Janessa Alexis

Author’s Note

About two weeks ago, something happened. I’m still not quite sure how to feel about it. Which is interesting, because you’d think I’d have very straightforward feelings about such a straightforward event.

I’ve tried to explore a few different avenues of expression to better understand what happened. I’ve talked to friends, which ahs helped me better accept the experience. I’ve reconnected with my therapist, not only to talk about this particular event, but just to talk about event that I’ve experienced recently that have been shaping the person I’m becoming (and maybe I’ll later share those stories on this platform too). But beyond just talking, I’ve been writing. It’s so exciting because I can’t remember the last time I wrote so creatively, so deliriously. It’s heady. And I’ve written a lot. A lot, a lot. But there’s this one story that I keep circling back to, one that’s constantly pressing on the back of my mind, that I just can’t forget and don’t want to hold.

This is that story.

It’s incredibly personal. Kind of like an expose. But it’s about me. Which makes me deathly scared of sharing it. Not only am I now going to be exposing myself to a potential public, but I’m also exposing myself to myself. Not only can you not hide from this reality, but now I can’t either. I’m holding myself accountable.

But we’ve made it this far. We’ve made it this far.

Let’s see just how much further we can go.

–

Darling Red

When you close your eyes, you can still feel the weight of the cape on your head, the cycle between your legs, the basket in your hands.

It’s early morning, right before the birds start to sing, when the sun starts to tease her way through the curtains. The window was left open, a slight breeze now creeping in that raises the hair on your arms and makes you burrow deeper under the blankets.

It’s in contrast to the heat coming from next to you.

You turn your head, hear the sound of the pillow crinkle beneath your ear. You take a deep breath, let it fill your body and expand your chest. It shocks a cough out of you. Not a dry cough, it’s wet, a sickness that’s been building overnight in your lungs. That early morning breeze brushes against you more firmly, stuttering your breath. God it’s cold. You your arms underneath the blanket to gather heat, and jerk back in quiet surprise.

You’re not wearing a shirt.

Your eyes flutter open, first the left, then the right. The ceiling is starting to lighten from the sun, it must be just past six, but the green walls look sinister in this new light, the curtains casting long shadows that twist and bend against the walls. Something foreign and forgotten slithers down your spine. You’re left with the strangest sensation of being caught in the forest, lying down in a bed of grass with your lashes turned upwards, alone but for the company of the trees, your cape gone missing, your legs twisted at an odd angle, your basket ravaged empty by an animal while you weren’t looking. It startles you into a shudder. But you don’t quite understand why.

When you push up on your elbows, you find yourself unable to support your weight. You waver slightly and fall back against the mattress, shadows blurring before your eyes. Is that pine? No, that’s not right. That can’t be right. You’ve never been to the forest before. They don’t have those back home. But that eerie sensation remains, lingering behind your eyelids every time you blink.

Where is your cape darling?

You can’t quite focus on anything, and try to blink away the confusion. Clear your head. Calm your heart. There’s a pressure building in your chest, an urgency that wasn’t there before. And when you try to swallow it, you find yourself choking.

Water. You need water. You’ll feel safer away from the oppression of the trees and the weight of the sky; you want to be surrounded by open fields and flat grassland, where you know the water is just beyond the horizon, just around the corner. If you could just get to it. Make your way back to it.

The floor is chilly beneath your toes. You feel your muscles lock up in protest, unable to take another step forward. Somehow feeling like you’re leaving something behind. If only you’d look behind. You force yourself forward though. You only want to move forward. And as you stumble your way through this labyrinth, grabbing onto tables and chairs and lamps to stabilize yourself, you feel that pressure mounting. Your throat tightening.

You’ve made it to the bathroom, and the sink is in front of you now. The faucet is right there. But so is the mirror. And though the sun has teased at what you’d fine, the fluorescent lights above can’t hide what’s true. What you’ve already guessed to be true.

What happened to your legs?

The trembling starts in your shoulders. Works its way down to the fingers you have clenched around the porcelain of the sink. Expands outwards until you fear you’ll seize from how hard you’re shaking.

It’s her. She’s back. You haven’t seen her in years though, in what feels like a lifetime. You never though you’d see her again. You thought you’d left her behind. Hoped that she’d gone and grow up and wouldn’t reappear. Yet there she is. Standing before you, as washed out and watered down as the last time you saw her. This uncanny doppelganger, resurrected from the past to pay you another visit. God she looks terrible. As if she’s been run over by a car. Or maybe been dragged through the woods.

It’s when you’re underneath the spray of the shower that you realize exactly how cold you are, how cold you’ve become. You’re almost numb. But only just. Because the pressure is there again. It’s never left. Your body bows forward. Your jaw opens wide. And you sob. You sob, and sob, and sob. That’s what it was, wasn’t it? That thing that was squeezing your chest and closing your throat. And as it washes off the tears from your face and the guilt in your heart, it mercifully also washes the blood from between your legs.

Who ravaged your basket?

What’s left behind is the bruises. You can’t quite wash those away. The towel you find helps cover them though, offering a remembered comfort. It doesn’t replace your cape, but at least you feel safer with the weight of familiarity around you.

Time has passed by the time you retrace reluctant steps back to the bedroom. The sun now shines. The curtains no longer cast shadows. The trees have receded. But there’s something that still lingers. It’s still there. He’s still in bed.

You don’t recognize him. Everything about him feels wrong, foreign. Misplaced. He is not who he once was. The hands that caressed and teased and taught look different in this light. Different in this moment. Whatever girlish pleasure and new adventures you experienced at the whim of those hands have gone. Vanished. What remains is the aftertaste of disgust and regret, and a misplaced sense of responsibility.

Because you loved those hands. You trusted them. Didn’t you darling? Hands that you once looked upon as capable of such greatness, now you can only see as these awful instruments of pain and humiliation. Of perversion and incest.

How could this be?

God how could he?

All you know if that you can’t stay. You are unwelcome, and this knowledge burns the inside of your stomach, makes you feel nauseous. You must leave. In a flurry, you gather your remains and bite back your shame. There is a scrap of red discarded beside your shoes, and overturned whicker beside your skirt. A strangled cry gets caught in your throat. Your mother gifted those things to you. The few items she’s ever trusted you with. But you would not dishonour her by trying to reclaim them. No, you can’t take everything. There are pieces of yourself that will be left behind, tatters and rags that are now his to keep, but you can’t allow yourself to mourn just yet, not yet. Not here.

Before you leave, you cast one last glimpse over your shoulder. You can’t help it. You burn with curiosity, with so many questions and not enough answers, perhaps still in denial of the past six hours. Maybe you’ll see something you didn’t before. Maybe you didn’t see what you thought you saw at all.

Your searching eyes connect with those disarmingly lovely browns of his. They crinkle, crow’s feet below the bags. Your breath catches. You remember this. Yes. You trust this. You know him. Maybe-

He flashes you a smile. It’s all teeth.

You stumble out the door, tripping in your haste to outrun this forest and get back home to the prairies.