Status: Active
Untitled
II
I had this habit of dividing myself into more than one entity. A fraction of me was sharp and reactionary, the outermost layer of my being: it responded to external stimuli logically while the remainder of me was left to wade in the murky swamps, the sticky bogs of my polluted mind. The outside was a cover that made me fulfill small orders: scan the room, scan the hall, get the ladder, prop it in the ceiling vent, scan the room, reach for your Kevlar, put it in your drawer, scan the room. The inside let me think, let me break down, let me heal, let me eventually begin to process.
I was more aware of my external self as I operated inside my room. I stalked like a mountain lion around the space: the closet, the bookshelf, the headboard, the vase. Hiding places. Secret stashes. Piles of cash, an ID, Passport, and Social Security card, secret compartments with weapons I felt but didn’t let myself see. Secrets. I’d opened Pandora’s Box and everything I’d worked to keep under covers, muffled and corked came spilling out.
I caught a glance of myself in the mirror as I balanced three books on my hand. The outer part of my being didn’t let me truly see me. There were too many memories in my reflection. I couldn’t be a thinker now, I couldn’t reminisce. I needed action.
Intermediate Russian was propped open in the place of my math homework. As I made the full transition, sliding the textbook and graphing calculator off my desk, I reached behind my windowsill for another, nearly identical calculator: though it had TI-455H013 in the center. My eyes glazed over the Russian print, and I scanned through the applications on the calculator for the plane schedules. I could barely make out a world map: little dots signifying plane pathways filled the screen like dancing ants.
I narrowed down the results, thumbing through flight numbers until I was just able to see the NY/NJ flights within the past week and in the upcoming one. There were still too many so I switched the settings to show private flights only, and ones leaving and arriving tonight. One from Bristol, one from Istanbul and one from Moscow. I swallowed and tried not to think of their faces as I shoved the calculator away and concentrated on the Russian.
And yet, it was somewhat inevitable. I steeled myself, inhaled and gave myself thirty seconds to think of the one from Bristol—the one that hurt me least of all. Hayden. Whitish, choppy hair and an ever-confident smirk. Ski-slope nose and hollow eyes the brilliant color of sapphires. I exhaled, tried to wade myself slowly into a memory of his voice. Thought about his smarminess, his cocky sneer. About Violet, his twinkling girlfriend, my old best friend. Her thick black hair in a braid, silver eyeshadow, flicking amber eyes. Small yet full lips. They had never been perfect together, yet they worked together, complimenting each other evilly.
I sped past the other two, Istanbul and Moscow, thought of them as silhouettes. I hadn’t worked well together with either of them like Hayden and Violet did. I had done more than work with them, and that was the problem. Whereas Hay and Vi could maneuver easily from coworkers to lovers, I couldn’t. I’d worked with them—Moscow and Istanbul both—but what we all had together was more than work. It was always more than just work. Looking back on it, with fresh eyes, I was never sure if it was love.
I snapped myself out of it, trying not to force myself to play that game—who was touching me in this memory, who was I swooning for back then, who was I kissing as he got off of the train, and what about then?— and narrowed my eyes to the Slavic print.
Cyrillic had been the last alphabet I’d committed to memory shortly after I stopped getting missions. I’d known French and five of its dialects at near-fluent levels, but Istanbul knew French, Turkish and Russian, and Moscow had known Urdu, Farsi, Creole and Russian. I always felt out-matched whenever I was serving with either of them.
Staying focused on the Slavic text for long was impossible. It was a book from the eighties, and half of it was short stories and comprehension guides. I pawed through the chapter about Natalya and Pytor, the star-crossed lovers, and finally slammed the book shut.
I paced around my room before deciding to assemble all of my essentials in the center. Scan the room, lock the door, check the closet, scan the room… build the pile. Making sure everything was in order gave me some sort of clarity. I sat with my legs in a V and attempted to make progress on my hip socket and hamstrings.
Corset made out Kevlar was on my right. In water, I remembered, its laces would expand and act like gauze—I could slide them out easily, so a first aid kit was always close. The leather thigh-holster was on my left with its various attachments, namely a corkscrew that rotated on ten hinges— it could be pressed into a dagger. I leaned forwards onto my elbows and uncapped a lipstick. At the slightest brush against an envelope’s back, the paper curled and dissolved entirely; expiration dates did not appear to apply to the acids inside. There were a few vials I neatly organized with various remedies: pain pills, blood clotters, sleeping agents, and a syringe to apply them all. Night goggles that looked like sunglasses, a laser pen, a brooch that, when pinched extended into a magnifying monocle. Voice recorders and tracking devices that looked like buttons, tiny bugs with adhesives.
I took stock of them all, whispered their names in first French, then Turkish, then Russian. Knife, couteau, bıçak, nozh. Lipstick, rouge à lèvres, ruj, gubnája pomade. And so on.
