My sister’s ex-boyfriend drives past our house day and night. His beat-up, ugly-as-sin Subaru Tribeca screams as he guns it up our hill. My sister decided they were over last week because of the thing with the lighter.
“I’m calling the cops,” I tell her, pinching our blinds open. The Tribeca wails by, begging for help. Once it’s out of sight, I release the vinyl, feeling gynecological. Like I’ve peeled open a cavity.
“They can’t do anything,” my sister shrugs. She leans forward on the settee, continuing to paint her nails. Pink as tiny baby cheeks.
“Do they not care? Some of us actually have jobs. Some of us were supposed to be at Chicken Corner an hour ago,” I spit.
My sister sighs. “You’re so dramatic. You’d think he wanted to kill you.”
“Maybe he does!” I cry. “He knows he’d have to go through me.”
“Pish-posh.” She waves a quivering hand through the air.
I slump into the armchair and lean my head back. The plaster on our ceiling is steadily flaking, revealing a tobacco-stained layer underneath. The fabric feels dusty beneath me.
“This is serious, you know,” I mutter. At any second, I expect this dilapidated house to collapse. I expect the bill collectors to arrive at our door. I expect another positive test, or an irate call from Mr. Chicken, or my sister’s ex-boyfriend bursting through the door.
She twists the lid onto her polish bottle, huffs, “I’m the victim here.”
I swipe at the plaster chips beneath me. She spent hours locked in his bathroom, him on the other side of the door.
“I’ll burn myself,” he kept saying. “I’ll burn myself if you get rid of it. Then I’ll burn you.”
Once he felt confident she was telling the truth—she loved him so much, she had to keep it—he let her go. She walked the entire way home. Hasn’t spoken to him since.
“It’s criminal,” I continue. Lifting my hands to my face, I see my palms are coated in a thin layer of white powder. “We can’t hole up here forever,” I add.
“Just go. I’m sure Chicken Corner is struggling to feed the nightcrawlers without your help.”
My sister tosses her bottle onto the coffee table. It joins the arrangement of overdue bills; empty coffee mugs; half-smoked joints; kitchen knives.
I watch her shuffle down the settee, her shaking hands brushing aside trails of plaster. She pulls a faded quilt from the floor and drapes it over herself, careful to avoid her toes. Her body is tense as she squeezes her eyes shut.
“Did you make the call?” I ask her, trying to keep the pressure from my voice.
Her body sags into the upholstery. “Later,” she mutters. She’ll do everything later. Get a therapist, get a job, get an—
I rise and move to the window. As I peel open the cavity and stare into the darkness, I hear wailing in the distance. It gets closer and closer with every breath.
“I’m sure Chicken Corner can wait another day,” I murmur, rubbing my face with my dusty hands. I resist the urge to rip my skin off and hang my visage in the window. That would give her ex-boyfriend something to look at as he drives by.
My sister peers at me through slitted lids. “Really?”
Turning around, I give her a tight smile. “Always,” I assure her, and let the cavity seal shut once more.
