Stasi
Chapter 14
Stasi
9 Days Dead
My mind spins in a dizzying rage as I search for anything to latch onto for some semblance of control. Jealousy spills black ink, concealing any rational line of thought. The only thing that remains clear is that Meg has tried to take what’s mine.
Her friendship with Becca. The closeness they share. And most unforgivably, the entitlement she feels to Becca’s heart. The thought that anyone else could hold it is the biggest offense of them all. One that needs to be righted immediately.
Springing off her bed, I look for something to take out my anger on. My eyes catch on the pictures rimming her vanity mirror. There in the collage of Polaroids are dozens of photos of them together. In far too many, Meg is discreetly positioning herself close to Becca. Well, discreetly to the straight eye. To the queer eye, she might as well be throwing herself at her. My blood boils, my temper spilling over. One by one, I tear the photos away from where they’re carefully tucked. Removing them from their shrines isn’t enough. Pinching and shredding, rip after rip, I shrink the photos until they’re barely recognizable slivers of paper and film. The mess litters the ground like confetti. A celebration of me snapping.
Scattered beneath my feet, I’ve turned memories into ashes. I banish the guilt that lurks around the edges of my conscience. This is a small penance for all the pain she’s caused me. But more than a taste of revenge, it’s a reminder. She was always supposed to be mine and I won’t give that up now.
To really drive my message home, I crank open a pink lipstick that’s been left on the vanity and write Nobody Touches My Girl with a little heart over the “i”. The weight of my conviction crushes the tip leaving it misshapen just like my mangled heart.
With a long inhale, followed by a measured exhale, I admire my masterpiece. The destructive itch has been scratched.
After what feels like an eternity—doesn’t every hour and every day now—Becca comes back. Immediately, she notices the mess of memories destroyed on the floor. “What the hell?” she gasps as she drops to her knees and grabs one piece then another, squinting slightly to try to make out what she’s looking at. None of them are salvageable unless she wants to meticulously glue the tiny pieces back together. A tingle of satisfaction trails up my spine.
Her hand closes tightly around the photos, crumpling them further. There’s no acceptance in her eyes as her head snaps toward the mirror, toward the window, and then back again. “Why?” she mumbles. “Why can’t you just leave me alone?” Her voice is hoarse like she’s worn it out with how many times she’s asked the question. She cups her face, attempting to snuff out her emotional outburst. The destroyed photos fall through her fingers like dead petals. A sniffle escapes her followed by the tears. “Why me?” The tears rush faster as the desperation in her tone mounts. “Why me? Why me? Whymewhymewhymeeee—”. With careful fingers, she moves the distorted mementos around on the floor, seemingly trying to reunite them with one another, but it’s not long before her shoulders slump with acceptance.
Scooping them up, she sifts the pieces through her shaking hands. A nervous swallow struggles down her throat in an audible gulp as she searches her room for any other signs of destruction or danger. Of course, she misses the presence that’s sitting just across from her.
That reminder of my loneliness makes my heart throb. Only once, only slightly.
Dejectedly, she pulls a small trash can over and deposits the torn pictures into the bin. Right where they belong. The satisfaction is dampened by another twinge of regret that creeps in when I catch the mix of sadness and frustration in her eyes.
It strikes me that I can’t remember the last time I saw anything but misery on her face. I shouldn’t care. I don’t. Not after what she did. Not after she betrayed me again, and again, and again.
I don’t care. I don’t care. I don’t care.
But what if I just pushed her over the edge? What if she tries to hurt herself again?
She won’t. She won’t. She won’t. She might.
She can’t. I won’t let her.
Once Becca drifts off to sleep—more like gets dragged kicking and screaming, I put my plan in motion. Better her behind bars than in the ground.
Just like last time, I dig my fingers into the ground and remove a clot of dirt. But as my fingers sink into the cold ground, I stall, confronted with a fear that I hadn’t expected. In order to incriminate Becca, I’ll have to face my rotting corpse.
