Stasi
Chapter 8
Stasi
2 Days till Death
Bad things happen when you don’t listen to your intuition.
Things like watching the woman you’ve loved for twelve years go into the bedroom of a man who doesn’t deserve her. Things like listening to the repulsive grunts of two unworthy pieces of shit getting off on what must surely be the most lackluster sex of her life—she didn’t make a single sound. Not like the whimpers that spill from her mouth when I touch her.
The dagger of betrayal twists deeply in my gut. Was she so desperate to erase the feel of my touch? Did it make her so disgusted to experience pleasure at my hand? The sweetness of tonight’s small victory turns sour with the slow leak of blood that’s contaminating it.
That’s what I get for sticking around somewhere I don’t belong. If I hadn’t snuck into the upstairs bathroom to extract her menstrual blood from the toy, I wouldn’t have had to bear witness to such treachery. My fist tightens around the concoction I’ve made with moon water, mica, and jasmine oil, tinged pink with her blood. My arm shakes with the restraint I have to exert not to crush it in my bare hand or smash it against the wall.
But instead of doing either, I find a sliver of composure and force myself to put one foot in front of the other until I’m out the front door. In seething silence, I drive home taking turns almost too quickly and paying little attention to the suggestions of the signage. Their greedy, satisfied grunts are a loop, intent on driving me insane with jealousy and frustration even as I lay in my bed.
Hour after hour it plagues me. I toss and turn, trying desperately to escape the ugly truth that attempts to confront me. I pace the length of my room, fruitlessly losing the race against the devastating conclusions my mind jumps to. I go out on the balcony, sucking in the fresh air that’s free of the pollutants of my resentfulness. No matter what I do, nothing chases away the sounds of them inside her.
Is that what it’s like being with straight men? Dispassionate mediocrity? I thank the goddess that I’ve never had to experience that firsthand. Part of me feels sorry for myself and what I had the misfortune of overhearing— haven’t I been devoted in my love, haven’t I followed the path set before me —but mostly I want to chop off every finger they laid on her…among other things.
Instead of turning to homicide, I do the mature thing and decide to lean on Aphrodite in my time of need. It’s a big ask, but I have just the offering—I’ve been waiting to gift it for when I request something this generous. I can’t think of a better occasion.
Pulling out the black velvet box, I open it and present the gold chainmail necklace on her altar. Dainty pearls and diamonds dangle from the jewelry and at the center hangs a gold heart. The candles flicker higher.
“Please, hear what I ask of you. Don’t beseech me. I beg of you .” I attempt to steady my breath so I can explain myself clearly. “I need her all to myself. I can’t live like this anymore. I can’t live without her.” I’m on my knees, head pressed into the wooden ledge of the small table where the altar sits, my eyes glued to the steady flames of the candles, waiting for some kind of acknowledgment, for some sign that my plea has been heard. “I’ve been patient. There must be a way to get Nate, to get them out of the way. There has to be a way for us to be together once and for all. Please help me.” Minutes pass and my eyes begin to sting with the forcefulness with which I hold them open and how much I resist each blink. I just need a sign.
One. Little. Sign.
When an hour passes, I can’t interpret the answer as anything but no. But I don’t accept it. I won’t. I can’t.
“Are you going to abandon me in my time of need like everyone else?” There’s no stopping the exhumation of my insecurities that insult everything we’ve built. “I thought you were the one who was going to love me unconditionally. You were supposed to be different,” I blow out the candles with tear-drenched lips, leaving me in a void of my darkest thoughts.
And there in the pitch black, lost in the bleakness of my melancholy, I’m surrounded by the childish laughter of my cruel peers. Voices layered over one another creep closer and closer, surrounding me in a ring of torment, but above all the noise, one stands out above them all.
Starting out barely above a whisper, Becca’s last words to me before our friendship imploded, worm their way into my ear. “I just don’t feel that way about you.” With each repetition, the mimicry of Becca’s twelve-year-old voice grows louder and louder, until the screaming makes my eardrums quake. Folding my pillow over my head, I attempt to drown it out, but it remains persistent throughout the entire night.
