Beware of summer nights

The biographically inspired short story

I disconnected. It was pitch black. From my mattress on the floor, I had to grope around. A book, a piece of clothing, an empty bowl. I traced back and, with a weak hand, lifted the receiver off its cradle. The time didn't matter; it was brief. It was three words, barely a sentence: "Dad is dead."

It was my brother, 9,000 kilometers away, ten years older, his voice trembling. I should have screamed, convulsed, howled into the night, but I simply said, "I'll call you back." I hung up and lit a cigarette. I was 22 years old.

The sun finally rose, bringing with it the humidity of the day. The air conditioning must be humming. Louisiana summers make you sweat from every pore, even in the shower. A light mist clings to your skin until October. I made coffee, chased a few cockroaches out of the kitchen, and tossed the garbage down the chute. I hear the bag bouncing off the metal walls. The noise gradually fades. I open the fridge, empty. The cabinets, empty. The futon lies in the middle of the living room, next to it a television and scattered boxes, ready to be taken away. Exiled and now an orphan.

Emptiness invaded my thoughts. I let my body take over and engage in mundane tasks in this precarious situation. In the kitchen, I pass back and forth, cloth in hand. As long as I scrub, the news stays at bay. So I apply myself and scour until the paint on the garbage chute is erased. A bitter sense of abandonment crosses my mind; I imagine throwing myself into that waste trap, headfirst, my body disintegrating with each turn, ending up with a crushed skull at the bottom of the cold gray bin. I move the magnets on the fridge. I Love Louisiana. An alligator head and a sunset over the bayous. My father is dead.

I climb back up to the mezzanine where the phone hasn't moved. It lies treacherously next to the open book: "This Morning I Decided to Stop Eating" by Justine. I was intrigued by the title and the book cover; a portrait of a girl neither beautiful nor ugly eventually convinced me. The misfortune of some can bring happiness to others, I told myself. Justine didn't want to die but wanted to be beautiful. She lost 36 kilos and ended up in the hospital with a feeding tube inserted in her forearm to nourish her frail body. She almost kicked the bucket, Justine.

Me, I just want to fade away. Disappear like a wisp, in a scent of jasmine and incense. In a mysterious, almost romantic way. Anorexia seems long and tedious to me. It must hurt the throat to stick two fingers down it. Body spasms propelling you forward, hair tangled with sweat and vomit while contractions plow through your diaphragm. That kind of death has nothing going for it.

I call the school and take a sick day. My voice is hoarse; I've smoked too much. Today is Wednesday, September 5th. I decide to put on shorts over my houndstooth nightie, slip my feet into sandals, and grab my keys from the kitchen counter. The nearest gas station is 50 meters away. Fifty meters to face a world that doesn't know, to lower my gaze and avoid other people's happiness. I just need a pack of cigarettes, and then I'll return to my death. Peacefully.

I push the glass door with a nonchalant hand, and now I feel like crying. It came over me like the urge to pee. It's that guy who smiled at me at pump number 3. A slight friendly gesture with his lips. Discreet, pathetic. As if this day were just another day and there was cause for happiness. A smile like an assault. I want to knock his teeth out.

Two people are waiting in line ahead of me, a mother and her daughter. The young girl has a sulky face; she must not have received her lollipop. I feel like slapping her. And the tears keep flowing. My body remains composed, no hiccups or jerks, just a thin stream of tears flowing down, mixing with the sweat on my neck before being absorbed by the fabric of my nightie. When it's my turn, I ask for a pack of Lucky Strike and a lighter. Please. The color? He asks me what color? But the question to ask right now is why? Why is this happening to me? Death was for others; it didn't exist in my world. Why me, why not you? I put everything in the back pocket of my shorts and walk out without punching the guy at the counter.

The tears have stopped. Lying on the floor near the glass door, I gaze up at the sky. I watch the movement of the clouds and imagine your face. A galloping horse, a fire-breathing dragon, vaporous cirrus stretching without constraints, some moving and others still. But there's no trace of you. I swallow the pills one by one, taking my time. With a little water. One red, one blue, three white, and all the others. It's a beautiful summer day. I feel my body weakening, my neck relaxing, my numb fingers caress the sun's shadows on the floor. My eyelids slowly close.

Today is Wednesday. On the fridge's magnetic calendar, the day is roughly crossed out with a red X. I should have remembered. Voices in the hallway. A key inserted hastily. The top latch is open; the bottom one needs only a quarter turn. I shouldn't have been here. The movers sweep the room with their gaze, annoyed, "It's going to be tight to get the futon through the stairs.