\u201cJesus H. Christ,\u201d she muttered through clenched teeth as she heard him begin that awful scrape of sliding Styrofoam boards. He was attempting to remove the slabs of (probably fucking fake) wood from the box to assemble the first piece of furniture they would own together as a married couple, the Ikea coffee table, which she\u2019d hated upon first seeing in the catalogue\u2014it was unoriginal and for some reason dauntingly despairing\u2014but had been advised by her mother that it was \u201ccertainly worth the money.\u201d Katharine thought nothing was ever \u201cworth the money.\u201d Fearing marriage to be another piece of evidence to add to this empirical absolute, as it had cost her seven grand and had earned her a jeweled piece-of-shit dress, she crept from the bedroom, where she\u2019d been sorting clothes into \u201chis\u201d and \u201chers\u201d piles, to the kitchen, where she intended to sneak a swig of gin which she\u2019d carefully hidden when she\u2019d been in charge of organizing the pots and pans, it being of course \u201cwoman\u2019s work.\u201d <\/p>\n
As she headed over to the kitchen, while trying to avoid the prying eyes of her new lifelong mate, she began to contemplate what the \u201cH\u201d in \u201cJesus H. Christ\u201d really stood for. Certainly Jesus didn\u2019t have a middle name. <\/p>\n
Having become trapped in her religious reverie, Katharine walked into the kitchen only to find she\u2019d forgotten exactly why she\u2019d come into this room in the first place. Yet she couldn\u2019t go back to the bedroom\u2014she\u2019d risk him seeing her, and then he\u2019d want to talk about the damned table or check on how things were going \u201con her end,\u201d and she\u2019d have to smile. <\/p>\n
\u201cFuck,\u201d she whispered to herself. Luckily her newlywed husband remained safely in the living room, trying to make sure he had \u201call his ducks in a row,\u201d which he yelled out as if offering an explanation as to why it was taking him so fucking long to remove the Styrofoam-encased pieces of the Hazelnut Haven coffee table from their box. Why he considered it at all appropriate to deliver this offensively loud newsfeed was beyond her comprehension. <\/p>\n
Derailed by the scraping, grating Styrofoam, she abandoned her forgotten mission in the kitchen and headed straight to the garage, where she\u2019d hidden some cheap vodka she\u2019d purchased at a gas station on the twenty-one hour drive to this new house in this new subdivision\u2014Green Valley Acres, what a joke! There were only five completed houses in the whole damned lot, and the rest of it consisted of crumbling cement, mounds of dirt, and unfinished foundations, beams and boards hanging precariously over the ominous desolation from which they\u2019d emerged.<\/p>\n
She went to the shelves hanging on the far side of the garage, opened the box marked \u201cChristmas Decorations \u2013 Katharine,\u201d which he\u2019d never care to deal with, and rummaged around for the vodka. Finding a little less than a quarter of the bottle left, she went to stand by the garage door so that she could gaze out of the already dirty windows as she drank. <\/p>\n
The solitary streetlamp cast pale, flickering light upon the torn-up street. She couldn\u2019t even fathom the damage she\u2019d probably done to her car in the short drive up to their new house, but she supposed it didn\u2019t matter, anyway. Mark wanted to buy a new car\u2014one that was safer, with clear approval from Car and Driver magazine\u2014something more appropriate than her beat up Kia for a child, or, if things went as planned, a couple of children. One boy and one girl.<\/p>\n
And there it came. The sudden panic and terror. She felt as though she could feel the child already growing within her, scraping its fingernails within her stomach, ballooning up at a monstrous rate of growth. She needed to destroy something.<\/p>\n
Searching through the garage, she couldn\u2019t find much. Many of Mark\u2019s tools had not yet been unloaded from the trunk, where he\u2019d kept them \u201cjust in case they got into some sort of pickle\u201d while making the drive.<\/p>\n
Yet she did find one screwdriver, some screws, some nails, and a hammer, all of which he\u2019d probably left out in case he needed them to build any of the furniture (he always planned ahead). Considering the options, she thought the hammer would be the most likely to cause the most damage. <\/p>\n