I exhaled, closed my eyes and fell flat on the floor, arms outstretched in a T. My fingers found their ways onto each and every piece I’d used to know, until I became familiar with my world again.
I was more aware of my external self as I operated inside my room. I stalked like a mountain lion around the space: the closet, the bookshelf, the headboard, the vase. Hiding places. Secret stashes. Piles of cash, an ID, Passport, and Social Security card, secret compartments with weapons I felt but didn’t let myself see. Secrets. I’d opened Pandora’s Box and everything I’d worked to keep under covers, muffled and corked came spilling out.
I caught a glance of myself in the mirror as I balanced three books on my hand. The outer part of my being didn’t let me truly see me. There were too many memories in my reflection. I couldn’t be a thinker now, I couldn’t reminisce. I needed action.
Intermediate Russian was propped open in the place of my math homework. As I made the full transition, sliding the textbook and graphing calculator off my desk, I reached behind my windowsill for another, nearly identical calculator: though it had TI-455H013 in the center. My eyes glazed over the Russian print, and I scanned through the applications on the calculator for the plane schedules. I could barely make out a world map: little dots signifying plane pathways filled the screen like dancing ants.
I narrowed down the results, thumbing through flight numbers until I was just able to see the NY/NJ flights within the past week and in the upcoming one. There were still too many so I switched the settings to show private flights only, and ones leaving and arriving tonight. One from Bristol, one from Istanbul and one from Moscow. I swallowed and tried not to think of their faces as I shoved the calculator away and concentrated on the Russian.
And yet, it was somewhat inevitable. I steeled myself, inhaled and gave myself thirty seconds to think of the one from Bristol—the one that hurt me least of all. Hayden. Whitish, choppy hair and an ever-confident smirk. Ski-slope nose and hollow eyes the brilliant color of sapphires. I exhaled, tried to wade myself slowly into a memory of his voice. Thought about his smarminess, his cocky sneer. About Violet, his twinkling girlfriend, my old best friend. Her thick black hair in a braid, silver eyeshadow, flicking amber eyes. Small yet full lips. They had never been perfect together, yet they worked together, complimenting each other evilly.
I sped past the other two, Istanbul and Moscow, thought of them as silhouettes. I hadn’t worked well together with either of them like Hayden and Violet did. I had done more than work with them, and that was the problem. Whereas Hay and Vi could maneuver easily from coworkers to lovers, I couldn’t. I’d worked with them—Moscow and Istanbul both—but what we all had together was more than work. It was always more than just work. Looking back on it, with fresh eyes, I was never sure if it was love.
I snapped myself out of it, trying not to force myself to play that game—who was touching me in this memory, who was I swooning for back then, who was I kissing as he got off of the train, and what about then?— and narrowed my eyes to the Slavic print.
Cyrillic had been the last alphabet I’d committed to memory shortly after I stopped getting missions. I’d known French and five of its dialects at near-fluent levels, but Istanbul knew French, Turkish and Russian, and Moscow had known Urdu, Farsi, Creole and Russian. I always felt out-matched whenever I was serving with either of them.
Staying focused on the Slavic text for long was impossible. It was a book from the eighties, and half of it was short stories and comprehension guides. I pawed through the chapter about Natalya and Pytor, the star-crossed lovers, and finally slammed the book shut.
I paced around my room before deciding to assemble all of my essentials in the center. Scan the room, lock the door, check the closet, scan the room… build the pile. Making sure everything was in order gave me some sort of clarity. I sat with my legs in a V and attempted to make progress on my hip socket and hamstrings.
Corset made out Kevlar was on my right. In water, I remembered, its laces would expand and act like gauze—I could slide them out easily, so a first aid kit was always close. The leather thigh-holster was on my left with its various attachments, namely a corkscrew that rotated on ten hinges— it could be pressed into a dagger. I leaned forwards onto my elbows and uncapped a lipstick. At the slightest brush against an envelope’s back, the paper curled and dissolved entirely; expiration dates did not appear to apply to the acids inside. There were a few vials I neatly organized with various remedies: pain pills, blood clotters, sleeping agents, and a syringe to apply them all. Night goggles that looked like sunglasses, a laser pen, a brooch that, when pinched extended into a magnifying monocle. Voice recorders and tracking devices that looked like buttons, tiny bugs with adhesives.
I took stock of them all, whispered their names in first French, then Turkish, then Russian. Knife, couteau, bıçak, nozh. Lipstick, rouge à lèvres, ruj, gubnája pomade. And so on.
I exhaled, closed my eyes and fell flat on the floor, arms outstretched in a T. My fingers found their ways onto each and every piece I’d used to know, until I became familiar with my world again.