The second the sun rises, I’m out the door. Despondent and exhausted, I barely register the cars that zoom past me or the lights that dictate my movements on my way to deliver my message. And by deliver, I mean chuck the envelope holding the devastated words of Sappho into her yard as I drive by sobbing.
But me you have forgotten.
Or you love some man more than me.
November 2 nd , 2014 – Death Day
Cut off from Becca and Aphrodite, I find myself adrift and easy prey to the parts of the past that are insistent on haunting me.
“Poor Ana Eden.” A disembodied voice travels from the left corner of my ceiling. “Nobody wants you.” The cutting words of my middle school bully are resurrected. “ Nobody likes you.” It’s coming from right above me. “And even more pathetic, nobody loves you.” Coldness descends on me, heavy and persistent as it hovers over my body.
With a quickness, I flip on the light.
But there’s no demonic figure perching on my chest. There’s no intruder standing in the corner. It’s just me and my memories, crawling up the walls together. As maddening as it might be, maybe they’re right. Everyone has let me down. My goddess. My love. My best friend. My father. My mother. Over and over, everyone I put my faith in abandons me.
I don’t know what I’ve done to deserve this. All I want is to be loved as I am. Is that such a horrible thing to expect? Is it too much to ask?
The negative thoughts grow hands, cranking my emotions higher and higher, until they explode like a jack-in-the-box, all of the pain expelling outward in an outburst that shocks even me. The air around me pulses upon impact, and it’s all thrown back at me.
Nobody, nobody, nobody
Loves, loves, loves
You, you, you
The taunting words echo from every corner, dripping with malice. I cross the room, attempting to escape, but the voice follows, provoking me with each step.
Sad
Alone
Unwanted
Each tacked-on sentiment is a jab into an open lesion, the pain causing me to lash out.
“It’s not fair!” I scream as my head makes impact with the edge of the table. “It’s not fair.” Another smack. “It’s not fair.” My anger dissolves into a sob as my forehead makes violent contact with the wood again. And again, and again, and again, but the voice remains close and persistent. “I’m enough. I’m enough. I’m enough,” I whimper the affirmation I desperately want to believe. Instead of conviction, all I get is the first rumblings of a pulsing headache.
Beyond the throbbing, my mother’s unsympathetic advice haunts me for the hundredth time. “The sooner you accept your lot in life, the better, Anastasia. It’s time to stop playing pretend; for god’s sake, you’re too old for these childish fantasies. It’s getting embarrassing.” Fourteen or twenty-three, the words crush me beneath their steel-toed boot all the same.
Drawing uneven breaths into my lungs, dense air clogs my lungs, thick and burning like the fumes of freshly poured asphalt. As I find a rhythm between inhales and exhales, spots in my vision begin to clear, but one lingers too long. I turn to the left quickly, hoping to catch the earlier-suspected intruder by surprise, but there’s nothing. No one.
The snap of skin on skin reverberates around the room as I throw a sharp slap across my cheek. Instead of clearing my mind, it forces me to come face-to-face with my pathetic reflection. The muscles in my forearm ache as I teeter on the edge of ramping up for another stinging slap. Reconsidering, I retreat, tiptoeing off the precipice of a breakdown and making the healthier choice.
Jagged breaths work in and out of me as I search for my discarded phone. Holding it in my shaking hands, I stare at the contact on my screen: Dr. Daniels. It’s been two years since I’ve dialed this number. Two years of progress. Two years of healing. Two years free of narrow-minded clinical judgment. All gone down the drain so quickly.
With one last look at my red-rimmed eyes and swollen forehead, I summon the willpower and initiate the call.
“Anastasia, it’s been a while,” Dr. Daniels says hesitantly.
“Yeah, well, like you said, these things tend to be a vicious cycle.” Admitting this is fucking excruciating as the muttered words tear at the seams of my tight lips.
“Do we need to make an appointment? You know I’m always happy to fit you in,” she says in that reassuring voice I loathe.
