TW: mentions of rape, sex, depression, suicide, smoking, alcohol, and explicit language.
Andrea Olmstead was an airtight woman. It had taken years, but she had developed a carapace to her environment and as a result, nothing could enter nor leave her.
Today she awoke with the feeling of an airplane landing. The earth’s pressure against her soft body and the loud resistance of wheels breaking against the landing.
Waking up exhausted, she found some piece of her life that kept her going and lifted herself out of bed. After getting dressed, she went to the kitchen to brew some coffee. Today her sister would move-in. And it was not that she had a lot of luggage or boxes to bring, she really had nothing but a few pieces of clothing. Her sister lived on social security and was recently released from a mental hospital. After a quick cup of coffee, Andrea put on her coat and took a deep breath twice before locking the front door and walking down the cracked steps of her house to her vehicle.
She said to herself: It is just today, another day and it will end and begin and then end. It will be over. Yes, it will be over. I will be okay.
In the midst of her thoughts the traffic was not on her side this morning. When she took that turn, she knew the neighbouring vehicle would hit her. That moment everyone has, that speeding-slowing, that startling and shattering effect when at high speed in a stuffy vehicle along a troubled road on your way to work you collide. And she still turned knowing that she was late and had to hurry, but doubted the consequences would outweigh her actions. Consequently, she thrusted forward then back. But her vehicle froze and the honking and the yelling and chaos and the people and vehicles paused.
Andrea lifted her sweaty hands curled on the driver’s wheel and rubbed her wrinkled forehead. Her neck felt like it would snap, but that was okay because it was normal. She opened her eyes, knowing she was almost late, probably by a few minutes. And that’s it: she realised she had not even pushed the pedal, had not lifted a finger. She was tired and confused. Maybe the cup of coffee was not enough and she should have taken two aspirins to counter her back pain. But she did not have time to think of that and rubbed her eyes, repositioning herself before starting the vehicle.
She drove off into the messy morning traffic. After work, she would meet her sister and it would start. But she repeated: it will work out. It will end. It will roll in and out. I am over it.
*
Simone was calling while Andrea drove into the parking lot of where she worked. She started working part-time last month at the University’s library. Her mobile phone vibrated annoyingly and she muted the volume. She took another deep breath and pressed her face against the driver’s seat window allowing the cold to enter her face. She was overheating and needed a shower. Her turtleneck now formed a thick skin to her body and she wanted to take everything off and stand in the -17°C weather outside to cool off. But no, she had to wake up and end this. She was late for work by about fifteen minutes and everything else had to be suppressed.
She locked the door and basically sprinted to the front doors hoping to not ruin today any further. She had not realised it, but her phone still vibrated silently, alone on the passenger’s seat.
*
Simone came to visit Andrea after her shift. Her day went by like skimming through a chapter of a boring book. They went for a late lunch at a corner cafe a few blocks from the University. Simone did not mention the multiple times she called Andrea this morning. Rather, they talked about a party to celebrate Samuel’s 26 birthday. Samuel was Andrea’s boyfriend, but she rejected that label. They were “close”, she preferred to say. Actually, the story of how Andrea and Samuel met was one that Simone loved to hear. It followed the cliche formula of boy meets girl. There was not much depth or interest in this story, but Simone loved to hear Andrea speak.
It was around four months ago and Andrea, like many of her female friends, entered University. Andrea had just turned twenty and faced a class majority of older males each superior in their studies. Nevertheless, she knew she could pass. She knew that with a touch of a finger she could tear down the fame and worth of her opponents. Albeit, after her first month she was no longer committed to that dream and met Samuel on a debate project. She let her guard down, not realising the actions of her peers, many times encompassing sexual assault.
Andrea found amusement in retelling the exact interaction:
“I’m Andrea.” She said and offered her hand to him. He looked up from his work and placed the book down he was reading. He left his chair, stood before her and did not speak but put his hands on her face and went in to kiss her. Generally, life was poisonous, but right then she felt an immediate comfort towards him. He was poisonous too, but it left her satisfied countering the ills he laid upon her. Remergin theee interactions, Andrea avoided romanticing this sexual asaault.
