Timepieces

Talisman

Written for a class assignment in summer 2021, Talisman was intended as a stand-alone piece as an exploration of frivolity and popularity. It was absolutely painful to write- mostly because I had no motivation whatsoever to do so- but the result is a bizarre and vaguely compelling story.

Aurelie's hands scrub together in the sink, her fingers squeezing and sliding with the same practiced motions that wring out a cloth. There's soap between her fingers, and soap under her nails, but she doesn't watch while she washes. She's staring instead at the cloud of dark water that gathers in the sink and swirls into the drain, the grime lifted from her fingers by the half-liquid pink soap that slides out of the steel pump next to the sink.

In the bathroom, Aurelie is alone but for her reflection. Her nose is stuffed up, an aftereffect of withheld tears, and there are clean streaks on her face where saltwater droplets slid through the caking of dirt. She doesn't have a towel, but when her hands are clean, she can scrub them over her face and get the dirt off. She can feel particles of the sandy soil chafing at her cheeks, and there's a sting in her eyes as if a few have worked their way under her eyelids. It could, of course, be an indication that she is about to start crying again.

She lets her eyes wander across the room, trying to distract herself. It's not a very large bathroom, in the scheme of things, which allows for a surprising feature: all the stalls are different. There's the narrow one crammed in beside the sinks, with the seat protector dispenser hanging off-center above the toilet and the chicken-scratch messages on the inside wall. There's the center stall, immaculate, clean, preserved, a silent cubicle that speaks nothing of its occupants, past or present. There's the handicap stall, one wall crooked, one wall of the solid white brick that lines classrooms and hallways and offices, tucked in the back of this lonely bathroom if only to quench Aurelie's tears.

When she looks in the mirror, she sees a red-blotched nose and grimy cheeks, stringy hair and awkward lips that have never quite smiled, but when she looks a second time she doesn't let herself miss the strength in her eyes. She may have been dragged through the dirt and left to cry alone and sequestered herself in this tiny bathroom for at least a few minutes of privacy, but she can see the defiance that's brewing in her face, her brows lowering and eyes darkening, and she hears the quiet sniff that she uses to keep her nose from running when she's just been upset.

Aurelie doesn't square her shoulders, because she knows that would make her look bigger and stronger. She knows she needs to slip back with her head down and her eyes averted, because if she tries to fight them she doesn't think they'll ever leave her alone. She shrinks into herself, tugging at her hair until it's tucked under the back of her sweater, wiping her hands across her cheeks, small and vulnerable, unable to hold her own. They'll never look her in the eyes, they'll never notice the rebellion inked in the lines of her face.

Aurelie dries her hands on her pants. She opens the bathroom door with her bare hand, and as she leaves, her wet sneakers squeak on the tiled floor.

--

Cassidy traces dark lines above her eyes, one and then the other. Her eyelashes protrude from her lids, sharp and spiking, not long enough to curl. Below her eyes, her skin is loose and discolored. On the edge of the sink, Cassidy has placed a compact and a small brush. The makeup is too light for her, but is only revealed to be so upon close examination. Most people don't look closely at Cassidy's face.

Cassidy thinks in the bathroom, and she thinks while she puts on makeup and eyeliner. She's not worried about Maven's rumor-spreading or Feather's new girlfriend. She's contemplating.

Unusually enough, what she's contemplating has little to do with herself.

Cassidy feels a spot of coldness at the base of her neck, where the pendant of her necklace brushes her skin. It's not normally this cold, but she took her necklace off for the activity and has only just replaced it. Under her shirt, fashionable and lightweight and long-sleeved but mostly failing to keep out the heat, the necklace dangles against her collarbones, ever so often inciting an involuntary shiver.