A Little Death

- Ashley Allard

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It was in heat like this when she finally believed herself to be alive. Sweat thick upon her

back, the sour stench of sunscreen, her skin baking under a relentless sun, she believed that this was where she was supposed to be: lying here, a sweating glass in hand, a man that made her feel inadequate on her right, and his illustrious mansion on her left. She let out a sigh, tapping her finger against her burning thigh. That morning, the gardener had set up their pool chairs, knowing that it would be too hot for them to do anything but lie there. And he had been right. Even the slightest motion made her feel an inch closer to death. She loved it. Her sunglasses began to slip down her nose; she reluctantly decided to change position.

What do you want to do today, darling, he asked. His tone was nonchalant, indicating that he

didn’t really want to do anything. He rubbed his nose, the last dustings of cocaine falling onto

his swimsuit. She felt nauseous looking at him. He was supposedly perfect: He had money, he had six perfectly sculpted abs that protruded from his bronzed skin like Grecian cliffs, his hair curled the way the ancient poets described the locks of Heracles, his voice was strong, and he made her orgasm again (and again). But, he sickened her; made her stomach twist.

When she had first introduced him to her friends, she had felt amazing watching them contort their faces in envy. They would stumble into their enormous house; they would give validating glances to her face and spit poison behind her back. It was a rush greater than any drug could afford. While handing out tailored cocktails, he would woo the guests over, quoting Chomsky, Foucault, Camus (oh, how he loved Camus, laughing in the face of the abyss) and he would gracefully trace his finger down her spine, a quiet reminder to everyone in the room that she was his. To love and to hold. ‘Till death. But, the glamour would slowly drip away - all this charisma could not float without support -, as he made that trip to the bathroom. When he returned, she would watch how the atmosphere changed -ears popping with the altitude-, how the guests started to check the time, make excuses, leave earlier than expected. Then that subtle bloom of pride she felt at the start would wilt, as people offered her their place to stay if she needed it. The whispered ‘Are you okay here?’ as they hugged her goodbye made her hate them (and herself) a little more. It’s not that cocaine made him a bad person. It just gave him the confidence to be himself.

She pulled herself up and took a sip from her glass, the sharp bite of the green fairy burning

her throat. I don’t know why you drink that stuff, he told her, his gaze fixed upon an invisible

mark beyond the horizon.

It’s better than the stuff you do, she murmured.

Honey, he said, his voice a knife, carving itself to cut, you’re drunk. You should watch what

you say when you’re drunk.

It was only her first drink, but she resigned, the harsh glint of the glass as she returned it to

the table a white flag of surrender. She decided to settle, as always, and bite her tongue the

way he bit hers in the coatroom.

You should go for a swim, he suggested, I pay thousands to keep the pool this colour and yet

you never use it.

I swam earlier, she answered.

Then, swim again, he ordered. His glasses slid down, the bridge of his nose wet with sweat, revealing his eyes. Oh, his eyes. Deep, brown eyes. Her mother had swooned when she had first glanced into the windows of his soul. No one could look into his eyes for long, so no one got to see what lay beneath. She only did at the altar. She had gazed for too long and at the words ‘I do’, she fell, tipped and drowned herself in them. They were like vortexes, sucking and pulling in unsuspecting victims. And by then, it was too late.

I’m comfortable here, she replied, shifting awkwardly in her seat. The feeling of canvas

against her skin was beginning to make her feel itchy. She did not want him to watch her swim. She did not want to be reminded that she was his to look at.

Don’t tangle me into your ennui, then, he grunted. She rolled her eyes beneath her sunglasses.

He was always saying things like ‘ennui’, ‘sycophantic’. Besides, he would get bored of lying there, in three, two-

I am going to the bathroom. I’ll be back.

No rush, sweetie, she replied. Bile grew in her throat. When had she become so sickly sweet?

She was honey, sugar, cream. He left the chair, stopping on his way out to grab her jaw, gently, just enough for it to feel threatening.