He was irresponsible, afterall. He slept with other women and ignored Andrea if she missed a call or text or email. He had promised to stay unified with her as a couple. But you know, right? Men. What else was she expecting? She would cry when she saw him on the street or with a former female friend.
Half way through her story, Andrea paused and looked through her purse for her phone. She asked Simone what time it was and for a second panic shook her heart. She still had time; it was only an hour past noon and she could avoid the presence of her sister for a little longer. She ordered another coffee and Simone slid her phone in her cardigan, taking out a pack of cigarettes.
“Do you still love him?” Simone asked.
Andrea straightened out her back and looked confidently towards Simone. She replied: “Yes.” She was lying and they both knew it. At first she had admired him for his intelligence and intimidating persona but he was like the rest of her male classmates: their facade was appealing but truly fragile and underneath was rot.
The tumultuousness of Andrea’s life only really began when she met him. She was timid but intelligent and he talked openly about everything. Mostly himself. After their first date they went to his house. He poured white wine and played an Aretha Franklin record. He hoped their conversations would bring them to bed; she just wanted a break from life. But he was dull and spoke arrogantly. As the night passed she decided to talk less about herself and stay quiet.
Originally when they met, he said there was no need for philosophy and expressed his obsession with Marx. She found a piece of herself that admired him and what he said. But she was still scared in a sense or afraid that he was a misogynist and would invalidate her feelings when the time came. Thus she was cautious when he pressured her to head for the bedroom on the first night. She felt distrust towards him and resentment, this was the product of their relationship.
*
Andrea and her sister settled in the living room. Her sister sat stiff on the sofa, decomposing. Andrea put her coat away in the closet, opened the curtains of the living room and unlatched the kitchen window to a crack. Already she was stressed and felt as if she were being watched and judged by a jury.
Andrea took out a week-old bag of cherries from the refrigerator and placed them neatly in a glass bowl. Then she poured the coffee from this morning into a mug and brought them out for her sister. She took the unopened mail and newspapers spread over the coffee table.
“Here you go.” Andrea smiled but her sister was silent and her breathing was raspy, it sounded like there was dust in her lungs. Her sister’s eyes were locked on the photographs of their family on the mantelpiece.
From standing there, Andrea felt out of breath. Her sister, this sorrowful body, positioned itself lifelessly in this bleak room. She was empty, and derelict. This was no longer Andrea’s sister.
“How are you doing?” Andrea asked, wondering anxiously if her sister would reply.
“I want to die.”
“What do you mean?! I mean, why what’s wrong?” Their eyes met and Andrea looked away nervously. Her sister did not need to explain as Andrea already knew the reasons: firstly, she was raped and barely escaped her marriage. Secondly, she was institutionalised. Her sister literally had nothing else to live for and the grey strands in her hair became more noticeable daily. Her eyes were watery grey and anything she worked on or produced was lifeless. This only exemplified the dying aspects. Her sister did not mind talking openly about what had happened, she even went as far to describe graphically every second of what occurred. Only, it was useless because she wanted to die.
“I’m sorry.” Andrea said feeling guilty.
“No.”
There was nothing else to say. Andrea wanted to tell her sister to live, and to love life; to find meaning again. But this was hypocritical. Andrea herself could not get over her depression. She could not get over Samuel. Or the man before that. Or the one before. She didn’t want to consider or think of death when the image of her sister appeared but that was inevitable. Her sister would die and Andrea could not change a thing.
Andrea could not shrug off this guilt. This had warped her mentally and physically. I am a bastard, an idiot, she called herself. She wanted to cry. She would lose her sister. To even galvanise the fact that a person could say this bluntly and not break down in tears or despair was surprising for Andrea. Now she would be that person who would say in passing that only she remained of her family, that her twin sister had died.
But no, Andrea thought, I need to calm down. This has not happened and it won’t. I am okay. The sadness will pass.
*
While leaving her shower, Andrea pushed away her worries, however her attention was trapped in the mirror with her thinking: I have no sex, it is absent. As if an asbense of sex dehumnaised or castrated her, she felt worthless – the constant misogyny in her life had one in convincing her. Usually she refrained from thinking about sex but the renching feeeling accompanied by it occupied her mind once again. She didn’t want to think or talk about sex. It had been traumatising just thinking about this act between the men and women around her.
