Content Warning: Self-harm, Psychological abuse/gaslighting, Non-consensual polyamory/Relationship abuse, Mental health issues/Gaslighting, Emotional abuse.
I sat up in bed, my mind foggy. For a moment I didn’t know where I was, caught between the dream and reality. I shook my head to clear it, then looked around. Michael was asleep next to me, in a rectangle of yellow from the streetlight; he’d managed to fall asleep without pulling the shade. He was so beautiful like that that I almost smiled.
The dream had mostly faded, but bits and pieces hung on. And so did the feeling it ended on; my chest and throat fell tight, my body holding on to memories that were already unraveling in my mind.
I took my dream journal from the nightstand and tried to write down all I could remembered. Michael hadn’t been Michael, but someone else. Mark? I’d been writing for something. A website, or a magazine. Not just copy, but articles. But it wasn’t a good dream. Because I’d ended up cutting myself. I should tell Rebecca during our next session.
I wrote down about the mac and cheese, and the cutting. Then the rest was gone. It was weird, it had felt so… strong. Real. And that dream feeling that it was important, but I guess most of my dreams have that. I think.
It must have been adrenaline that woke me up, because a minute later I the tired hit me again. I closed my eyes and felt sleep wash over me like waves at high tide.
When I woke up, Michael was already out of bed. I stretched and walked to the shower. Something made me look at the sink, but it was empty and spotless like it always was. Just the toothbrushes in their holders. I set the shower to get warm but got in before it was all the way hot, because it takes forever to warm up on our floor. I let it get hotter than I usually do, so it felt like it was scalding, but it felt good for a change. I scrubbed with a washcloth and my back with the brush. I wished I had a real scrubby sponge.
I dried and dressed, and dabbed on a little of the aloe conditioner Michael had made and rubbed it through my hair.
I went to the kitchen for breakfast, and Michael was already sitting at the table with a cup of tea, reading the paper by the window.
“Hey,” I greeted him, and he said, “Hmm” through the teacup.
I opened the fridge and after a second asked, “Hey, are we out of eggs?”
He said, “Mm-hmm.” I looked, and the cup was on the table.
“Oh,” I said. “That sucks, I really felt like an omelet.”
“I got rid of the eggs because we were going to try changing our diet, remember?”
“Oh. Right,” I said. “Sorry, dumb today I guess. We’re vegan this week.”
He corrected me. ““Strict vegetarian. Vegan is an ethos. You can’t try out being vegan, like you can’t try out being Muslim. You’re in or your out.”
“Right,” I said. “I remember you saying that.”
“I made some chia pudding,” he said. “And we have blueberries.”
“Sounds great!” I smiled. I looked around. “Uh. Did you… get rid of the coffee too?”
“You said you wanted to cut down on the caffeine. I got instant decaf and some herbal teas. The celestial mandarin is really nice,” he said. After a few seconds, he added, “Zingy.”
“Oh. Right. Thanks. I’m sure this’ll help.” I put a mug of water in the microwave.
He looked up at that. “It’s better if you use a kettle,” he said.
“It’s just one cup,” I said. “It’s not worth bothering with the kettle.”
“It’s right on the counter,” he said. “Still has water in it from mine.”
I didn’t find an argument, so I just took a deep breath and said, “I’m just gonna go with the microwave. It’s already going.”
He looked at me for a second, then raised his eyebrows as he looked back to the paper, and shrugged.
While the water heated, I put some chia pudding in a bowl and added blueberries. The microwave dinged and I put in instant decaf, figuring it would at least have some caf. I opened the fridge and looked for a second before Michael, on the other side o the door, said, I got rid of the milk, too. There’s oat creamer.”
I took the little container of oat milk creamer, and added some to the decaf. Too much, because it was creamer, not milk, and it came out more off-white than tan. I considered putting it back in to heat up and adding some more instant, but it was all too much too early.
I took my bowl and cup to the table. Michael makes a good chia pudding, even if it’s with almond milk. I looked at his empty bowl and noticed something.
“Is that honey?” I asked. There was amber syrup on the edge.
“Mm-hmm,” he said.
“Is that strict vegetarian?” I asked.
“Bees are just bugs,” he explained. “Even vegans kill bugs. And we need them to pollinate the plants.”
“Well didn’t you say shrimp are just bugs? Can we eat shrimp?”
