Midnight Multiplying
We lived together, the wildest ones. Our memories were like this: Burning quick like shots of Jäger. Singeing our fingertips, sparklers we held onto for seconds too long. Now we lay in bed, midnight multiplying the wounds. The machines hung around. We weren’t quite right.
One girl was called Fear of Birds. Fear of Birds, young and innocent, sought out an older woman for protection, Fear of Not Saying It All. In the closet, according to Fear of Grownups, was some kind of beastie. A former teacher, Fear of Not Doing Enough, was unable to ignore a constant itching of the skin.
The guards would come near and we’d pretend to be asleep. Or we’d hiss instead. Flash eyes at them like bats. We’d bitten before; they weren’t fazed. We wanted someone to confirm we were occupying the same physical space as them, but we were scared we’d hear otherwise. Our eyes were raccooned; our tears, blackened with makeup, carved out paths on our faces. Sometimes a bruise peeked out.
The wildest included Fear of Being Touched and Fear of Sin, kindred spirits. The cowering one, who had Lizzie Borden Disorder, or maybe just the Fear of it. Fear of Inflammation of the Meninges. Fear of Crumbling, Fear of Disease.
We’d put on our sleep masks. The doctors would tell us to count to a million. Somewhere, a girl barked. Teeth opening, winged pain flying out. The rooms had symbols on the door: an illustration of a cracked egg, an eye, a shattered mirror. We didn’t know what they meant.
Bedfellows, cont’d: Fear of Forgetting, Fear of Time (best friends since before they arrived). Fear of Staying Stuck.
We’d force ourselves static. Grasp at any hint of dream. Carpaccio: a red meat, named for a red painter. Unsettling sitcom laughter. Cross-eyed in a crowd.
Fear of Tilting Buildings, The Floor Slipping Away Underneath Us, Fear of Being Used.
We’d write love letters to the possibility of sanity. Game shows, bombs, glass slippers, windows shattering. Cracking the codes on the doors.
Fear of the Moon Falling, Fear of Being Followed.
Did the world fall ill at once, or was only the ill world visible? We wanted nothingness, and felt the sufficient amount of shame that required of us. We lay in bed, midnight multiplying the wounds. We rolled into each other’s messes. We tangled ourselves up. It wasn’t enough to be alive. We still had to want.
Danielle Zaccagnino is a teacher, writer, and new mother. Her first book, Suppose Muscle, Suppose Night, Suppose This In August, is available from Mason Jar Press. She has an MFA from Texas State University, and her writing appears in journals such as Diagram, Waxwing, and Puerto del Sol. She is the EIC of Fast Flesh Literary Journal.
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