She remembered the first guy she had been with but was exhausted from tediously jumping from subject to subject. It was all subjective and she could not remember the exact situation. In her case, it was like writing a story that was already lived, consequently she had lived it, but someone else had too. It was a circle without results that lacked significance.
She dried herself and thought of checking on her sister but that was too emotional to experience. She dimmed the lights of her room and put on an album of The Doors.
Tomorrow she would awake from her cold bed and would see people she hated. She would walk through a crowd of people who did not know her. The party would happen and Samuel would be there.
She ignored the idea of seeing Samuel at his party and tried to focus on her sister. He was disappointing more often than not but she loved him. He was flawed, but so was she and everyone else. Andrea honestly believed that to talk about men, a person should immerse themselves in a relationship with a man. And so she threw herself into that while instantaneously regretting it.
Samuel and Andrea were not meant for eachother, he was a macho intellectual and she was an introverted writer. She had her faux-independence while he wanted to make her dependent upon himself. It was odd, she thought. She went as far as searching online for those stupid websites detailing how to deal with and fix your “troubled” relationship. She didn’t find an answer, of course, and figured she’d resolve it herself.
Ultimately, when she thought of him she blushed, but the negative memories quickly flooded the scene. Andrea was tired of acting. Everything she thought and said was an act, but lacked the inspiration to act on these convictions. But what can I do, she asked, I am fake. I am restless sometimes and want new people and there is nothing I can do. I’m too late. Being the one observing life from a window, living on the outside, watching the formation of life, can be stable, but really, it is quite depressing. I need someone or something else. I need someone other than him to worry about. Before we met I was perfect and secure. The effect of his appearance and reappearance has caused this distress, this inner bleeding. I want to say I am a victim or at least I have been wronged. But still: I am wrong, I know this is true, I am wrong.
She was on the verge of crying. She could cry, yes, she definitely could. But what would it do for her?
*
She did not take a deep breath but instead went for the door and turned its handle letting the open door overflow her with the laughter and joy felt from the celebratory atmosphere.
Andrea wore a flowered cotton dress, and as usual, she set herself apart from the crowd. She nervously answered and questioned the guests of the party. Primarily the men looked down at her like a mouse.
Only a few steps into the house, she was told “You’re flat.” Her face reddened and the jock that said this kept his eyes concentrated on her breasts. He’s probably a friend of Samuel, she thought. This one comment spawned a wildfire at her core, but as she stood quietly while he made more disgusting comments about her features. Andrea answered timidly, “at least I’m –.” She couldn’t finish it. She missed her moment and the guy moved on and she was forgotten, thankfully. Who cares, these people are pointless anyway, she muttered.
Andrea checked her phone and it had been only five minutes. If she were to stay for another hour to two, she would need to smoke or drink something. She stepped between the pillars of older men and women, searching for that jerk named Samuel. She drifted from crowd to crowd, man to man, from rape joke to rape joke, etc etc. It was another party of shitty men. But it was Samuel’s party, Andrea reminded herself.
While Andrea passed, a group of men were eyeing her. Surprisingly she enjoyed this. I am untouchable, they can’t have me, she thought. Only Samuel could have me, only I can let him walk right in and take whatever he wants.
Andrea didn’t always attend parties. Not because she was younger, but no one knew her. So Simone and Andrea linked arms and went through it all. Simone wore her beaten leather jacket and Andrea wore a dress. They were opposites; Simone’s radiant personality usually dominated conversations. On the other hand, Andrea just laughed and stayed at Simone’s side. Outside of moments like these, Simone attacked Andrea for having a nihilistic and abrasive attitude.
Eventually, making her way around she found Simone and didn’t care to talk much.
“I’m gonna get myself a drink,” Andrea said, pointing to the kitchen.
“Grab me one too.” Simone said and Andrea walked through the crowd of lousy-dancers. Twice she tripped. Don’t be weak, just don’t be like that, Andrea thought. You’ll find him.
Once in the kitchen she started making a shot of tequila, but her excited hands wrecked the measurements. “Whatever, this is good enough.”
“What is good enough?” Samuel asks, appearing behind her.