Don’t drink too much of that stuff, he commanded, it’s imported. She nodded, her head still in his grip. Good, he said, dropping it. Don’t go anywhere, he demanded on his way to the

bathroom cabinet and the little baggies he stored there.

The first time she had seen snow it had been in perfectly cut lines on a mirror tray. She had never planned on seeing it. She had grown up in a small Karoo town and then moved to Cape Town with her best friend, Naomi, to study marketing; she never finished her degree. A couple weeks into term, they ventured out of their ratty two-bedroom apartment in borrowed dresses. Hers was gold and she shimmered in the neon lights. He had always found gold especially attractive, he had told her a couple months into dating. She had caught his eye quite early on, flirting with doom through brief moments of eye-contact and knowing smiles.

As she reapplied her mascara in the bathroom, Naomi told her that she must not, under any circumstances, make the first move. He will come to you soon, Naomi promised, as she checked her lipstick, if he’s brave enough. She laughed and they left the bathroom holding hands, palms cool. She remembers that night as the last time she had ever felt comfortable in anyone’s embrace.

And Naomi, the self-proclaimed Love Doctor, had been right. He was waiting only a couple feet away, two tequila shots in hand. He handed one to her, Naomi took the other, gulping it down before he could say anything. She thanked him, and left them alone, turning around briefly to give her a reassuring smile, before she disappeared back into the crowd.

They danced for hours together. She didn’t want to leave his side, but she made a couple obligatory trips to the bathroom, where she would meet Naomi to debrief, giggling in the stalls and checking her lipstick. Have you kissed him yet? Naomi would ask every time, and she would shake her head. She was waiting for the right moment. This was going to be her first kiss, after all.

When she returned to him a third time, he grabbed her hand, pushed her through the human-made fog and ordered an Uber without telling her where they were going. She had sat in the back with him, anxiously trying to remember the names of passing street signs, while he had let his hands wander up and up and she had swallowed a gasp, but she didn’t want to make a noise or complain and make him think she wanted him to stop. But she did want him to stop. But she didn’t. She needed him. So, she let him. In the back of the car. On the way to who knows where. She never saw Naomi again.

In the apartment they found five of his friends. Two of whom were armed. Any instinct she

had she bottled somewhere, only to be opened up years later – a 2009 vintage. Little zips and cracks of plastic bags, white powder trickled onto the reflective surface. She was surprised by the vanity of it. He was like Narcissus as he lowered his head deeper towards his reflection and let the powder swallow him up and drown him. He had then beckoned her over, yanked her onto his lap. She had barely shaken her head, not yet formed the words, but his disappointment unleashed a wave of self-loathing that made her so dizzy she felt faint. The next time she breathed, she snorted it, her synapses crackling and sparkling like dying stars. She felt her eyes widen and her heartbeat creep up into her ears and everything seemed to grow faster and further away and she began to panic. The only thing to ground her was his hand on her thigh. The fear, the tension, all ebbed away. Then, all she felt was a tranquil calm. She had done the right thing: What he wanted.

Sartre says, he once told her, that we are utterly and painfully free. Free to do whatever she wanted. She could kill him. She could kill herself. The cliffs were just a couple of steps away; step, step, step and she would soar, just above the froth of the cold sea, slamming against the cragged, unforgiving rocks. But, she decided not to. She was free. Painfully so.

She wanted to get up and shower, wash away the chemical stickiness and get out of the sun,

but she couldn’t move. She did not want to see him in the bathroom, bent over like some

prehistoric animal, sniffling and grunting, swiping away drops of blood from his dry nostrils.

Besides, she was too idle to move.

She looked towards the glass. She contemplated taking a sip, but decided against it. It

was out of her reach. She did not know what drew her to this cocktail. Maybe it was the name. She was shallow that way. Death in the Afternoon: how dark, how morbid, how painfully alluring, peaceful. She decided to stretch out her hand, her wedding ring of emerald glinting in the white blaze, reaching for the soft kiss of crystal. The click-clack of his flipflops made her drop her arm to her side, letting it sway lazily.

