#my dallasite came out at the end rip

[andie--forrester]

independence day - self para

At first it’s half a thought, brushed away. 

Those letters on the box are so menacing. DANGER: RISK OF TSS. Leaving a tampon in for too long can lead to a life threatening condition known as toxic shock syndrome! Do not leave a tampon in for over seven hours! She flips in her book to one of the chapters she skipped. She only read the part that explained the sudden uterine apocalypse when it struck over two years ago. There were organs she didn’t even know existed– weird. But there’s a whole chapter about TSS. She studies, reads the stories about women in the ‘80s who died because their own blood turned into poison. Not right away, though. They got sick first. That’s when the idea creeps in. She shuts the book, figures that would never work. She watches Oprah until His truck pulls into the driveway, then she turns the TV off and slips back to her room. She doesn’t like being around Him one week out of the month. They’re a bad pair when her moods fluctuate and her eyes roll harder and her tongue forgets to be quiet. He seems more disgusting, more grating than usual, like sitting in the same room with Him pulls on her muscle fibers and makes her want to scream. So she talks back and gets in trouble and neither of them are happy. So she keeps her distance. She wants to read a book, not the one about the uterus and fallopian tubes and whatnot, one about something cool. But when she opens one about Susan B.,– she needs a feminist on her side right now– she gets interrupted by that thought again. She has to work harder to make it leave this time. She’s only a couple chapters in when He invades, encroaches on her land, wants her to watch a movie. She has to fight to keep her eyes from rolling, but gets up. Leaves Susan B. on the bed with the thought. She sits on the far end of the couch, head in her hand, imagining a party at Versailles with Marie, ignoring The Shining. She’s seen it too many times now, and she’s tired of all His movies. He pulls her across the cushions, plays with her hair. It makes her feel like there are lice running down her scalp, so she scoots. He keeps a hand in her hair, so she scoots again, off the couch, to sit on the floor. He pulls, turning the lice into angry bees, stinging. “Ow,” She complains, bitterly, heaving herself back up next to Him. He doesn’t say anything, drops her hair, because He’s won the battle. That’s all it is to him, control. She wants to make friends with some of those Native American tribes from the early eighteenth and nineteenth centuries. She thinks maybe they’d understand her, and she them. They both had cruel, selfish white men steal things from them. An identity, a life. They could teach her how to scalp Him. She switches from imagining Versailles to the West Texas desert, from Marie to the Jumano people, from dancing to destroying Him. But they aren’t just knives and blood, they’re her friends, too, and she climbs mountains with them once He’s gone. It’s way better than The Shining. When the movie’s over, she lets out a sigh because her dream world is gone, too, and He’s still here. She retreats, and He doesn’t stop her. She pauses in the hallway, eyes wandering toward the bathroom. She doesn’t kill the thought right away this time, lets it grow as she shuts her bedroom door. Susan B. once again gets pushed out. The idea is stronger. The uterus book slides back into her lap, she reads the TSS chapter again, grabs a pen because some of this is important. She circles the symptoms: high fever, low blood pressure, vomiting, rash. How does one fake a fever? Oh well, skip it. Low blood pressure? Not that one, either. Vomiting might work, she remembers when she was ten and He let in some kind of bacteria or something and she wanted to sit in the refrigerator because all her skin felt hot and cold and her stomach wouldn’t stop moving. Just stick your finger down your throat and get it over with, He’d said, tossing her a damp washcloth. Rash? Fuck, just puke won’t be enough to make Him think something’s wrong, unless it’s another 24 hour sweating-vomiting-crying extravaganza. She doesn’t know how to fake fainting or organ dysfunction, either. So don’t fake. That thought hits harder than the first one. On one hand, she could fucking die, but He’d have to take her to the hospital, right? He doesn’t want her dead, or she would be. Right? She figures if she’s gonna do it, now’s the time. She slips into the bathroom, puts one in, crosses her fingers. It’s hard to sleep knowing she’s either about to die or finally be free. She finally reads about Susan B., though. Finally falls asleep when they put her in jail. She doesn’t notice any difference when she wakes up, but maybe her blood isn’t bad enough to make her throw up yet. She’ll wait. He’s already gone somewhere. Shit, what if she dies before He comes back? Maybe she should’ve thought of that. Still, she doesn’t want to turn back. Not yet. Maybe when the low blood pressure kicks in, whatever that feels like. She clicks past Oprah, stops when she sees red, white and blue flags, people cheering– it’s a parade. Her eyes find the calendar. July 4th, Independence Day. She finds herself smiling, whispering I’ll see you later. She gets more nervous with every hour that passes. How long does it take to poison your blood? She’s a wreck by the time He gets home, only waits a few minutes before she blurts, “My muscles hurt!” He just looks at her, surprised by the outburst. “What do you want me to do about it?” She swallows hard. “I think my blood pressure’s low. I– my kidneys, they’re–” He tilts His head. “What the hell are you talking about?” Her voice gets smaller. Fuck. “I’m sick. I think.” He crosses His arms. Tears start to prick her eyes because He doesn’t believe her and her body won’t fucking cooperate. How hard is it to die from a tampon? The box made it sound so easy. He gets up, walks over, comes closer until she wilts, can’t look at Him. He turns and heads for her room, comes back with the book, left open on TSS. “What the fuck is this?” No answer. “You thought you could trick me?” She wants to melt. Now would be a good time for the organ dysfunction. Or just fainting. His hand cracks across her cheek. She takes a deep breath, makes the tears slow to a stop, glares. He grabs her jaw, gets closer. “I’m not stupid. And you’re not clever. If it came to it, I would let you die. You’re not that fucking special. Go.” She knows He doesn’t mean to her room. But she takes the tampon out first. Maybe dying would be better than staying here, but there’s a little spark inside of her that encourages: live. Fight.

