates my determination. When I’ve washed and rinsed away all the jealousy, failure, and self-loathing that clings to me, I step out and fall into the steps of a loyal devotee and caring lover.
With the candles lit, and sliced apples and Belgian chocolate laid out on the golden tea plate, I set to work shuffling my mermaid tarot deck and pulling a singular card.
The chariot upright. That’s all the encouragement I need.
39 Days till Death
Ignoring the ache in my wrist, I write out the excerpt from Sappho fragment thirty-one.
For when I look at you even for a short time, it is no longer possible for me to speak.
The famed poet’s words followed by mine are surrounded by the tiny pieces of the orange and red petals I used in this batch of paper. Pleased with my work, I spritz the page a few times with the enhanced rose water and shake it gently to dry before the ink runs. It’s ready.
Not quite prepared to return to the scene of the crime, I make the familiar drive to Becca’s house. As I exit the freeway and make the series of left and right turns I’ve memorized, the sun beams down on me warm and bright, reassuring me that this is the right path. I play ‘Still Into You’ for the third time, screaming the lyrics in the privacy of my car as I drive through the quiet suburb.
Relief and disappointment war within me when I pull up to Becca’s house and only her brother’s car is in the driveway. My stomach lurches with the jolt of the car door unlocking. I’ve dressed as discreetly as my wardrobe allows—an all-black ensemble of a simple sweater and leggings—but I still rush across the street after quickly looking both ways, slip the envelope under the corner of the welcome mat, and nearly jog back to my car.
An unsteady laugh leaves me and my skin heats from my toes up as I close the door behind me and slink into my seat taking steadying breaths. Peeking over the ledge of my window, I confirm that he didn’t see me. The note is still tucked away, waiting for her. With that reassurance, I turn the key in the ignition and watch her house disappear in my rearview window.
Unfortunately, I can’t leave all my stress behind. My playlist is interrupted by the incessant ringing cell phone I attempt to ignore as it rattles in my cup holder. I’ve never been great at restraint and to my detriment, I neglect to check the caller ID before answering.
“Hello?”
“Hi, Anastasia.” Any elation evacuates my body swiftly.
“Mother.” My molars grind together, almost as unpleasant as her voice. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”
“Well, if you’d responded to the invitation, this wouldn’t be necessary,” she replies haughtily. “But since you refuse to utilize the etiquette I painstakingly attempted to instill in you, following up with you like a debt collector is unfortunately necessary.”
“I’m not coming. Does that clear things up?” I bite out. “Sorry to have wasted your time, but no need to worry about factoring me into your plans.”
“It’s Christmas.”
“And?”
“And how do you think it makes your father and I look when you’re absent from our annual party? Do you have any idea how much energy it takes to come up with some thinly veiled excuse for your absence every year? One can only travel for so long,” she complains to me.
“Well, I apologize for the inconvenience. But, hey, on the bright side, you don’t have to worry about me marring the annual family photo or the grueling task of finding a dress in my size to match your theme. What is it this year? Gaudy opulence with a side of Christmas spirit?” I exhale a long sigh, exacerbated by my mother’s failure to care about anything but her image even now. “Look, tell them I’m dead for all I care.”
“Anastasia Eden, we’ll be doing no such thing,” she scoffs. My mother’s frustration thrums through the line; it hammers against my temples from thousands of miles away. “So, you’re declining the invitation?”
“Consider my RSVP a ‘no’.”
“Are you really so intent on separating yourself from this family?”
“You can’t separate yourself from something you’ve never really been a part of.”
“That’s not fair.”
“It never is with you, is it?” I put the car in park. “I guess I’ll talk to you again this time next year. Or we can just never do this again? Balls in your court, Eleanor.” Ending the call, I toss my phone on the seat with more force than I mean to.
In less than five minutes, my good mood is ruined, but there’s too much to do to dwell on the unpleasant reminder of where I come from. I need a bath.
Sinking into the water, I use the net to scrub away the negativity she’s forced to seep from my pores. But even when my skin is red and angry, the inadequacy and longing linger, like a sticky and unsettling residue that dims my glow. I bite into my lip with the vampiric urge to leech out the insecurity, instead of allowing the budding tears to fall from my stinging eyes. I will not cry because of her.
I won’t cry over the absence of a mother’s love. I’m more than a regrettable obligation.
I won’t cry over the unfair standards that were thrust on me with a life I didn’t ask for. I’m perfect as I am. I’m everything that I am meant to be.
I won’t cry over the neglected little girl I used to be. I’m going to ensure she gets the love she deserves.
I won’t cry over my past. I’ve come too far. I’ve come too far. I’ve come too far.
Instead, I pour myself into the only thing that matters.
36 Days till Death
With a fresh stack of paper finally dried, I get back to work. Within hours, I have dozens of letters inspired by the works of Sappho ready to be gifted. I’ve been slacking but now she’ll never wonder whether I’m thinking of her. I won’t let her forget about me again.
September 28 th , 2014
-Gracious your form and your eyes
As honey: desire is poured upon your lovely face
Aphrodite has honored you exceedingly.-
The stars are dim compared to the diamonds that sparkle in your eyes.
The sun is unbearably cold without the warmth of your laughter.
Spring and her flowers envy the blossom of your smile between your delightful lips.
In my world, your beauty eclipses all else.
September 29 th , 2014
-Know this.
From every care.
You could release me.-
I wake with a hunger for you that cannot be satiated.
My sleep is filled with the restlessness that plagues me like your absence from my bed.
Each breath is labored as I swim against the current to find my way back to you.
In the mess of my mind, my devotion to you is the only thing that’s true.
Set me free.
Come back to me.
October 3 rd , 2014
-Come to me now: loose me from hard care and all my heart longs to accomplish, accomplish. You be my ally.-
You torture me in ways you can’t even fathom.
And yet, I cling to the hope of your love like it’s my last shred of humanity.
Please don’t let me languish much longer, or there might not be much left of me.
October 6 th , 2014
-Sweet Aphrodite has overcome me with longing for a girl.-
The first time I saw you, everything else in the world was cursed to pale in comparison.
Through the years you’ve only become more beautiful, leaving the world a dark and dismal place.
What do I do, then, if you won’t be with me?
Do I carve my own eyes out, or do I watch you hopelessly from here until my final breath?
October 10 th , 2014
-Never more damaging O Eirana have I encountered you-
My patience strains, my need yawning wide, tearing me to shreds.
And I would let it rip me apart at the seams if only for the hope that you would sew me back together.
October 15 th , 2014
-Whom should I persuade (now again) to lead you back into my love?-
Time stretches between us, but the treacherous wait can’t discourage me.
I would barter away all of my years for just a second of your affection.
October 18 th , 2014
-You came and I was crazy for you.
And you cooled my mind that burned with longing.-
If I blink, I can take myself back to the moment when your body pressed into mine.
There I wait for you to find me with a bleeding heart and a smile on my lips.
October 20 th , 2014
-Stand to face me, beloved.
And open out the grace of your eyes.-
Soon, we’ll be together and then you’ll see why I never gave up on you and me.