“I—” Movement at the edge of my vision catches my attention, a ripple of chills left in the breeze of its wake. “Doctor—” My thoughts slow and stumble over one another as I catch a glimpse of it in the reflection, lingering in a corner behind me—dark and lithe, and gossamer. The phone clatters to the ground, as I turn to it, but by the time I’ve swiveled around, it’s gone. Wordlessly, I flounder trying to find my device without taking my eyes off my surroundings. Finally, it’s in my grasp and I stand, checking every corner for something or someone who might be lurking, but there’s nothing.
“Are you still there? Is everything okay?” Great, she’s really going to be worried now.
“I- I need to talk to you. I’m not feeling like myself.” I slowly spin in a circle, searching for shadows that don’t belong. “I need your help.”
“Are you safe, Anastasia?” Her voice heightens fractionally.
My throat works as I taste the different ways I can phrase this. The last thing I want is for her to raise a red alert on me. I’m doing so much better.
“Anastasia?” There’s muffled talking on the other end of the line. “You haven’t hurt…yourself, have you?”
Uncertainty holds my tongue for a little too long, terrified to lure it back out. “I’m safe.”
“And what about…have you hurt someone else?” There’s an edge to the question.
“No.”
“Were you thinking about it?” She finally gets to her point, the subject of many, many of our sessions—the potential of my so-called obsession escalating to violence.
“I would never hurt Becca.” I clarify what’s important, maintaining the truth I’ve always insisted on.
“Where are you now?” The words clutter together with urgency.
Out of habit, I shift some of the jewelry around in my catch-all dish. In the glass, a vague, inky shape darkens the surface. I turn my attention to the ceiling, but there’s nothing there. The lack of sleep must be getting to me. That’s all this is.
“Hello? Anastasia?”
“Home. I’m at home.” Closing my eyes, I do my best to focus on our conversation.
“Are you going to remain there?”
My gaze flicks to my keys. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have called you. This was a waste of time; everything’s fine. I just had a bad night.”
“Anastasia, I’m here for you. Let me get you the help you need.”
“I don’t need help,” I growl out. “Thank you for answering but this was a mistake. Forget I called.”
“An—” I disconnect the line before she can finish her appeal.
Forget whatever I thought I just saw. Forget sleep. I know what needs to be done.
Rain batters the windshield, scattering the streetlights that become starbursts exploding before me, like dozens of north stars guiding me to her .
Becca, Becca, Becca.
Every minute for the last four-plus months has been consumed by her—her scent, her taste, her pussy hot and slick against my thigh. Those are the thoughts that I can handle, the ones I can manage. But then there are the ones that shatter all semblance of control and send me into destructive rage.
Becca’s lips on Nate’s.
Becca’s hands in his hair.
Becca’s body under his.
My nails tap a furious rhythm on the steering wheel as I wait at the light. Silently, I plead with my mind to morph the distressing thoughts into something better.
Becca’s lips on mine.
Becca’s fingers clutching my waist.
Becca’s whimpers of pleasure warm on my skin.
The reverie is broken by the obnoxious revving of an engine to my left. Doing a double-take, I size up the grey muscle car that’s pulled up next to me. I recognize the platinum hair that peeks out above the cracked window. What are the fucking odds?
My leg jostles erratically against the pink floor mat. I need to keep going. I need to get to her before he does. Side-by-side, we travel down the slick streets. The next red light mocks me as his car just makes it through the intersection while it’s still yellow.
“Come the fuck on!” I slam my fist on the wheel and pain flares through the side of my hand. It’s nothing compared to the knife sticking out of my heart. I slam my hand again just to distract myself from the searing wound in my chest. The tears clouding my vision make the stoplight bleed. I allow a few to fall—just a little exorcism of all the emotions building within me—as I wait for it to turn green, then take a deep inhale when it’s time to go. My foot is leaden on the pedal.
The road is an oily black as I speed down the residential streets. Luckily, there aren’t many people out. Three more lights, four more stop signs then I’ll be there. I could still catch up to him. Unlike me, he’s in no rush, driving leisurely, driving safely. But then I see it, a void of black clinging to the ceiling. With the distraction, the third red light catches me off guard; one moment I’m in control, then the next, the car jerks and the wheel becomes light in my hands.