“Oh, just this drink.” Andrea tenses up and looks away at other people. She turns around, leaning against the sticky marble countertop. Gripping the hem of her coat, Andrea shifts step by step to evade him as he corners her.
“I didn’t think you’d make it. You shouldn’t drink too much, understand me?” His voice deepens and he holds her hands to calm them.
“Why are you doing thi–,” But before she could finish, his lips moved to hers. He sounds like his friends, condescending and insulting. Ready to pick her clean and lay her out. She wants to say: “fuckoff douchebag.” None of this is attractive or pleasing, she reminds herself.
“Hurry up with my drink,” shouts Simone.
“Sorry, I have to go,” Andrea pleads and squeezes her way back to Simone. As she walks away, she notices the smile on his face that he tries to hide. He is disgusting, I can’t believe I came for this. She says this out loud.
*
“Can we leave?”
“Let’s stay a little longer, OK?” Simone replies holding Andrea’s hands.
As usual, Andrea will drink too much and wake up dying tomorrow — but the thing is, she will be alone. Through these thoughts of self-loathing and doubt Andrea sees Marianne across the room. Before Andrea can ask a question Marianne goes in for a hug and speaks through her broken English. From her Andrea learns that Samuel is outside through the screen door smoking alone on the balcony. She wants to give it another try and talk to him, confront him and address their past. She walks over to him and he turns around in time for them to kiss.
His dried lips smash into hers and his hands explore her body. But this rigidity is not pleasing.
“Stop please, you’re hurting me.” He seized her wrists emphatically to this response.
“Oh, shut up for once.” His response is new, Andrea thought, who is this guy? Normally, she would com[ly and ignore this, suppressing yet another occasion of abuse.
“Where did that come from?”
“You’re always like this, just be quiet!”
Andrea withdrew and slammed the screen door shut and headed for Simone, wondering if she overreacted. She thinks: In just a quick moment, this has all changed. Was I wrong? I’ve always struggled to avoid unnerving situations.
“It’s over then.” He shouts, his drunkenness embarrassing.
This last comment pokes at Andrea’s heart and before she reaches the washroom, her eyes are sore and she can’t stop the tears. Simone trails after.
*
“Stop crying. It’s okay. Let’s go to my place.” Says Simone as she locks the door to the washroom.
Andrea’s mascara tears have dried into several cracks below her eyes and she traces the shape of her face from the mirror’s reflection. It was all for him, she whispered, I’m an idiot and it’s embarrassing.
“I wasted my time coming here. Why did I think he would listen?” Thinking she sounds dramatic and ridiculous, she wants to laugh at herself for saying this.
“Hey, Andrea, look at me. It’s fine. Men are just incapable of love,” after this remark Simone laughs but pauses releasing the situation is not improving.
“Whatever,” Andrea mumbles and starts crying again. This anguish blurs her mind and she tries to wipe away the sadness from her face. “This is all of my fault, I put myself in this situation despite what my therapist advised, what everyone advised. It’s all my fault!”
“Stop, listen.” Simone turns Andrea around to face her. Her lips are unevenly painted with purple lipstick and her overall makeup is disproportionately applied. “You know, I love you.” They gaze into each other’s eyes. Simone’s eyes are hazel sprinkled with crimson dots. It’s like she’s waited all her life for this. She puts her arms around Andrea’s waist and starts to kiss her neck.
Andrea agreed and thought: Fuck it, I might as well then.
*
Her mind rolls. For now Andrea has put her lamenting back on the shelf. It is early morning, to the east, smokestacks form a smokescreen to the rising sun. A painting of chaos from hell permeating the sky. The morning city transforms into a scene knotted with metallic veins and skyscrapers melting into the darker complexions of this jungle. An expansion of a dream. She says to herself: It’s like I’m really young. It really is. This tepid feeling seeps into her skin.
Andrea continues scrolling through old emails.
“What are you looking at?” Simone asks and puts her head on Andrea’s shoulder as they read the words on the computer screen.
“Just past emails.” Her breath smells like cheap beer, but her presence is charming and securing. They are in Andrea’s house.
Samuel: and as to where we’d hangout if you’re comfortable we can hang at my house
Andrea: Sure, it’s all up to you. Your house is fine. Is July 14th or 15th okay?
