By: Marc Orkins
Read time: 9-10 minutes
The vast bowels of South America howled, tailed by several barks. A pack was on the hunt, their cries dwindling abruptly.
Then, silence—a clenching quiet in the dark that had followed Melissa from the living room, flavored Alma’s comments throughout the evening.
After their argument, they had played chess, read books and cooked dinner, peppering their routine with comments and quips from Alma between Melissa’s observations, peaceful silences, and her own developing brand of “dry humor” (Alma only laughed when asked how to moisten her jests).
Yet the laughter felt forced, Melissa repeatedly thought back on their disagreement, and she could tell from her side-glances and Alma’s thousand-yard-stare into the pages that she was aware of the wall now between them—so much denser and real than the pillow wall dividing their bed now.
Why? Why, why? Melissa wondered. Their disagreement felt half an answer, but ‘why’ the rest? The strangeness and distance between them, despite being beside one another? Why, and where, did I go wrong?
This needed to be addressed, lest she never get some rest. “Alma,” she whispered, “are you asleep?”
“…Yes,” came a deep, masculine voice beside her, exasperation evident.
“Apologies. For waking you,” said Melissa. “And for pestering you.” And for not being good enough. “Goodnight.” I understand though, I shouldn’t care. Why I’m insisting myself upon you today at all is… is—
“Joke, Mel, joke,” Alma sighed.
And she remarked earlier that I’ve changed. But I feel the same as I’ve always been. Beneath the covers burst forth, surging up her neck, the folktale of Summer Season in all its sweltering wrath.
“Apologies, goodnight.” Melissa had said that, she realized the following beat.
“Oh, Mel, what is it? It’s obvious you got something to say. And not another apology! You’re doing nothing wrong, so I don’t wanna hear it.”
You sound very annoyed if that’s the case. Beneath the blanket, a chill consumed her bitter as a South American morning. “It’s truly unimportant, though.”
Silence once more. Perhaps Alma believed her, or was annoyed into submission.
The clenching within her breast writhed, trying to worm out for air: bitter-feeling, unfamiliar, concerning and vying to be known.
“Mel?” came so softly it must have been someone else.
Of course she’s worried. The ache squirmed as Melissa pursed her lips. She had indeed changed—as far as becoming more confounding and bothersome to an already overstressed Alma, that is.
“Mel?” Yet Alma wouldn’t be who she was, nor Melissa here now, if she were the type to so easily believe nothing was wrong here: “I feel like an ass, Mel. I can tell our talk really messed you up, and I feel like… wanting to make you normal again. Uh, s-sorry, that sounded weird, didn’t it—?”
She wanted to hear more of it. “It’s unimportant.” Alma was forcing herself though, clearly. But she found today’s spat regrettable. Was that the origin of this ‘tension’?
A tired sigh. “Look, the wall’s comin’ down. That’s how serious I am.” The barricade of pillows beside her rumpled, lifted, thumped one after another against the other side of the room. “Your wall has been breached, Queenie,” Alma said in that masculine voice. “Now give me your goods and women.”
Melissa turned, a shadowy blob met her. “Is this a joke, or a feeble attempt to play ‘cool’ again?”
“Ah, jeez,” chuckled Alma. “You got me. Both, I guess? And I’m worried, so…”
Then just say that, thought Melissa. “It always perplexes me, the way you insist on lying when you know I don’t judge you, and play the fool when it often goes unnoticed.”
“Right…” A deep inhale, then, lightly, “Well, I mean, you’re judging me right now.”
Melissa turned, slowly. She found herself apprehensive of what turned out to be a silhouette. “Am I judging you?” she wondered. I was just stating facts.
The shadow’s peak jostled left—a shrug. “Well, ya care enough to mention it now. A far cry from when we first met. Means you got something of an opinion, at least.”
“Forgive me, I myself am unsure as to what that is.”
“Mel, there’s nothing to be sorry ab—”
“Stop. There is a proper apology for earlier. I assure you there’s no need to stir further frustration with trivial discussion. You were right, Alma. We are too different to grasp one another’s personalities. Trying makes living difficult.”
A hefty heartbeat, then another, and another.
Melissa loosed a breath held unknowingly. “Goodnight.”
No quip where there would normally be one. Different, and thoughts of closing remarks past brought attention to today’s earlier exchange and its similarly abnormal conclusion.
The tension remained.
“Melissa?” Equal parts relieving and uncomfortable writhed within—Alma’s voice, albeit whisper-soft, and uttering her full name for once. “I’m sorry I do these things that hurt you: joking, lying, I guess,” she sighed. “Karla’s right, like always, I’ve not changed much since she took me in. But I try ‘cause she took me in… just like you do for me.” A deep breath. “So it was shitty of me to shut you out. Probably took you a lot to try and get me. And now you’re calling it meaningless, ‘cause I blew you off like it was. That sucked.”