“Oh, fuck,” I hiss. My mind goes blank for several seconds as I wait for the tires to catch against the street surface once again, and luckily, they do just a few feet into the intersection. I focus on the annoying ticking of my turn signal while I survey my surroundings. That could have been so much worse.
With shaking hands, I regain control of the car as the light turns green and complete my left turn without any interference from other cars in either direction. Maybe I do love how quiet the suburbs are. As I weave through the twists and turns of Becca’s neighborhood I drive slow and steady. After two more minutes, I finally pull up across from her house. Only Becca’s car is in the driveway, Nate had the same idea as me, parking discreetly in front of the neighbor’s house.
As I watch her let him in the front door, my plan slips from my precarious grip.
“Come on! Are you kidding me?” I scream into the steering wheel as my nails dig into the supple leather. I throw myself back against the seat trying to stifle the tears that hadn’t retreated as far as I thought. They were waiting on standby, as if to mock me for getting my hopes up. “ Oh Stasi, did you really think you were finally going to get your chance with her?” They taunt.
“Shit, shit, shit.” I pound my steering wheel, my hand throbbing at the reminder of the familiar abuse. “What am I doing?” The words are as berating as they are questioning. As I suck in air, trying to even my breathing, I catch my distressed brown eyes in the mirror. My pupils are wide with hysteria, the whites a concerning red, my eyelids pink and puffy. I look away in disgust, revolted by who I see staring back at me—someone too close to that weak, disheveled, little girl who spent an entire summer beside herself checking her AIM messages incessantly and waiting until 9pm to sneak a phone call to an increasingly distant best friend. Pathetic.
I bring the headband to my nose once again, I inhale deeply. One, two, three; exhale . I repeat the process two more times, huffing the heady mix of peach and hair oils.
“Get a fucking grip, Anastasia.” I exhale the words to myself in a hiss. “This is your chance.” I point a warning finger at my reflection.
Taking the rearview mirror in my hand, I tilt it down and wipe the tear tracks from under my eyes and cheeks. With purpose, I unlatch the glove compartment and grab my emergency makeup bag. Thankfully, I have enough sense to invest in waterproof mascara, so the cleanup is minimal as I dab and blend my foundation.
The pattering rain is soothing while I go through the motions.
As I conceal the splotching on my cheeks and restore my makeup to its former perfection, I feel the grip on my control of my emotions tighten and my sense of self rebuild.
“Much better,” I compliment myself as I touch up my eyeliner wing. With a swipe of pink gloss—the one that tastes like her mouth—a smile returns to my face, and I pull my freshly blown-out hair forward. Perfect, perfect, perfect.
Now that everything’s as it should be, I restore the mirror to its original position. Taking a long, centering inhale, I shift in my seat and turn my attention to Becca’s window, the one on the side of the house, toward the back, past her brother’s room. She’s right there.
I crack the front windows, stop the wipers, and turn the key in the ignition, killing the engine. Closing my eyes, I allow the steadiness of the heavy drops of rain to center me as I try to pull together a plan.
When he leaves, I’m going to go over there and I’m going to tell her everything. Starting with who I am. Once she realizes that I’m her long-lost Ana, she’ll see that I’ve been right this whole time. We’re meant to be together. I know she’s afraid, but what’s safer than your childhood best friend?
And I do intend to protect her, starting with Nate.
With my switchblade, I get out and go to the passenger’s side, discreetly making my way to his car. I only have to wait a few minutes.
Tracking his steps, I listen as blades of grass cry out beneath his careless gait, his sneakers scuff against the asphalt, and then they stop just feet away from me. After a moment of fumbling with his keys, he gets into the car.
While he’s distracted, I slip into the back seat, lying on the floor. I’m so close. Anticipation thrums through my veins, replacing the nerves and irritation that plagued me on the way over. It’s time. Even the rain has stopped; a sign. This is the right moment.
Nate messes with the radio and checks his phone, completely oblivious to me lying in wait in the back seat. I close my eyes, count to three, then lunge forward, fisting his hair in my left hand and bringing the blade to his neck with my right.