Another thought invades when He changes the rules, makes her feel smaller, more trapped, more tired. He’s exhausting.

It needs to not involve her imminent death this time, in case something goes wrong again. But His words, meant to cut her down, you aren’t clever, feel more like a challenge than anything. People thought Marie was dumb, too, but she somehow got the King to fork over money for dresses and dogs and parties rather than food for peasants. Sometimes He comes home and she’s in her room, quiet, reading, sleeping, whatever– and He raises His voice: Ally! Sometimes even Alexandra! It’s like a wave of paranoia hits Him, like He knows she could be gone– even though she’s too scared to even look at the phone or the window or the door for too long, even though she knows she’d spend an eternity downstairs for touching the doorknob, it’s like He’s afraid of what she might do. One afternoon, as she opens her bedroom door, pokes her head out, calls I’m here, she wants to laugh. She’s always been afraid of Him, despite that part of her that trusts Him, knows He’s the only person she has, but He’s afraid of her, too. She stores that, and it produces an idea that night, in the middle of dinner. She’s busy staring at her food, ignoring Him. He chews. Ignore. He drinks. Ignore. He talks. Ignore. She just has to make noises occasionally, like she hears a word He says. She needs advice from Harriet. She knew how to escape. But there are no swamps to hide in here, no tall trees or bushes or darkness to conceal her, and she doesn’t ever know how long He’ll be gone. She could make a break for it tomorrow and He could come back ten minutes later, drive His dumb truck a mile out and find her in the middle of the desert. Harriet doesn’t seem to think that’s a good enough excuse. Trick Him, then. He thinks you’re too dumb to outsmart Him, prove Him wrong. She mmhms, because she knows He said something, but it’s not as important as Harriet. You are clever. You can end this. She gets up, puts her food down the garbage disposal, sticks her plate in the dishwasher, and goes to her room. He doesn’t even have time to say anything. She’ll need Him out of The House for a long time– what would keep Him out? Why didn’t other Caribbean nations declare independence when Haiti did? She blinks hard, not sure where that thought came from. They were afraid their slaves would revolt, duh. What’s He afraid of? She sits up a little straighter. If she makes Him think she’s already revolted, He’ll panic. Look for her. She grabs her notebook, flips past all the Dear Chrises to a blank page, rips it out. - I’m sorry, she writes, a little uncertain at first. I’m sorry it came to this. She leans in. But I can’t do this anymore. I can’t live with you. Her hand spasms or something, writes something bad. I HATE YOU! She considers restarting, but grins. She’s never gonna see Him again, might as well let it all out. You’re a huge asshole and most of the time I just want to punch you in the mouth until you don’t even look the same. You make me think of everyone bad who ever lived, like Andrew Jackson and Henry VIII and Hitler and Stalin. You hurt me and you act like it’s okay and IT’S NOT!!! She shakes her hand out. I’m tired of your dumb fucking rules and I’m tired of how you smell and look and breathe I WISH YOU WOULD STOP BREATHING!! so I’m leaving. Bye forever, you can fuck yourself with a knife. - Alexandra P.S. You ARE stupid and I AM clever. She puts the pen down, reads over it, adds a HA at the end for good measure. Its very existence makes her nervous, so she hides it inside the notebook until He’s gone the next morning. She places it at her spot at the kitchen table, takes a deep breath, and returns to her room. She turns off the lights, slides under the bed, closes her eyes, and waits. She can’t tell if she falls asleep or if He gets back sooner than usual, but she hears the front door close before she expects it. A moment passes before the “Ally?” comes. She presses her lips together tightly. “Ally!” She peeks into the darkness, then closes her eyes again. He’s quiet for a moment. “Alexandra!” She presses her hand into her mouth because the urge to yell I’m here is strong enough to push tears up into her eyes. She wants to leap out, fix it with an I’m sorry, I was asleep, destroy the note before He finds it, but Harriet and Marie and Joan and Abraham and Rosa and Susan B. hold her back. She hears His feet, opens her eyes, and His shoes are right there. His voice thunders right above her, Alexandra!, a tear drips into the carpet. He leaves quickly, keeps looking. Not in the bathroom. No, not the basement. Not in His room or the back yard or the kitchen. Her heart feels like it’s exploding out of her chest, knows He’s seen it when He curses and the door slams again. His truck fires off into the desert. She can’t laugh, can’t move, she’s stuck. Her friends aren’t talking, her toes are numb because she’s in a tight ball and she’s too afraid to move, like when He breathes in her face and she wants to turn into smoke and drift away. She has to go now, cut through the back yard, climb over the fence, run as fast as she can, wherever that truck didn’t go. But all she hears is Him. Stupid bitch. I make the rules. You’re mine. She doesn’t know how to fight. If she did, she would’ve done it a long time ago. She wouldn’t have let Him lock her away or touch her or do this to her. The carpet is rough and itchy, but it’s there and it absorbs the water that’s leaking out of her eyes, so she buries her face in it and cries until He comes back, still cussing, and she can’t stop and He storms in, His hand finds her under there, pulls her out by her wrist. He’s so angry that He doesn’t talk this time, just walks. Down the steps. Grabs the cuffs. They’re too tight, but He doesn’t listen. She doesn’t come back up for a long time.