He sighed and looked up at me. “We’re not eating the bees,” he said. “We’re just eating the honey.” Then he looked back at the paper.
That didn’t seem to make sense, but I wasn’t sure. I was sure that if I said anything he’s have an answer for it. I decided to let it go. At least I could put honey in my coffee.
A minute later he’d finished his article because he put down the paper and turned to me. “Clayton’s coming by later,” he said.
My brain stopped for a second and looked for bearings. “Clayton…” I said. I should know this. “From work?” I hazarded.
“Are you okay, Daniela?” he asked.
“Yeah,” I said, feeling my face flush. “I’m just having a weird brain morning.”
“Clayton the super,” he said. “He’s coming to look at the ceiling in the bathroom.”
“Right,” I said. I’m sorry, I had a dream that’s still got me fucked up.”
“You should tell Rebecca about it,” he said, picking up the paper again.
“Yeah,” I said. “I’m planning to.”
“You polishing that?” he asked with a glance.
I looked down and realized I was rubbing my thumb back and forth along the edge of the spoon. “I, ah. I guess it’s just some kind of anxiety.
“From the dream,” he asked.
“Yeah,” I said, quickly.
“Mm,” He said, and then we ate and read in silence for a few minutes.
“I had to put the tweezer away,” Michael chided without looking up from the paper. “You left it on the sink.”
“I’m sorry,” I said automatically. Then, “Are you sure? I don’t remember using tweezers.”
“Tweezer,” he said. “It’s only one thing.”
“And do you cut with a scissor?” I tried to retort.
“Scissors are two blades jointed together,” he said, still not looking up. “The two parts of a tweezer are welded into one piece.”
“Anyway, I don’t think I used it,” I said. Then I corrected myself, “I mean, I think I remember it, but I don’t think I used it.”
He lowered the paper and looked into my eyes. “You remember using it but you don’t think you used it?”
“I remember it from the dream,” I explained.
“Mm-hmm.” He sipped tea that had to be cold by then. My mug was cold by then. “But since I found it on the sink, which seems more likely: That you dreamed you did it, or that you used it before bed and then dreamed that you dreamed it?”
“I’m. I’m really sure I used it in the dream.”
“I’m sure you did,” he said, “but that doesn’t mean you didn’t also do it before bed. Do you remember what you did before bed?”
I was about to say “yes” when I thought an realized it was “no.” I didn’t remember. I didn’t remember going to bed. Or anything for a long while before bed. I gave up. “Yeah, you must be right.” I giggled. “I told you that dream fucked me up!”
He reached across and put his hand over mine and smiled. It was nice. “You’ll talk to Rebecca about it and she’ll help you figure out what it was.”
“Yeah!” I said. “I think I just need to get out and get it out of my head.”
“Was I in it?” he asked. I looked over the edge of his paper. He was reading about a sustainable water use program in Qatar.
“No.” I said. “There was only one other person. Mark, I think. Or Martin. One of those. He was nothing like you.”
“Did you have a good time?”
“No,” I said. “He made me really angry, somehow. It’s all gone now.”
“The anger’s not gone,” Michael said. “You remember that part.”
“Yeah,” I responded. “Well, I remember being angry, I don’t remember feeling it.”
“Anger’s the feeling,” he said. “If you remember being angry then you remember feeling angry.”
“I mean,” I said, “I remember the fact that I was angry, but not the actual feeling.”
“Mm-hmm,” he said. “Did you write it down?”
“What?”
“In your dream journal. Did you write it down.”
“Oh. Yeah. All I could remember.”
“May I read it later?”
“Uh. Sure.” I hesitated. “I thought you thought it was stupid.”
“Mostly,” he said. “You usually can’t remember more than a sentence and it’s usually something like ‘Big green energy meadow.’ But it’s more than you’d remember without it.”
“Yeah,” I said. “That’s the whole point.”
“Yeah, so that’s why I want to read it.”
“Do you want to go through it together?,” I asked. “Sometimes I remember more things later! I can probably tell you things about them.”
“Mm,” he said, shaking his head. “I have to go in and do some prep for a meeting this week.”
“How about when you get home?”
“Maybe he said. Sounds like fun. But while I’m gone, Clayton said he’d be by around 1, and the place is kind of filthy.”
I said, “ What are you talking about, you’re so anal you never let anything get out of place.”
“I didn’t say it’s kind of a mess,” he said, “I said it’s kind of filthy. We haven’t mopped or vacuumed or cleaned out the fridge this week.”
