Not Quite A Woman

and other stories of Autocannibalism

The pantry clicked with a squeak as I pulled it open, the trail of ants darting from their formation. "Shit," I muttered, forgetting about the Lucky Charms in lieu of blindly hitting the floor with my water bottle.

I got on my knees, letting my face rest against the cool of the tile, as disgusting as I know it must be. I briefly wonder if I'm sweating an exorbitant amount or if it's just brave ants crawling up and down my neck before I decide that I don't care. I vaguely consider that in about two hours I'm supposed to be awake and ready to give a presentation.

I sit for a minute longer, trying not to focus on unfinished homework and unmemorized speeches, but I've never been good at ignoring. I remember asking my dad if he preferred me or his new wife. It was night and summer and his truck didn't have a/c. He never answered. (I knew the answer).

My phone buzzed in my pocket, almost vibrating itself onto the floor.

"you up"

I could almost laugh at the predictability. The light from my phone flashlight lights up the kitchen.

"You okay?" I send before deciding not to. I mindlessly shut the pantry and walk to the bathroom by the garage. I count my steps (eleven) and inspect my face through the crack down the middle of the mirror.

If I was better at poetry, I could easily romanticize myself - purple lunettes under my eyes, lips cut and puffed from biting at them, red eyes and cheeks. I grab at the ends of the sink to stop myself from flinching away from the proximity of my tired face, waiting for the urge to punch something or puke to go away.

I pull my phone out to respond again, but I drop it in the empty sink. Another message comes in, the sound amplified by the ceramic.

"Are you?"

and then,

"Im horny"

I open the messages so it shows I've read them. I watch the typing symbol pop up and disappear for a couple of minutes before I finally respond,

"Okay"

The reply is almost instant,

"To which one?"

"Neither," I say to myself. "The second," I respond.

"You never answered the first," he sends back, and then, "Goodnight."

I don't respond after that and my phone stays silent long enough that either he went to sleep or found someone else to jack off to. I take the time to walk to the other bathroom - the one with a working shower - and I slide onto the floor, the whir of the rusty old fan clicking itself into age. Eventually, I get the motivation to tip myself into bed, halfway towards sleep before my phone buzzes again.

It's just an email.