Samuel: yeah of course the fifteenth would work i’ll just have to check with my sister to see if she’s fine with people over and we should meet at the library
Andrea: Oh yes, we could meet at the university and then walk together.
Andrea remembers how she felt when she wrote this. She couldn’t believe that she wrote “together”. He could probably sense her anxiousness through the screen. I really hate how I sound, Andrea tells Simone.
Samuel: that’s fine, i’ll update you tomorrow
Andrea: Okay sounds good. Yours, Andrea.
And Andrea remembers writing that and thinking, why did I say “Yours, Andrea” at the end?
Samuel: no problem i’m just saying there’s no need for the formality 🙂
Andrea: Thanks! Sorry, that’s just what I do.
Samuel: you have been forgiven
“Dry,” Simone says. Andrea knows this is directed towards him, but this comment ricochets and bruises her fragile heart. A single burning tear travels along her creased face. I’m dramatic, she thinks.
“I know, it’s embarrassing.” She pulls the blanket wrapped around her closer to cover her face. Andrea’s equilibrium has been disturbed, but when she thinks about it, she never had any peace or balance.
Simone lights a cigarette and says, “Screw him, it’s over now. Let’s go for coffee.”
*
The barista poured Andrea and Simone coffee and they started their usual morning talk. Their conversations were steeped in resentment and rosy sarcasm. Simone concealed a straight laced attitude, albeit they both toyed with misanthropy and narcissism. In spite of the lengthy university days and work, they would settle in a corner cafe and chat for hours.
This time though, Andrea ignored Simone, her attention was secured by yesterday’s events. She stared at her coffee as it swirled. During those conversations Andrea had found joy in dissecting her past. She tried to avoid what happened last night.
“If only I could sink a shiv into that bastard’s chest.”
“Calm down, Simone. It doesn’t matter anymore, he’s just a stupid male.”
“I don’t know how you would like such an unattractive being. How was sex with him anyway?”
“Just be quiet.”
Andrea tolerated Simone’s nonsensical musings. Andrea thought to herself: I was loving him for fulfillment. Was this love? Maybe Simone was right. A while ago she was talking about the impossibility of loving someone. You can’t love anyone, Simone said. We are just an illusion seeking love as we are degraded under our material conditions. We are an illusion in a vivid dream streaked with elusive events and ambiguous barriers. We are broken people, nothing unique or important.
Although, these discursive details dull Andrea because Samuel is still inside of her; crawling out of his crevice, invading her mind and body.
“Whatever, it’s just a stupid guy…that I loved.”
“You know, he used you, leaving you in a vulnerable position like that.”
She doesn’t know how to respond to this and looks around the room hurriedly. But it happens: Andrea is here again. She doesn’t know what she is saying nor what she looks like. She is crying, and she thinks she is fine and justifies it with her normality. She is tearing at the seams. Simone lays her hand over Andrea’s.
Andrea takes a sip of her coffee and they leave.
*
“It’s over,” she whispered. When she thought about it, she had no real connections. No friends. She had encountered these exact circumstances for years primarily starting when she was in elementary school, but now it burnt her. Her friends were transitory in their actions and presence. She felt tears wanting to leak from her eyes, but she held her eyes shut. A headache started to come upon her and she held her face. She could fall apart and die, and no one would know because it’s over.
Everything. But she didn’t need to be dramatic and told herself to shut up. She still had Simone.
She held her cell phone to her face and the time read: 5:32 a.m. She let out a sigh and typed her password before glancing at the first tab on the browser. It was Facebook. She scrolled past hours of new posts and clicked on her profile picture, opening the settings. She tapped on the “delete account” button, but something crusted on the screen prevented it from registering. She scratched it off and threw her phone down beside her.
Andrea didn’t know if this was right. She was already alone – but cutting herself off from social media would be like covering one’s eyes to the world. How else would she know what was happening?
She looked around the fuzzy room, each detail blurred and almost pixelated like looking through a roughed camera of a mobile phone. The air was damp and her room was bleak; this atmosphere placed a transparent barrier over her. This manifestation of depression held her down physically. Intimidated by this pressure she decided to stay in bed for another hour.