“That’s Sunday routine,” I said. “It’s Saturday. You wrote the routine!”
“I know,” he said, “but Clayton is coming and it’s Saturday and I’d rather not have him see it like this.”
“He’s not going to see inside the refrigerator. And if it’s clean enough for you to live another day in, it’s clean enough for anyone else.”
“I’ve been getting used to it all week,” he said. “Clayton’s coming from outside, he’s not used to it. Can you do some cleaning up while I’m out?” He asked. “Before he gets here?”
“Yeah,” I sighed. “At least then we can have a relaxing Sunday.”
“I may have to be out Sunday,” he said, “But that makes it even better that it’s done today.”
He stood up, put his dishes in the sink, and filled it with hot, soapy water. Then he grabbed the paper, gave me a kiss on the top of my head and went to his office room. After awhile, I reheated the coffee in the cup and washed all the breakfast dishes.
About an hour later, Michael came to kiss me goodbye and went out. I took this as my cue to sweep and mop, and disinfect the bathroom. I wiped down the outside of the fridge, and when I finished that, since Clayton hadn’t come yet, I cleaned it out as well. Since the bathroom is next to the bedroom, I decided to change the sheets.
When that was done, I decided to write, so I took out my tablet and tried to write poetry, but after ten minutes I switched to reading poetry instead, but I couldn’t get inside of it. I tried writing again, and after frustrating myself for several minutes, I typed: “She cut herself, and I appeared.” I stared at it for awhile. Then I started trying to write from the dream. It came back in bits and snatches, each line lasting just long enough to type it down. First, stray thoughts and images. Then feelings. Some were familiar; the frustration. Others were… hotter; the anger.
Then I got to the feel of the tweezers on my thumb. I started to type it but stopped. It didn’t fade. It stayed in my head. I remembered the hot pressure against my thumb. But it wasn’t one of the bad things about the dream.
I went to the bathroom and opened the mirror. There they were. Not the same as the dream; those were good ones, probably cost $30. These were dollar store tweezers. But they were sharp. I picked them up, ran my thumb lightly over the point, then less lightly. Yes. This was the feeling. I pressed harder. Yes, that too. Not quite as sharp as the good ones in the dream. I hesitated to close the mirror again for fear of what I’d see there; too many movies. I steeled myself, closed it, and looked.
Was this the face from the dream? I didn’t think so. She was similar but… I think my dream self was older. Longer hair, and straighter, finer. Jaw was maybe heavier, but that could have just been from being older. But I couldn’t remember the eyes at all; I only saw mine as they are.
Then I remembered another part of the dream, and I brought the tweezers up to my cheek. Yes. The face was a little different, but this is what I’d seen. That made me look between my eyebrows; no stray hair.
I pressed, like in the dream, and pulled down. Lightly at first, then harder. The pink line grew, light at first, then quickly blooming darker. It didn’t feel like pain. It felt… hot. It felt alive.
I’d gotten as far as my chin when I heard the door open. “Clayton?” I called, a little alarmed. There was no way Clayton would just let himself in. I moved to the living room.
“It’s me, Daniela” Michael answered, and as we both stepped into the living room.
“Oh. Hey. Weird thing, Clayton never showed.”
“Yeah,” he said as he put his messenger bag on the coffee table, “that’s my bad. I forgot to tell you, Clayton was having to go out to get some parts for Olive McCurdy’s sink, so he said to just send him some pictures of the ceiling. So I did.” That’s when he looked at me. “What happened to your face?”
I stumbled. “Oh. Um. Just an. Accident. With— “ I couldn’t say tweezers. “A fork.”
“Oh,” he said. “You should put some aloe on it.”
“Yeah. I should.”
“And then get dressed up. I got wine, and I ordered in. Early dinner. I have news, and we’re celebrating.”
“Oh,” I said. “Something at work?”
He smiled, and showed his teeth. When he full-on smiles like that, he’s really beautiful. “Yes!” he said. Take your time, the food will be at twenty minutes.”
I started to get excited. I couldn’t remember ever having brought news from work worth celebrating. I got my nice dress from the closet and put it on. I took some time to put my hair up with barrettes, then put on some lipstick. I considered for a few seconds, and drew on a little eyeliner. As a last minute thought, I sprayed a some perfume on my wrist, dabbed it everywhere.
