bathroom stall confession

Savannah had been doing piercings in the girl's room, twenty bucks a pop. She did my tongue for nothing, cause we're blood sisters and all and got the scars to prove it. And while she forced the safety pin through the thick, wet flesh, Savannah told me I'd better find a hustle, too. She said she's not going to float the bills when we get down to Daytona, and it may be a pipe dream if we don't have enough money saved come summer. She said no more freebies. 

I swallowed a mouth full of blood.

After my daddy got home from work, he saw the tongue ring and said he'd tear it out of my head if I didn't take it out. I told him to bite me, and he pulled my hair. He got a good chunk that time, and I felt the tears well as I let the screen door slam behind me. 

I wanted to tell him only bitches pull hair but was afraid of what he might do instead. Sometimes I think about waiting for him to go to sleep and stabbing him in the neck. The rage inside me gets so intense I feel it pulsing like an artery I need to puncture. 

I met Savannah down by the dollar store, where we stuffed our pockets with off-brand cough syrup. She said her mom wouldn’t mind me staying over, but her house is in worse condition than mine. Sleeping in her unfinished basement almost always results in roaches between the sheets with you. It feels like burrowing parasites, especially while robotripping. I'd rather ditch her to spend the night at Kk's.

It's a twenty-minute walk to the other side of town and Kk's trailer park, so I had plenty of time to think. My mind spun like a VHS tape, thinking back to my mama, the few memories I had, playing under the static of a TV screen. When she ran off, Daddy decided I was the woman of the house and began to treat me as such. Mama's only hand-me-downs were Daddy's beatings.

The thoughts pulsed in my head, a steady drum, and I felt like I needed to be bled. I ran the rest of the way to my boyfriend's, my boots slamming down on the asphalt in tandem with the throbbing of my heartbeat beneath my skull.

Kk gave me a big, wet kiss when I got to his place, the romantic kind, like from those old black and white movies. He started to roll us a blunt, and I told him to make sure it was fat. When he sparked it up and passed it to me, the cherry fell off and burned a hole in my favorite skirt. The one with the yellow flowers on it. I thought it was a dark omen.

We slept on his stained mattress on the floor, all sweaty and clinging to each other. In the morning, he'd left for work, and I was alone with a cum stain on my t-shirt. The hole burned in my skirt stared up at me like an evil eye.

On my way out the door, one of the stray cats hissed at me from Kk's trash can. My blood was boiling in the heat, and I snapped the cat's neck with the heel of my boot. Usually, I try to fight those kinds of urges. But not that day. 

When I got back to my street, I saw a couple of the neighbor girls sitting on the curb across the street in front of that house that burnt halfway down. That's when I got the idea.

My daddy was at work, so I didn't have to worry about going inside. He hated when I stayed out all night. Plus, when he found out my boyfriend was Black, he gave me a black eye for it. I took a cold shower and changed into a clean dress, trying my best to look presentable. Then, I rifled through my closet to find the shoebox that contained my old Barbie dolls.

Back outside, I walked up to the girls and presented them with the gift. I told them that since I was a grown woman now, I didn't have any use for Barbie dolls. And I certainly wouldn't need them down in Daytona. Then, I asked if their mommies were around. One of them, the blonde one, grabbed a couple of my fingers with her sticky hand and led me down the street. 

Her mom was sitting on the front porch of one of the dilapidated houses. She had a cigarette hanging out of her mouth with an inch of ash dangling off the end. I wondered if maybe she'd fallen asleep on the porch swing with the smoke still lit. In my mind, I saw the house go up in flames, both she and her daughter burned alive. 

But she was awake, so I gave her my daddy's cell number since I didn't have my own. I told her, if she ever needed a babysitter, I lived right up the street and would do it for real cheap. She asked if I had plans for the evening, and I agreed to watch her kid for five bucks an hour.

Killing time, I wandered back to the dollar store and slipped a bottle of shiny, purple nail polish into my bra. The boy behind the register accused me of shoplifting, and I told him he was free to strip search me if he wanted to check my pussy. He blushed bright red as I rushed out the door, the bell above it produced a sharp ring that felt like an ice pick in my ear drum. My head started spinning in the spring swelter, and I felt like I might faint. My ass hit the asphalt, and I sat there for a good fifteen minutes with my head between my legs.

Daddy's pick-up was in the driveway when I got back home, so I hoofed it to Savannah's. Her mom answered the door and ushered me inside. I told Savannah I got a babysitting gig, and she kissed me on the mouth and said, "Thank God." 

We talked about all the shit we would do in Daytona: run away and never come back, party all night, make beds as maids in the Motel 6 to pay for our rooms. I was looking forward to our new life, but my brain kept screaming that anywhere I go, I'd still take it with me.

Savannah walked me back to my block, the streetlights were beginning to flicker, and we shared a menthol cigarette. She asked if I was going to miss Kk when we left, and I told her not one bit, because she's my real soulmate. I held up my right palm to prove it, an oath, the long slit of puffy, pink skin long healed over from when we made our pact. She held up hers and interlaced our fingers. We held hands until we got there, the last house on the street with the wraparound porch, rotting from its base.

The mother was already rushing out the door. Spidery lashes and thick, red lip gloss. Savannah said goodbye, and I went inside, where the little girl was sitting on a broken-down couch with a dark stain on the backrest. I sat on the hardwood floor instead.

I cooked a box of macaroni and pulled the bottle of nail polish out of the bra to see if she wanted her nails done. She nodded. Then, I asked her if she ever spoke. She shook her head. Taking her little hand in mine, I covered each dirty nail with a coat of the shiny polish.

Their TV set had an antenna and three channels. I flipped through until I found a sitcom to drone in the background as I painted my own nails and the girl slept on the couch. The laugh track kept playing like a broken record. The family on the show was too nice to each other. It made my head hurt.

The sun streaming in from the blinds, bright slits of yellow against my eyelids, woke me. I'd fallen asleep on the floor. My neck was stiff and my head was pounding. The house was quiet, and I wondered if it had all been a nightmare in a place long abandoned. Then, I saw the light from the bedroom and found the little girl sitting on her carpet, playing with my old dolls. There was no mother in sight, and the sun was high in the sky. It must've been noon.

By the time the sun was setting, I knew that woman was never coming back. I made another box of macaroni because it's the only thing I knew how to cook. I tried to ask the girl if her mom did this a lot, ran off and disappeared for a few days, maybe? And when did she come back? But I got no answer.

When the clock on the stove was blinking 11:00 pm, I'd already tucked the child into bed. My mind started racing. A mother abandoning her child was all too familiar. Maybe I was jumping to conclusions. But I didn't want to leave the girl alone, no one to take care of her. Fending for herself and eating out of garbage like a stray cat. Guilt was eating at my brain. I could feel holes burning into the gray matter, so I went into the girl's bedroom, where she was sound asleep.

I picked up her little body. It was lightweight like she had hollow bones or was just one of those big baby dolls I always wanted growing up but never had money for. She was still asleep when I placed her down on the carpet, lying on her back. 

I brought my boot down hard onto her neck.

Maggie Ackers is an author and filmmaker. Her work is transgressive horror told from a distinctly female perspective. She has been published in The Cedar Valley Divide, Midnight Chem, and God’s Cruel Joke. Her films "Shotgun Shrine" and "Old Fashioned American Torture" have been screened at a variety of festivals and taken home numerous accolades. Find her on her website: maggieackers.wordpress.com