Twelve Stories

[Content Warning: Substance abuse, mental health, mentions of suicide]

Rachel turned the dough over in her hands, smoothing out the cracks before setting it down on floured parchment paper. Across the apartment, Heather sat on the edge of the sofa, hunched over the coffee table. Waves of auburn hair hid her face from view as her hands wandered over the keys of the digital piano, feeling their way through a slow and soothing melody.

The tune felt familiar, like something from a dream, or a movie they'd fallen asleep to. She didn't know much about music— only how it made her feel— and when Heather played, the muscles in her back and shoulders relaxed, like the sound was giving her permission to let the stress and tension slip away. She wished she had the skill to make something as moving as Heather's music, but she probably never would.

Chocolate chips crackled beneath the rolling pin as Rachel flattened the dough into a chunky round. When it had taken shape, she wiped her brow and tucked an errant lock of curly dark hair back behind her ear. Heather continued rehearsing. Evening light spilled through the glass doors to the balcony, spreading over her arms and bringing out the warm undertones of her honey-colored skin. She was too wrapped up in her practice to notice Rachel staring. A missed key. A pause to flip a page. The good-natured chuckle between her fifth and sixth attempts at some measure or bar— Rachel wasn't sure what the word was. After every mistake, Heather tried again, always finding the joy in second or seventh chances. Rachel envied that.

Using a bench knife, she cut the dough into wedges. She brushed each wedge with milk, arranged them on a baking sheet, and slid them into the oven, flushing as the hot air washed over her face. After taking off her oven mitts, she set a timer and flopped down on the sofa next to Heather, who greeted her with a tender kiss on the lips.

"It smells amazing," said Heather excitedly, stowing her sheet music away.

Rachel giggled, "There's some dough left in the bowl if you wanna taste it."

Before Rachel could finish speaking, Heather was halfway across the room. She returned holding the mixing bowl and sat back down on the sofa. Smudges of chocolate adorned the corners of her smile. "It's delicious!" she said, plunging her hand back into the bowl. She offered some to Rachel with a glint of mischief in her eyes. "Open wide."

Rachel obliged, and Heather slid a finger into her mouth.

The flavor was nice, but Rachel was far more focused on Heather who slowly withdrew the finger from Rachel's lips before licking it clean in front of her. What had she done to deserve someone so sweet?

Heather set the bowl down and lay with her head in Rachel's lap. They closed their eyes and cuddled each other as the scones baked. Heather's warmth and weight, the scent of the coconut oil she used on patches of dry skin— Rachel tried to capture the memory, like taking a polaroid with her mind. She began drifting off, wishing the moment would last forever—

The oven started to beep.

~ ~ ~

Beep. Bee—

Rachel sat up and silenced the alarm. The smell of coconut oil and scones faded, replaced by the stench of day-old vomit. The faint evening light coming through the window was way too bright, and it made her headache worse.

The dream had turned into a nightmare the moment she opened her eyes; no one was in bed beside her. A bottle of vodka and a shot glass on the nightstand were her only companions.

Without getting out of bed, she poured herself a drink. The alcohol burned her raw and tender throat, but it hurt less than being sober. She downed shot after shot until the booze came back up, splashing into the bucket by the nightstand. When she finally stopped retching and caught her breath, she took another drink, ignoring the sick feeling in her gut. There was nothing else she could do to dull the pain. The only alternative that came to mind was— worse. And she wasn't quite there yet.

In a very real sense, 'she', the happy Rachel who licked dough off her partner's fingers, was already dead. The night when it happened wouldn't leave her mind.

"I hate you! I hate you!" she'd screamed at Heather, "Why the fuck do you get to be someone and I don't? You get to play concerts and meet people, and I'm just some nobody housewife fucking around and wasting her life. Fuck you!" Rachel knew it was a mistake before the words had left her lips. She'd been stuck in third person, begging herself to stop. When Heather looked up, the exhaustion in her eyes told Rachel she'd finally run out of chances. Heather deserved better; hopefully she'd find it.

The room started to tilt and spin. Some of Heather's hair was still visible on what used to be her pillow, standing out against the beige linen like strands of saffron in rice, wiggling in Rachel's drunken gaze. Thoughts of Heather sleeping softly in the morning light filled her mind. It was funny how the good memories hurt the most.

Rachel brought the vodka with her as she stumbled out of bed. Each day, she'd find fewer and fewer of Heather's hairs. They'd vanish from the sheets, the couch cushions, the laundry lint— not that she'd been doing laundry— until one day, there'd be none left. If only she'd been able to accept her role— cooking and cleaning so that Heather would have time to do the things that actually mattered— maybe things could have been different. At the very least, she should have been less bitter about it. Or learned to keep her mouth shut. She took another sip.

The living area was a mess. Dirty dishes filled the kitchen sink. Takeout containers spilled from a trash bag stuffed in the corner, and food from some time last week was growing fuzz on the kitchen table. Everything reeked of decay. She managed to stagger over to the sofa and sit down where Heather used to play her music. The world was so quiet without her. She raised the bottle to her lips to take another swig and froze— Was that Heather on the balcony?

She tried to get up and fell on her face, narrowly avoiding the corner of the coffee table. Finally, Rachel floundered to her feet and threw open the doors.

"Heather!” she slurred, “what are y—"

There was no one outside. It must have been her own reflection in the glass. She fell to her knees, then toppled to the ground, sobbing. Would she ever accept that Heather wasn't coming back? She'd given up on moving on— Heather owned a piece of her heart forever— but maybe some day, she could learn to move forward.

The sun sank beneath the horizon, and the sky was rapidly darkening. Rachel took another drink and fought to keep it down. Her skin felt warm in spite of the cool night air, and the city was a blur. Lights from the windows across the street left trails in her vision whenever she turned her head. She tried to stand, and her feet gave out beneath her.