When I was done, the door rang, and Michael brought back dinner. He’s already set the table, and he insisted I sit while he served. He opened the wine to let it breathe while he put the delivery on plates. He set us up with salads first, then said with a big grin, “Just for you, just for tonight!” Then he set a plate of huge Thai shrimp on rice down in front of me.
“We can eat bugs tonight?” I asked. He laughed. He had a really charming laugh, when he used it. Finally, he sat and poured the wine, and I was glad we’d sprung for wine glasses because it wouldn’t have been as nice from mason jars.
“How’s the shrimp?” he asked.
“I haven’t tried it yet!” I said. I grabbed a fork. “Here, I’ll try it. Now what’s the news?” Then I realized that the shrimp were so big I needed the knife.
“Okay,” he said as I cut a shrimp in two. “Remember last time we had dinner with Sandra and Ray?”
“Yeah?” I said around a bite of shrimp, even though I really didn’t.
“Remember how they had news?”
“Um.” I hoped I looked like I was thinking. I was actually having trouble remembering who Sandra and Ray were. Michael sipped his wine while he waited. When I thought I’d drawn it out as long as I could, I said, “No.”
He looked disappointed. “They said they’d decided to be open.”
“About what?” I asked.
“Open,” he said. “Their relationship. To other people.”
I think my heart missed a beat. I was starting to remember.
“You said you were interested.”
I hadn’t had wine yet but my head felt light. “I said it was interesting.” For the first time, he started to look uncertain. “Why are you telling me about this?” I asked.
He decided to soldier on. “Well. I found it interesting too. Like you did.” He took a bite of rice and seemed to chew it for several minutes. I waited until I couldn’t.
“Are you saying you want us to see other people?”
“Well,” he said quickly, “you don’t have to.”
My heart was beating in my throat now. I felt like I was talking through someone else. “But you’d be seeing other people.”
“Well,” he started again, “not people necessarily. But at least one other person.”
I cocked my head, feeling like a pigeon, but couldn’t do otherwise. “Are you already seeing someone?”
“No!” he said, seeming scandalized. “But I do have someone I will be seeing. Once we’re agreed that we’re open.”
My breath felt short. My pulse pounded in my temples. One of my thoughts escaped my mouth, “You said this was news from work.”
He nodded with the excitement I’d felt a few minutes before. “I know her from work!”
Everything swam. “What’s her name?” I asked.
“Evangeline,” he said.
“Of course,” I muttered.
I didn’t make this mess.
His voice seemed to grow more faint, or my heartbeat more deafening, as he spoke. “She works in HR. You’ll really like her, you have a lot in common.”
“Besides you?” I asked. He laughed again but I couldn’t hear it. I shook my head to try to hear again, but found myself focusing on something in my hand, under the table. What was it?
“…I wouldn’t just bring a random person into our relationship,” Michael was saying.
“She’s not apart of our relationship,” I said, numbly but with pain looming nearby. Oh right. The knife. I was able to relax just a little. It felt reassuring.
“Well, it’s a kind of relationship, your partner’s partners.”
“She’s not your partner.”
“Not yet,” he said. “Not until we decide.”
“I’m not deciding to do that.” I let my other hand drop into my lap.
“Well, that’s the thing,” he said, “I’ve already told her that we’d have the conversation tonight and decide.”
“I’m deciding no.” I felt the blade with my thumb. It was serrated. I couldn’t decide if that made it unsuitable, or more suitable.
“‘No’ isn’t a decision,” he corrected me. “It’s a refusal to make a decision. And that’s not a tenable result of this conversation,” he finished with a slow shake of his head.
The dress was on the short side. That was good, I reflected. “There’s nothing tenable about this conversation,” I said. “Not unless I’m about to wake up from it.”
He looked disappointed and disarrayed at the same time. Disgruntled, I guess. “I did this badly,” he said, mournfully. “I should have waited until we’d had dinner and some of the wine. I just thought…” He seemed to search for words, and when he found them, he sounded hurt. “I just thought you’d be happy for me.”
“I’m not happy for you,” I admitted. “I’m not happy about anything.”
He nodded. “I understand,” he said, solemnly. Then he rallied. “But this is not one of the negotiable points,” he said. “This is how it had to be.”
“Is it?” I said. I moved my hands closer together in my lap.
He nodded.
I said, “Let’s see.”
I jerked the knife over my forearm. The serrations bit deep.
I woke up.
Be First to Comment