I don’t know much about dead bodies, but I know the decomposition process is gruesome. Can I bear to see myself like that? I’ve worked so hard to be beautiful, being able to pretend I’m enshrined that way is one of the few things keeping me together. It may seem vapid, but I’ve lost everything else.
I run a hand over the packed dirt waiting to feel some echo of myself through the earth. Nothing. I tear at the leaves of the rose bushes that surround it as I contemplate a hundred possibilities; a hundred different versions of myself I know I’d never want to meet. It’s a cruel mind game, wondering what I might look like now. Has my hair faded? Stark and ashen, no longer the synthetic pink-platinum?Have the worms eaten my face? Has my body shrunken? Am I skinny now, just like my mom always wanted? Has my skin peeled back exposing my teeth in a permanent grimace? Am I unrecognizable yet? Silent. Subdued. Shriveling. They finally got it, the submission so many people wanted from me.
What I thought was going to be a triumph fizzles out in defeat.
I promised myself I’d never let anyone make me feel this way again, and yet, here I am, allowing Becca to strip away everything that makes me, me. She took my life. I won’t let her have this too. It’s time to let her go. Not because I forgive her because I don’t and never could. But because I’ve lost sight of loving myself in favor of her. That’s where everything’s gone wrong.
Resolve hardening my heart, I do what I should have done a week ago.
The door to their guest house opens easily. Stagnant air invades my nostrils, but it’s fairly clean and cozy looking. Everything is kept pristine other than a bit of dust. Mrs. Murphy was always that way—tidy, organized, and presentable. That’s where Becca must get it. The small space has a bed, a two-person couch, and a workspace. There’s a bunch of organizers set up, filled with all types of crafting supplies and a sewing machine sits on the desk. A thick layer of dust has gathered there, but I’d bet it still works. I’ll have to test it later. Eager to keep up the distraction, I walk over to the closet and pull it open. It’s like opening a time capsule to my childhood— our childhood.
The dam breaks as a flood of memories pours over me from the shelves piled high with games, boxes of toys, and keepsakes, from collectors’ items to things that hold sentimental value. An ache opens in my chest as I pull out the dolls that Becca had declared we were too old to play with since we were preteens. Embarrassment swims inside me when I remember how thrilled I’d be when our dolls kissed; her attention would be on the game, while mine would search her eyes for that same feeling reflected back at me, but my prying curiosity only made her play harder or change the game completely. All of it is so distant, those girls are a far cry from who we are today, but I can still see those moments so clearly.
Pulling down another bin, I root around in it and I can’t help but chuckle when I come across one of my personal favorites, the Magic 8 Ball. I give it a shake and slip through time. It’s easy to become that little girl with dirty blond hair in a sweatshirt that strained against my growing chest but covered up the body I was so afraid of. Back then when all my hopes hinged on the acceptance I desperately craved from all of my peers, this silly little ball held so much promise as I asked it question after question.
Will someone ask me to the winter formal? Ask again later.
Does anyone have a crush on me? Outlook not so good.
Am I ever going to stop being awkward? It is decidedly so.
Will I ever be like Becca? Very doubtful.
I set the bin down on the floor and sit next to it with my legs crossed, ball in hand. This little toy crushed my hopes so many times and yet, I still wanted to play with it every time I came over. My mom wouldn’t let me have one; she said it was “too witchy”. If she only knew that her objections only pushed me further down that path. A rare laugh escapes me as I imagine how horrified she’d be if she knew how involved with witchcraft I’d become. She might have pushed me toward it out of spite, but my practice evolved far beyond childish attempts at spells and whimsical toys; it had become my solace. It made me powerful.
There’s a deep chasm between me and Aphrodite’s favor—or any other magic, for that matter—now that I reside on the other side of the veil. But here’s old reliable. It’s absurd but, I can’t resist the instinctual draw I’ve always felt toward it. Casting the cynicism of adulthood from my mind, I reach out to my inner child for once and play along.
“Will being dead ever get easier?” Outlook good. I certainly fucking hope so.