The last thought was different. No planning, just fighting.

She remembers feeling the two halves splitting, one afraid and obedient and crying under the bed, the other courageous and smart and strong and everything He didn’t want her to be. She remembers putting down the knife, but grabbing the cutting board. She remembers the first hit, remembers seeing Him fall, remembers how her arms felt: tired, but good, blood splattered on her skin. It should’ve been gross, but it felt like those people on the podiums with the medals every couple of years, national anthem playing, torches, staring into the heavens. They’re the best at skating or gymnastics or running. She is the best of the two of them, the best at surviving, the best at fighting. He might’ve won more, but she won at the end, when it counted most. She remembers opening the door, remembers the smell of the air. She remembers the sun, hot and baking, she remembers laughing, tilting her face upwards. She remembers how warm and new the concrete step off the porch felt, unlike the cement. So when she’s sitting in the hotel room in Dallas the night before the flight to New York, staring out the window, she has another thought. She’s not a prisoner now, but there’s so much she hasn’t seen. She hopes her parents won’t freak out. She decides to leave a note, a nice one this time. I need to explore. Please don’t panic. - Andie. They’re not quite used to the name yet, still let Alexandras and Allys slip out, making her wince. That’s not her anymore. Chris seems to get it, even if it hurts some little part of him that wanted things to be simple, to just have his sister back without having to get to know her all over again. She knocks on his door lightly, surprised at how quickly he answers. He’s still up, still dressed. He looks equally shocked. “What are you doing up?” She shushes him, afraid their parents will hear next door. ( But they’re not Him and there will be no punishment this time. ) “I have to see stuff,” She hisses, peering past him out the window, blinds drawn back. He hesitates a moment, sighs, then slips into his shoes, grabs his room key and slides it into his pocket. “Alright, what do you wanna see?” She doesn’t even know what there is to see. “Everything.” She gets ahead of him, bounces out of the lobby and into downtown. He doesn’t know his way around here; Austin would be a different story, but Dallas is foreign to him, too. “Let’s just walk! Come on,” She grabs his hand, pulls it, steps out in the street without even looking because she’s breathing in so deeply her chest seems to lead her blindly toward the new air, the neon lights, the sparkling of the buildings, honking horns. She looks like she could cry, but a laugh comes out instead. Reunion tower is flashing and when she turns, the hotel is, too, rainbow lights for Pride month, and for the shooting a few nights before. She keeps going, passes fountains and bars and cigarette smoke– it makes her pause, something new, and Chris pulls her along and sticks a piece of Nicorette in his mouth. She stops when they seem to reach some point of perfection, maybe what she sees as the center of the cluster of buildings, hotel and tower visible, and beams. “Take my picture.” He does, grinning, hardly believing his camera is focusing on her. It’s the first picture since the one on the poster. She is not MISSING anymore. She’s here, and loved, and free.