An exhale. Whisper-soft, “I suck. I’m sorry.”
So grand her words it left room for but one conclusion: she was forcing herself for Melissa’s sake. It was so unlike her that she had to be. Had to be.
I’m making her dislike herself.
Had to be.
This is precisely what I wished to avoid. Why? Why did I have to nose in on the heavy stare which followed her from the Temple?
“M-Mel, look, I get it, you’re mad—”
“Don’t, Alma… it’s okay. Truly,” Melissa rasped. Swallowing her dryness, “You were right before—there’s much about you I don’t understand.” And me. But admitting that will only hurt her more.
“But one thing is Heavenly clear,” she continued, “I wished to alleviate your stress. That is the originator of all this needless drama, nothing more on my part. For that, I apologize.”
Alma huffed. “Think you said sorry more today than you have all year.”
“I’m sorry. Ah! Uh, I’m sorry for being sorry.”
Belly-laughter echoed through the dark. Melissa was an Emotional Fool, and burned scorching-hot like one.
She waited for silence to overtake them both, but not before Alma sighed, “You’re a riot, Mel. I love it.”
How sinful. How outdated. How so unexpected and strange an application Melissa had to pretend she didn’t hear to proceed explaining her wrongdoings:
“I so presumptuously failed to account for a simple reality: I’m not a person who you felt would empathize with your struggles at the Temple. Yet I became disillusioned with uttering these very words until now. I got… embittered, I suppose, though I wouldn’t know for sure. It’s evident now my transgression had harmed our mental well-being and sociological bond. Therefore, I truly, honestly wish to table this discussion. Or bury it—would be the appropriate metaphor—and return to our amicable interactions prior to today.”
“Uh, wow, Mel, I… I don’t know what to say to that.”
“Well, begin by stating what you want right now.”
“To make you feel better,” said Alma without pause.
Melissa felt as though she were kicked in the chest. The sentiment was… not painful, for a sincere lack of a better sentiment. It was normal behavior from Alma, no different from the day they met. This is normal for her. It’s normal.
So, why?
Why does it feel… tighter, all of a sudden?
More so than it had back when we met? Such a thing didn’t seem possible, yet such an in-character statement held such indescribable power over Melissa.
“Mel, c’mon. I’m worried. There’s more to this, I know it. I mean, if my words aren’t enough, just look at how I tore down the wall.”
“I thought it was to make jokes?”
“Nah, those were me trying to hide how… weird, I guess, this is. M-more for me than you, I suppose.”
Weird implies abnormality. Certainly this was different behavior for Alma, such insistent concern, but she always took Melissa’s comfort with rare seriousness.
“Your efforts are always appreciated, Alma,” she said, spinning to the wall. “But today was my feeble attempt to repay them. That is all. We’ve discussed all that bothered me.”
A soft chuckle. “‘Repayment?’ Friendship’s not a transaction like at the welfare store, Mel.”
She’d always say words like that, yet it never felt like they were equals. ‘I want to be,’ urged the acute ache in her bosom.
But lying was easier. Returning to beforehand even moreso. The familiar. “I’ll think on that, then, Alma. I will see you in the morning.”
“Oh, uh, okay. ‘Night!” Alma chirped.
This caring, selfless, silly, stupid, confounding girl.
She was unreal.
She was incredible.
I never want you out of my life. Even if my guts feel tied up in knots for all time.
Melissa mustered strength in her throat. “Thank you, Alma… for everything. Sincerely.”
“I didn’t do a thing.” Her smirk was audible.
No, you do everything, and that is at once unfair and amazing. It’s the source of my confusion and this drive to give back the courtesy.
But it would be unfair to leave Alma’s crowded heart with Melissa’s own uncertainties. “You do plenty,” she opted, unassuming and simple.
“Right.”
It wasn’t long for Alma’s even, restful breathing to fill her head—squeezing between plans of how to address these complications tomorrow in Melissa’s overabundant free time.
Mel inhaled deep, her exhale hitching ever so slightly.
Someone was clearly knee-deep in REM.
Guess I’ll be making breakfast alone today, Alma thought, making no movements to get out of bed.
Falling on Mel like a domino could be pretty funny.
Alma swallowed a groan and the urge immediately. Clearly Melissa was making an effort not to confront her this morning, and given yesterday’s awkwardness, perhaps some space was warranted.
Alma could, for freaking once, respect Mel’s wishes here. It was clear she messed up big time and was now walking on wafer-thin ice.