“Is there any part of Becca that regrets what she did?” Concentrate and ask again.
“Does Becca regret letting Nate hide my murder? Yes.
“Does she ever think about me? I mean, does she think about then, when we were kids?” Yes.
I keep the other questions locked away inside, afraid to give the words air to breathe.
Will I ever get the apology I need to move on?
Is it possible for me to forgive her?
Could things ever go back to the way they used to be?
Not even an hour into my resolution to leave her behind and I’m already betraying my own best interests. I never learned how to say no to Becca. Not when it came to following her through heavily wooded areas that would scrape and tear my clothes. Not when it came to her asking if she could practice kissing on me. And not when it came to risking my life for her.
But that’s not the Becca that I’m dealing with anymore. She’s hollow; a Russian nesting doll of unsettling imposters.
I’ve been watching a reverse metamorphosis. A brilliant butterfly shoving herself into a too-tight cocoon that can’t even contain her properly, hiding beneath layers that she’s Frankenstein’d together to conceal herself from the world. Instead of shorts and crop tops that show off her long, slender body, she wears loose shirts and full-length pants in dark hues—even going so far as to raid her brother’s neglected closet. Whereas before I used to relish every inch of ivory skin she’d put on display, I’m lucky to get a glimpse of her neck or fingertips.
It goes beyond her appearance. She’s always been little miss perfect , in school, her friendships, with her family. Maintaining the illusion of normalcy around her family has become precarious; the second that door clicks shut and locks firmly behind her, the facade falls, and I’m left with this warped version of her that shrinks before my eyes. Beneath the baggy clothes she hides under, her skin is starting to hug her ribs, her collar bones are just a bit sharper, and her cheeks are a little more pronounced.
I need to remember the real her. The Becca who turned on me when the accusations reared their ugly heads. The one that had stabbed me in the back with her denial. The one that shunned me like a dirty little secret that had become more of an inconvenience. That version of Becca is the one that I saw revived the night of my death.
Those eyes that watched the blade slash across my throat are the same ones that would drop to the floor or conveniently flit away from me as our paths crossed. The ears that allowed my gurgling protests to fall away into silence are the same ones that couldn’t hear me as I would call out her name and ask her if we could talk. The hands that buried me are the same ones that would decline my late-night phone calls and delete the texts I’d paid for out of my meager allowance.
The woman who condemned me to this purgatory is the same one who shunned me for that entire summer. The way she treated me was unforgivable. Should have been. I can’t love this version of her.
I don’t love her. I don’t love her. I don’t love her.
She doesn’t deserve my love, let alone my forgiveness. She needs to be held accountable.
I don’t love her. I hate her.
I hate her. I hate her. I hate her.
I hate the way I can’t bear to see her in pain. I hate that I allowed her to become everything and myself to be reduced to nothing once again.
I was doing so well. I was doing so well. I was doing so well.
“It’s not fair.” I vocalize the sentiment that’s been the running theme in my life. Things are never fair for girls like me. The ones who are just scraping by, offering up ounces of our blood to tip the scales in our favor every once in a while. “Every time I search for respite, it’s your heartbeat that draws me back down the path of destruction. You have me all tangled up, making a mess of myself over you. It wasn’t supposed to be this way this time. You were supposed to heal me, but you’ve destroyed me.” I’m so fucking sick of not being enough, I can’t bear it another second.
Even though I know my anger won’t be heard, I open the door and scream out into the yard, into the ether, into all of existence. “I fucking hate you, Becca Murphy. I hope my death haunts you every minute of every day. I hope you lie awake with guilt gnawing away at your sanity. I hope the suffering you’ve allowed crawls beneath your skin and wraps itself around your bones. I—” Whatever I was saying is swallowed by a gasp as a swath of black crosses my vision. The sight unearthing dread that is thick and tar-like in the pit of my gut. But within a blink, it’s gone. Unease nips at my heels as I step back into the guest house and lock the door. But I don’t feel much safer; the place that felt like a cozy reprieve now feels like a lonely island.