Weary from reflecting on her relationships, she turned to face the wall, leaning on her left arm. She felt her hands over the coffee stain on the sheets. It happened yesterday when she was drafting an email she intended on sending to Samuel.
It doesn’t matter, Andrea told herself and left her bed, heading outside and down the hall. She reached the kitchen sink, poured herself a glass of water and checked the notification on her phone. A new message from Simone: wanna go for lunch after work?
She stared blankly at it for a few seconds before placing it down and picking it back up to type, while accidentally clicking the call button.
Andrea: Sorry! Didn’t mean to click that. And sure, what time?
Feeling embarrassed, Andrea leaves her phone on the counter and returns to her room to retrieve her charger. When she arrives she notices him, he is there, under the sheets, facing away from her. She doesn’t know how long he’s been there or why he is, but she loves him. She has this feeling that maybe he belongs here. Only his shoulders and head show. She loves him and she can’t deny it. She loves his skin, his body, his whole form.
Last year he offered to bring her to Greece for a few weeks and she said she was unimportant and couldn’t accept it. She immediately regretted it afterwards but couldn’t find a reason to actually go with him. Her self-effacement never helped much. She thought how it paralleled now: she placed herself gently into a situation of which she could barely survive and it would ravage her.
But thinking about him was useless now, and she unplugged the charger from the socket beside the bedside table and left. She closes the door and walks downstairs almost slipping on the first step.
It doesn’t matter, she says and thinks of Simone while heading to work.
*
They are laying together, reading on the sofa. A shaft of light breaches the room from the open curtain and covers a strip of Andrea’s face. The telephone rings. She walks to the hallway and answers.
“Andrea…” It’s Samuel. Andreas pauses and readies her response. Words enter her ears and come out at the other end: it means nothing. She puts the receiver back on the hook and steps away and finds her room. Laying in bed, this emptiness scrapes her clean of essence and meaning. Maybe I can sleep it off. I’m so dramatic, you’d resent me if we’d meet. She thinks this and lays with her fear and despair hoping someone will lift her.
Approximately fifteen or twenty minutes later Simone enters the room, lays beside her, and speaks: “I’m here for you. I know you’re going through so much.”
“No I’m not,” Andrea paused and let that sink in. Her frustration escaped her head and dissipated at the ceiling. She continued, “I am insignificant, this is a shared experience, and I am fine with being that. Just let me sleep and I can pick myself up tomorrow and continue living.”
“Okay then, I’ll just lay with you for now.”
“He’s not important anymore, and neither of this – it’s all pointless, there’s other things that need my energy.”
Andrea considers how this past week played out. She still has to live and support her sister because she has no one else. Samuel will live, and she will see him again. But she will close her eyes and move one. It is just a man, but Simone is here, and that is infinitely better than anything else.
Nestled in the valley of stiff pillows and sheets of her bed, Andrea tries to dream. Her young and brilliant self, harmed by the bittersweet air of reality, tossed a few times. She sighed and released her mental and physical tensions. This is how it was yesterday, and how it would be again for months, maybe years. But Andrea would be fine. She thought about this a lot.
She had thought her life began with Smauel -how wrong she had been – nothing ever did seem to happen to Andrea until she met Simone; nothing could be further from the truth. Simone brought positivity as Samuel’s presence was quite detrimental. Simone was a flower of many wonders untouchable and protected, shielded by petals constantly renewing and releasing a capturing scent. There was jealousy that Andrea possessed, but Simone promised to be here. And Andrea knew right then and there that no matter how many men or women would be in her way, there was always Simone.
Yes, Simone would be there! Andrea would forget Samuel and truly spend her time with her sister. Life would improve, life would continue, to say the least. Yes, yes! It would change and although she always hated those stories ending with a happy pseudo-philosophical ending, she really knew that she would surpass the wrongs of her current situation.
When Andrea looked back, she found herself bored. Why should anyone listen to her or care for her story, she would never experience what so many went through. But Andrea figured it out: she could live honestly and avoid danger while possibly striving for progress. She yearned for another day and decided to wait and see. Reassured, she once again let her worries slide off and she stepped into a dream. A dream where so much could happen. A dream which Andrea loved more than life itself, only neither she nor anyone could hold it for long enough.
