what's in a name

Adele Riley

Adele Riley

It's two am on a friday, and Addie is talking on the phone with her girlfriend.

It's the time that it's a deep navy blue outside. Everything is bathed in night, like a paintbrush dipped in stars and darkness painted the view outside her window.

Usually, at this time of the night, Addie would be outside. But instead, she's lying on her bed. Her pale gold hair fans out around her, like a makeshift halo. Her long, tan legs shift and balance on one another as she switches hands to hold the phone.

"I keep seeing pictures, lately, of girl's pale thighs being held by men's veiny hands. Help me understand that."

Her mother says they don't talk about anything worthwhile, but to her, each word has a silver lining.

She still remembers the first time she dialed that number with shaking hands. She was next to a payphone, only lit by a streetlamp, no moon in sight.

She remembers the hot breath in her hair, the man next to her on the train scooting closer. Closer.

She remembers him following her home. She remembers snow falling as his weight hit the ground.

She remembers his gurgling cry as she pressed her nail clippers to his neck.

It was the most satisfying thing she had ever done.

After that, she couldn't stop. She gathered street calls like jewels, noting the license plates. She collected phone numbers in bars that had blue light illuminating her body that wasn't supposed to be there, her mind that was like mid-war contraband to the barside men.

She savored the feeling of her fingernails scraping against bone.

Nobody suspected the blonde girl. The one with a neat group of friends, small and close enough to be a pack of sardines as they walked through the hall with matching black nail polish.

She told herself that nobody would miss them anyway.

But one day, somebody saw. She could feel their gaze on her neck, like a collar.

She told herself that it was nobody brave enough to tell.

But soon enough there were red and blue lights mixing into purple screaming into her face when she walked home the next day.

She still can't recall how she got out of it, which sucks, she could've used that method later. But all she remembers is hiding her hands in her pockets so they couldn't see the blood.

But she did know what she had to do.

"I have to leave. I'm going tomorrow. I want you to remember me for what I was, not what I am. I can't stop this now, though. It's like a drug."

She tied up her hair three hours later, closed the door quietly with a duffel bag in her hand, climbed on the freight train effortlessly. Almost as nice as cherry lotion, were the looks she got from the bearded men sitting there.

She didn't want to fight. She was tired. Her bones ached. She missed everyone that was possible to miss. But she felt that same hot breath in her ear. After a while, men became the same to her. And she knew what kind this one was.

The conductor felt the train become ever-so-slightly lighter, and when he was greeted with the sight of a sleeping girl covered in blood, he knew why.

He was impressed. What kind of girl was this?

"I would die for you." Why did he say that? But he's enamored with this murderous maiden. Maybe she was crazy enough to become his bride.

He repeats himself.

"I would die for you."

"Thanks."