The doctor called, he said, your appointment for tomorrow has been confirmed. She nodded, carefully fixed her glasses. Her skin cooled, despite the heat, as her veins froze over with fear.

That’s it? he asked. You’re not going to say anything?

She shook her head, kept her gaze straight ahead, focusing on the dancing white shadows

flickering across the water surface. There’s nothing to say, she answered.

I think there is, he responded. She could feel his gaze, hot and dangerous, unwavering. I think

you owe me an explanation.

I’m going to the doctor, Richard. I don’t need to tell you when I have made an appointment.

I don’t understand why you wouldn’t.

She dared to look at him. His hands were clasped together in the power pose he had learned and remembered from a TED Talk, and she was sure he had slept in that blue shirt. His dark glasses reflected her own body back to her. When she responded, she made sure she wasn’t looking at herself. She hated seeing herself as he saw her; strewn and sweaty.

Richard, I have a doctor’s appointment tomorrow at three o’clock. It is a simple, regular

check-up. I don’t see what the problem is.

He chuckled, looking down at his hands. Hands that hadn’t worked since washed in the water

of the womb, but the veins still popped when he purpled her neck and thighs. Hands that had

gripped her, almost threateningly, as he had slid on the ring, hands that had felt every part of

her and hands that had hurt her.

Now you’re lying?

I’m not lying, she lied. She steadied her breath as she tried to figure out if he knew more than

she would like him to, or if this was some sort of test, or game.

He smiled again. She thanked her own dark glasses for preventing him from seeing the fear

dancing in her pupils, but she hated that she couldn’t see if malice was dancing in his. I let you stay here. You don’t have to work, you don’t have to clean or cook. I work so goddamn hard every day and I don’t say anything about you lounging here doing absolutely fuck all. I do all of this because I love you. I made a sacred promise to you. Sacred. I promised to never lie.

This in itself was a lie. She remembered his vows. They were poetic enough to make the

rivers bleed milk and honey and the evilest of men repent, but he had never mentioned lying.

She knew he lied to her all the time. He lied when he said he liked her mother, when he said

he was faithful, when he said he loved her.

But, here you are. Lying to me.

I’m not lying, she repeated.

Then, why are you going for a ‘regular, simple’ check-up, his air-quotes painfully

exaggerated, at an abortion clinic?

I don’t know what you’re on about. I’m not going to an abortion clinic. What did they tell

you on the phone?

They asked if this was your phone-

Why did you pick up my phone, Richard?

And I said ‘yes’, and asked who it is. They gave me the clinic name and they

told me to tell you that your appointment for tomorrow is confirmed.

Where in that sentence does it even hint at abortion?

I googled the name. It’s an abortion clinic.

It’s a women’s clinic, Richard. They do abortions, too, obviously. I’ve been there a couple of

times. I’m going to see my gynaecologist. It’s just that time.

He stared her down. It was always an act of brinkmanship with him, waiting and pushing

until someone caved. You know I would never lie to you, he told her.

A lie, but she didn’t say anything.

So, I hope that you would never lie to me.

Darling, you know me and how grateful I am for you and the life we have built together-

And yet you lie.

The two hearts inside her began to beat a little faster, both aware of the danger he could

cause. The cliffs were so close, the roar of the sea a constant reminder of the infinite. Just a

couple of steps and maybe she could stop both organs. She lay awake at night, his arm slung

around her, holding her in more of a chokehold than embrace, and, to fall asleep, she

would imagine the chilling whip of the breeze as she fell and picture how long she could keep

her eyes open and how close she could get to the lowest rock before-

You’re not answering me.

You didn’t ask a question.

Why are you lying to me?

Okay, you want the truth? She cleared her throat. I have been having incredibly painful

cramps recently. And I have been experiencing incredible mood swings, nausea. I think it’s

from my current form of birth control, so I want to switch to a different one. It’s been

incredibly difficult.

He breathed. Why wouldn’t you tell me something like that?