She rolled over onto her back. The sky was dizzying; it felt like it was going to swallow her whole, and she wished it would. One more try. Using the railing for support, she pulled herself up. Everything was hazy; reality was melting away. When she was halfway up, she swore she heard Heather's voice calling her before everything went black.

~ ~ ~

Rachel blinked, trying to bring the world into focus; she wasn't sure where she was. Something was beeping beside her. A twinge of pain above and behind her eyes made her grimace, and she covered her face with her hands. Wait, why was her forehead wrapped in bandages?

"You're awake," said Heather, her voice shaky. Rachel sat up in bed and saw her getting up from a chair in the corner of the room. "Are you feeling okay?"

Things were a little less blurry now. The beeping seemed to be coming from a heart rate monitor. Her right leg was sealed in a cast, and she was hooked up to an IV. That explained the concerned look on Heather's face.

"What happened?" asked Rachel faintly.

Heather looked down and wrung her hands in front of her chest. "You fell," she said. "You were drunk and upset and I tried to stop you but—" she took a deep breath. "I'm just glad you're okay."

Rachel nodded weakly. What Heather said— it sounded familiar. She couldn't remember it happening, but that's not unusual for people with head injuries. In that moment, it didn't matter. Heather was here. Maybe Rachel was being given another chance; maybe she could smooth out the cracks. She reached out, but Heather stepped back. Her gaze stayed fixed to the floor.

“We’ll talk later, okay? I'm going to see what we have to do to get you discharged and—" she sighed. "Let’s just get you home.”

Rachel nodded again and went back to sleep.

~ ~ ~

Rachel drifted in and out of consciousness as they drove. Her brain was crackling with static. The streetlights were surrounded by halos, and they left streaks of light in the night as they traveled past. It felt like she was getting stabbed in the eyes with shards of glass whenever she looked at them.

Heather sat in front of her in the driver's seat. She gripped the wheel firmly in her hands, eyes fixed on the road, jaw clenched. Rachel wanted to say she was sorry, that she’d change, that she’d never drink again— things she'd said a thousand times before— but the words caught in her throat.

When they finally arrived, the building looked— off, somehow. Smaller, maybe? It could have been the medication or the hangover. Or the concussion.

Heather helped her into her wheelchair and pushed her through the automatic doors. The walls of the lobby pressed in, and she began to feel claustrophobic through the medicated numbness. The elevator was cramped. The hallway was too narrow. She noticed a scuff in the paint on the door to their apartment just in front of the '2' in '218' as Heather wheeled her in, like the number itself used to be larger. The lights clicked on.

"Heather, can we talk?"

She was already halfway out the door. "I need to get some things from the car," she said. The calm in Heather's voice sounded more like surrender than serenity. "Try to rest."

The door shut behind her, and Rachel was alone; her wheelchair was facing the balcony doors. She closed her eyes.

~ ~ ~

Rachel opened her eyes. Everything was dark, and it felt like someone was bashing her skull in with a slab of concrete.

“Heather?”

No answer.

“Heather?”

Still nothing.

Her eyes began adjusting, and the outlines of the apartment came into view. She rolled toward the kitchen and noticed that the air felt— different. Cleaner. There was no trash piled up in the corners, no dirty dishes in the sink. Heather must have cleaned.

A breeze washed over her skin.

Moonlight fell through the open balcony doors and spread over the coffee table, right where the digital piano used to be. On the other side stood Heather with her back towards Rachel, red hair flowing in the late night breeze.

The wheels on her chair squeaked as Rachel pushed herself over the threshold. Heather vanished.

Rachel’s chest clenched with terror. The floor dropped out beneath her, and she felt herself falling. No no no no no!

She shut her eyes and braced herself—

~ ~ ~

"We're here," said Heather. She turned off the ignition.

"Hm?" Rachel blinked as her eyes adjusted to the fluorescent light of the parking garage.

"Give me a sec and I'll help you out of the car."

Everything felt off.

Heather wheeled her into the lobby. The walls pressed in. Rachel panicked.

Ding.

The elevator doors opened and swallowed them whole. Gravity pressed on Rachel’s shoulders as they rocketed upward with impossible speed.

"Heather!"

No answer.

The doors opened again and spat her into the hall. She began rolling down the slanted floor.

"Heather!"

There was no one behind her.

Her chair was going faster and faster. The wheels squeaked. Rachel tried to grab them, but her arms were shattered.

Everything was in third person, and she started screaming, begging:

"Please stop! Stop!"

The door to apartment 1218 loomed in front of her.

"Stop—!"

She felt something in her throat; vodka and bile spewed from her mouth.

Before she crashed, the door opened, revealing the balcony. The chair flew over the edge.

She felt herself falling. Alcohol and bottle fragments stung her eyes, forcing them shut. There was a splitting pain in her head and then—

~ ~ ~

When Rachel opened her eyes again, the world was bright, and she felt well-rested. Heather stirred softly in her lap, smiling up at her. “Hey, sleepyhead,” she said, nuzzling Rachel's belly.

Something came loose in Rachel at the sound of her voice; her muscles relaxed as though a heavy burdened had fallen away. Tears trickled down her cheeks. “Is this real?” she whispered.

Heather sat up next to her and gave Rachel a kiss. She wiped her tears before pulling her into a hug. “Does it matter?”

Rachel closed her eyes and rested her head on Heather's shoulder, clinging to her tightly. She took in the moment: the warmth of Heather's body, the scent of coconut oil on her skin mixing with the aroma of freshly baked scones—

A gentle breeze blew in from the balcony doors, washing over them as they cuddled.

If this was a dream, she never wanted to wake up.

If it wasn’t— then she was already in heaven.