She tore out of bed before such petty thinking could anchor her mood. Gotta own up to it, she chanted in her heart, once only for those who considered her theirs, for that was all one had south of the capitol. Living under the Temple and Karla’s kindness has made me lazy. Selfish.
Karla’s near-daily scolding stood testament to that dark thundercloud.
After all, she thought, cracking eggs against the rim of her frying pan, “action is the only language worthy of voice,” as the saying goes. In a world where half disallows emotions, and the whole is governed by those ironclad in such thinking, it was hard not to see why. Actions were clear-cut and simple: Melissa had feigned sleep because she still felt “something” (as she so vividly described) likely negative, because Alma essentially shat all over her kindness, because…
Her hand stilled, knuckles white, wrapped around a spatula.
I don’t know why. It’s not like she never complained about Temple business before to Mel. The words had even danced on her tongue when they were playing “Doctor,” as she gazed upon Mel’s rare, subtle smile. Even if she wouldn’t wholly understand, she always sponged Alma’s complaints about dumb little shit.
Dammit. I really screwed it this time. Times like these made it clear why a genuine divide existed between the world—”Agh, dammit!” The crackling before her hissed like fireworks, the smoke skirting her browning eggs turning black.
Removing the pan, crying, “Fucking dammit!” before dropping it and the scalding handle on the floor.
Breakfast—Alma’s, decided in the midst of its freefall—splattered across the floor, her as well faster than her reflexes.
Alma’s next words tore from her throat, echoing the last within the vast emptiness of her relatively unfurnished apartment.
Silence answered. Melissa had, was, definitely pretending to be asleep. “Dammit,” she hissed, taking a knee, swatting egg off her foot.
As she ran it under cold water in the tub, already consigned to being late, Alma was struck with brilliance: I’ll take the time to make her a nice omelet. And a note to go with it—here’s hoping I can wing it enough to be legible.
The door clicked shut, a gentle racket muttering in the walls, signifying safety from potential intruders.
Silence pinned her to the bed. It smelled of burnt egg, so sharp her stomach twisted into knots. Nauseating. Mel rolled over to Alma’s empty bed. Reaching, the sheets were found cool.
Didn’t Alma care for her lateness?
It’s because she struggled without my help, Mel thought. Only part of me can’t believe it. Her insides felt at once lighter and paradoxically heavier. I didn’t leave bed to help. And she didn’t do “the domino” upon me.
A divide still existed.
Why am I so… focused on yesterday’s mistakes? Why is she? Nobody in the world knew, and it was maddening. If only a book existed on emotions.
Complicated, messy things.
Mel thought back on her short life: though she couldn’t recall that which came before this one, the weeks prior to meeting Alma and the year that followed had little to no indecisiveness on Mel’s part. Nor such mass uncertainty.
Everything was simple — a logical explanation stapled to every action made. Every thought processed.
And those were getting rarer the longer she spent with this strange, wonderful girl.
Chills blossomed from her core. I dislike this feeling. Mel clutched her stomach. I want to forget it. Reading seemed a safe, predictable outlet. Perhaps something classical, out-of-this-world, like Rowling.
A realization gripped Melissa, stopping her cold in the doorway: This is just another version of what I’d done this morning.
Avoiding difficulties.
Denying the scope of reality, its power over her.
Pretending she didn’t understand Alma’s choices, how they were often done out of some deeply twisted compassion for the human doll she named Melissa.
“What—?” An ache pierced her breast, sharper than the constricting around her stomach. “What’s happening to me?”
Hunger. It was definitely hunger, definitely. Little was eaten at dinner last night, due to thoughts surrounding. No. Enough of this.
She turned for the door.
I’m sick.
Arms wrapped around herself, she made for the exit.
I should head north.
For the first time without Alma.
Consult a doctor, yes…
“No.” She stopped herself a hair’s breadth short of touching the doorknob.
What a moronic idea, Melissa. Sincerely, what madness has possessed you?
What diagnosis would they give? What did they do up there to people with emotions, lobotomize them? Would she ever see Alma again?
Her stomach twisted and jerked against its confines. Melissa grunted. This is getting bad, she thought. I need to consult with someone other than Alma.
The friends of her past life: Mitch and Austin.
I must find them.
Energy, sustenance, was needed for such a physical endeavor. Anything would do, the taste never mattered. Melissa turned toward the kitchen.
And the reason for Alma’s lateness met her, wrapped in plastic, crowning paper scrawled with what had to be Old World hieroglyphics. It was an omelet stuffed with the peppers from last night and cheese.
The taste was calming, like the old status quo Melissa wanted returned more than anything.