She grabbed his hands, because I don’t want you to worry. She watched, relieved, as the lines on his forehead softened and his dimples became more visible. His perfect dimples.

If the doctor can help you, he said, then that is all that matters to me. His voice was a river, washing her cool in the fearful heat. He squeezed her hands comfortingly and slid his glasses to rest on his forehead. His perfect eyes. Regret began to tweak at her, pinch and poke her stomach. Maybe she should keep this baby. It would be a beautiful baby, beautiful eyes and beautiful dimples. She pictured Richard teaching the baby how to swim, bubblegum blue floaties in the pool, and she would bring them slices of pink watermelon and cheer as the baby splashed and kicked and gurgled and they would look at each other with a love that would end all wars.

I’m going to make some coffee, he said, Want anything?

She shook her head, smiling.

I’ll be back, he said, swiping at his nose. And her heart sank again. It was merely a fantasy. In reality, Richard would get bored, and the baby, pink and sunburnt, would be left alone, the floaties slowly starting to deflate as it cried and screamed for help, no one there to hear it.

For their fourth Christmas together, she watched as Richard jumped and pranced, as if

engaged in some pagan ritual, around a scarlet Lamborghini, one that his father had bought

him as a reward for working so hard (abusing unpaid interns and stealing ideas – he got away with it, of course, his dad was also his CEO). She had entertained him as he raced down the cliffside roads, laughing as he swerved closer and closer to the edge. Her hand never stopped gripping the seat, because she knew that, secretly, he wanted to fly, in a trivial Icarian way. This lasted four days, maybe a week, and then he had discarded it in the garage. She had had to ask the gardener to cover it. Why should a baby be any different? She knew there were times when he did not even recognise her as human. She blamed it on some cognitive difficulty, deciding not to fault his inflated, godlike ego.

She watched him waltz back into the house, a new spring in his step, high off validation. She had been so far removed from the real world – had not watched the news since her honeymoon, had not cleaned dishes since she moved in, had not seen a receipt since their first date -, that she would never be able to navigate her way alone past the driveway. She would die without him. And he knew this. And she hated it.

It was her fourth abortion since she had married him. She was taking birth control and made him wear a condom even though he hated how it felt. But, there were times when she couldn’t

find her pills anywhere and her fruitless search ended with him talking about how cute it

would be to have a little her running around the mansion. And there were other times when

he ripped the condom wrapper a bit too forcefully and would mention how it maybe wasn’t such a bad thing or a ‘sign from the universe’. It terrified her.

The first time she cried in the waiting room and clutched her purse, seconds away from

calling him. But, before she could do anything, the woman with spunky black hair sitting next to her grabbed her phone and threw it across the room. If you wanted his baby at all, she told her, you wouldn’t have even thought to come here.

It was the first time she had lied to him, but not the last. The second time, she had a panic attack in her car on the way there. But, she didn’t cry in the waiting room; didn’t think to call him. She cried all her tears, screamed all her screams into the Italian leather and walked into the clinic a slightly tear-stained picture of grace.

The third time, she didn’t cry at all, only felt a twitch in her stomach when she saw the woman with the spunky black hair back in the waiting room. She sat next to her, the same seats they had sat in when they had first met. See, the woman murmured, I told you. And she was right; she didn’t want his baby. And this fourth time was no different.

He came back with a beer and a nosebleed. When he looked like this she liked to

watch the blood drip slowly onto his upper lip, liked to see him bleed. To remember that he

was human, flesh and blood. Just like her.

You would tell me if you were pregnant, right? He asked.

Of course, darling, she lied.

And you would have the child if you were pregnant, right? He asked.

Nothing would make me happier, she lied.

He looked toward the sun, his hands on his hips. He was satisfied with her answers, her

complacency. She was satisfied with knowing that for the fourth time since she had known

him, she would have control over herself again. Even if it was just for a couple of hours

before she came back home. And a little part of her died. Maybe, she thought, she had never

been alive to begin with.