“Put the phone down and your hands on the dash.”
“Holy shit. What the fuck is going on?” Nate’s hazel eyes go wide with shock as he meets my gaze in the rearview mirror.
I tighten my grip in his hair, arching his neck back. “Here’s the thing, Nathanial. You’ve put your hands on something that belongs to me.” I admire the unsteady movements of his working throat. “And unfortunately for you, I don’t like to share what’s mine.”
“Look bitch,” he laughs but it’s not one of humor or confidence, it’s one of unfamiliar nerves. Nate is a man who doesn’t find himself backed into a corner often. “You’re lucky I’m tired and hungover. I don’t know who you think you are, but I’m giving you thirty seconds to get that goddamned knife away from me and get the fuck out of my car.”
It’s my turn to laugh. “Or what?” I press the knife closer and a bead of scarlet drips down his neck.
“Wait!” He squirms in his seat, but his hands remain on the dash. Our eyes meet, his bulging with panic, mine sharpening with challenge. As we size one another up, his gaping mouth shifts into a sinister smile. “Wait…aren’t you that desperate chick who crashed Becca’s party and threw yourself all over her.” His eyes shine with clarity. “Holy shit, guess that kiss really did mean something. Becca’s done a really good job at keeping this dirty little secret.” His laugh gets bolder. “Trust me, she’s not worth doing all this. Let me just show you this video and you’ll see—”
“Don’t move your hands.” The tip of the knife against his chin sobers him a bit. “Shut the fuck up. You don’t talk about her like that.” I yank his head back sharply, nicking him by accident. “She’s worth everything.”
“Are you really going to go to jail over some used-up pussy? Let me just send you the video. You can see for yourself.”
“What part of shut the fuck up don’t you understand?” My heartbeat drums in my ears as I get a better grip on the knife.
Nate just shakes his head at me, mistaking my hesitation for backing down. “My dad’s a fucking lawyer, one of the best. You’re out of your league.” Letting out a long sigh, his tone shifts, a warning undercutting the words. “This was a terrible idea, fucking pathetic really. I’m giving you one more chance. Are you going to get out?”
“Fuck. You.”
In the span of half a second, gone is the cocky and aloof Nate I’ve been speaking with. His eyes are cold and definitive; a dangerous person of a whole other caliber sits in front of me. The realization is too late, punctuated by the sickening snap of my wrist.
“You stupid fucking bitch.” Spit flies into my face with the words as he wraps my long hair around his fist, pulls me forward between the front seats, and slams my head into the dash.
“What did you really think you were doing here? Hmm?” Each splitting hair that tears from my scalp is distinct as he tightens his grip further. I swing to hit him in the dick, but he has me held firm. His free hand doesn’t let go of my wrist as he twists it painfully. “You’re obsessed with her. It’s fucking pathetic. Creepy even. I should warn her about you. Or better yet, I’ll just remove the threat myself.”
Nate makes the mistake of leaning closer to my face and I seize the opportunity, sinking my teeth into his cheek as hard as I can.
“Goddammit.” A shaking hand wraps around my neck, covering the tattoo there. He’s found my greatest weakness and he’s going to use it to destroy me like he knows all about broken pinky promises, years of unrequited love, and the bliss of her lips on mine.
The irony is he thinks we’re the same kind of predator but he’s a poacher hunting for sport and I’m a lioness pursuing prey to feed myself. I need her. I can’t live without her. He’s playing with her, another mount for his wall of ruined lives. Another way for him to prove to others how much of a man he is. But I see him for what he really is: a fucking coward. Determined to see this through, he lets go of my wrist and collars my neck with both hands. It dawns on me that I’m the perfect murder victim. There’s no one to notice that I’m gone. No friends. No family. Not Becca. Even Aphrodite has grown tired of me.
My fists land ineffectively on his arms and legs while he throttles my throat. As I choke and gasp for dwindling oxygen, the hardened features of Nate’s rage soften and blur, and when I squint through the pain, all I see is her.
If this is hell, at least Becca will be there waiting for me.