I Swear the Only Way to Go is Down

A broken maniac's attempt at love; how she is crushed by it.

That night I saw nothing, for behind the falling sun no light of the moon or stars shone. The dark crept up on every little path, and every snake in the garden realized its scales wouldn’t shine in the fog. Even with all the cleaning done, the smallest bit of dirt snuck into every home. The water lost its color; without light to reflect in it, it was invisible, perfectly clean glass. It was a fall night like winter came early. It nipped and tasted like frost and wouldn’t get out of my nose with its decaying leaves and fireplace smoke.

Every night I carried it with me, my bag. It was red and lined with grey, and held my old things: a couple dice, a blindfold, a photograph no one can see. They were important. Anything that went into my bag was. They were there for me when I went out to search for something more, something I could hold not only in my bag but in my hands. I took it with me everywhere; I slung it over my shoulder, begged it to guide me that night.

It was impossible to stay on course that night. The stars lost track of me. I couldn't see up from down; I could do nothing but trust my feet to take me someplace safe. I probably would have beat my way around the city seventeen times, letting the sun rise and fall until the fog cleared, had I not been pulled aside, a warm hand taking my cold wrist and telling me something I couldn’t understand, hide or duck or be quiet. I chose run. But, bound like a shackle, my wrist would not be free of that hand. I dragged it through cities and seasons, trying the pavement with our heavy footsteps, until I looked back and saw it really was just a hand hanging off my pale arm, a hand red with summer sun and winter winds, bony and cold, pulled through hell and back to earth. Just a hand. Nothing more. I peeled it from my wrist, pulling its suction-cup fingers off one by one, and took it with me, folding a handkerchief over it and nestling it in my bag, so it would be there for me later. And there I was, alone again.

I drank my way through half the houses in town, shapeshifting into different groups, different lives. I held a bodiless hand at my side and added a bottle to it, my bag becoming heavier and more intoxicated. I danced my way around the party. It took half an hour, and I was off course again, the falling-starlight failing to show me a way to get through.

It only got later, and I erred on. I needed someone who didn’t want me to worry. I needed a pitstop, metal bonds, eight-course meal, dirt maker, dust cleaner, green-light-guiding-light kind of person to help me carry my bag. I needed someone to hold my heart in place, to keep it from being weighted down. All the bottles and broken-hands-held really took a toll.

He was there. A dugout made of broken trucks and trench guns. He had burns on the backs of his hands and couldn’t possibly have looked at me like I was worth any less. I watched him for so long. He slicked his hair away from his face and got back to work. He bent steel, standing around a melting pot underneath a tank-barrel awning. He knitted with silver thread, wove golden fleece. I wore a ring like a collar around my finger, fashioned by him. The silver vibrated when he was near.

He looked up at me again. He had a softer look about him, and took the ring when I offered it to him. I wanted it resized to fit my ring finger. He took it from me and said, “Maybe after dinner, love,” and so I was.

From then, he picked dandelion seeds from my hair like I was an irredeemable mess, pulled my sweatshirt over my head like just looking at me made him hot. We put our heads together and created a mania all our own; we laid in bed and listened to The xx and made each other into Romeo and Juliet. All

the while, I kept my bag close to me. It was cliché; it was ugly; no one could see the inside, no one understood. But he begged.

“I’ll carry your world if you let me. Please.” He said it so heavily, dripping sweet and desperate pleas. I couldn’t stand to see him look at me that way. Tearing pieces of myself away with every move, I handed him my bag and looked away, flushed and hot, as he opened it with reverie. I spilled my guts over it.

Everything was there, on the table. It was automatic. He unpacked my bag piece by piece, with all the solemn sacredness of a funeral. But it happened in a flash. Tender, broken pieces of myself fell out into his hands. An envelope concealed a yellowed picture of a dirty, frozen family in a rotten hovel. Cradled in the dark was me, a little girl, purple bruises and red face. He looked as sick to see the picture as I was in it, starved and fallen.

I thought he knew he took a chance with me, I really thought so. Three dice rolled into his palm. He rolled them all our life. Once more could only hurt. The stars couldn’t help but light his path. They lay across the table, filling the night with pinpricked constellations. Eighteen little dots, sprinkled across the ceiling.

He whispered, “Close your eyes,” as he took the blindfold into his hands. My heart wouldn’t stop crying as he tightened it around my head, the cold material suddenly against my flushed face making me shiver. My blood screamed in my ears, even though it was little darker than the night I had known before.

Finally he took the bottle by the neck. I heard the liquid sloshing and felt his eyes fall on me. “Your pretty little fever dream ends tonight,” he said. His tone wished me good night. His whole aura was prideful, holding the bottle like a bat. He raised it above his head and took a downward swing, crushing my skull.

Author's Note

Alternate title: Stars. I entered this in a real life contest and it didn't get published, so I thought I would put it up here. It was a time to write. Please tell me what you think.

Reviews

[Jade Mayhew]

Wow. You absolutely captured the very essence of this contest! The final line absolutely BLEW my mind! Thank you so much for sharing this! It's completely phenomenal!

[Aura Inanna]

Thanks so much for the kind review!