She didn\u2019t plan on slamming herself in the head or anything of the sort\u2014she wasn\u2019t crazy. She just needed something to center herself, to allow her to escape the incessant err-errring of scraping Styrofoam, that buzzing, flickering lamplight, that persistent, nagging persistent child begging for birth. So she placed her left hand upon the wooden workbench and positioned her thumb so that it lay vulnerable and ready. <\/p>\n
Then, she lifted the hammer as one always raises a hammer, with deliberation and care, and brought it down straight upon her thumb. The pain was beautifully immediate. Her thumb seemed to ring from the pain, and all the other thoughts stopped swirling as the blood rushed to her extremity. \u201cFuck!\u201d she cried.<\/p>\n
\u201cYou okay, hon? What are you doing out there?\u201d Mark yelled out from the house.<\/p>\n
\u201cHelping find tools for you. Just dropped one on my foot. No big deal,\u201d she responded through clenched teeth.<\/p>\n
\u201cHoney, it says right here on the box: No additional tools required. Don\u2019t worry about it. I\u2019m just getting my ducks in a row.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cFucking ducks,\u201d she mumbled to herself, shaking her hand vigorously to ease off the pain. What would she do if he noticed? She could always claim she had dropped another tool, this time on her hand. Chalk it up to her feminine clumsiness around tools.<\/p>\n
Not that he thought of her that way\u2014not in the least. He did not see the world in the way she sometimes painted him to see it. If anything, Mark had chosen her, married her, in large part for her tremendous reliability, her ability to hold her own, her lack of the hysteria his own mother possessed in reaping, seeping heapfuls. <\/p>\n
\u201cI\u2019m just so glad to\u2019ve found someone so stable and so supportive. You\u2019re my rock,\u201d he\u2019d offered up in their self-written vows.<\/p>\n
What would happen if he discovered that \u201chis rock\u201d was made of water (perhaps, more aptly, wine)? What would happen if he discovered that when she was struck\u2014by emotion, by a flickering streetlamp or, for God\u2019s sake, by the fucking incessant scraping of Styrofoam boards in her ears, she might explode into a heavenly mead of alcohol and inexplicable havoc? What would he do then? <\/p>\n
Fearing the worst, Katharine looked down at her hand. This was always both the worst and best moment of the mutilation\u2014the pain would flare up in raving flames as soon as her eyes turned to whatever part she\u2019d just cut, smashed, ripped, or scratched. It always seemed to offer proof that perception was reality, for once she looked upon it, it became real. <\/p>\n
But this time, as she set her eyes upon her left thumb, something strange happened\u2014nothing. No pain. No throbbing redness, no immediate bruising as she\u2019d seen when she\u2019d smashed her hand into the wall of the solitary band practice room when she was in college. There was absolutely no discoloration. No swelling, no feeling of the blood rushing towards the pain. Nothing.<\/p>\n
\u201cWhat the fuck?\u201d she thought. Hadn\u2019t she done it? Hadn\u2019t she actually hit herself with the hammer? Surely she hadn\u2019t made it up, dreamed it. She hadn\u2019t had that much to drink. <\/p>\n
She drank some more, to ease the disquiet seeping steadily and irrevocably in. This was her form of meditation, of isolation, of calm. When the therapist had been called in to see her that one time freshmen year, he\u2019d told her, mistakenly, to find something she loved, something that centered her, and do that thing every time she felt the world spinning. Every time she felt that over-stimulation–that\u2019s what he would call her Styrofoam scraping, lamplight flickering, fetus scratching anxieties–become too overwhelming.<\/p>\n
And so Katharine had found not one, but two things that brought her peace and quiet: getting pissed drunk to ease her mind, and, in the steady grace that always followed liquor filling her stomach, drowning all noise with the sudden and immediate desecration of some part of herself. She\u2019d done it all, though never in obvious places. She wasn\u2019t crazy. She knew the drill. Those bitches who cut wrists were clich\u00e9, attention-seeking. No, she\u2019d sliced her elbows with a knife, cut her ankles up with razors, scraped her knees with a cheese grater. <\/p>\n
And Mark. Good old Mark. How could he ever notice? He knew she worked out hard. He loved her fastidious, driven approach to exercise. And how could he find fault with her bruises, burns, and scrapes, when she was merely committed to running and riding her bike so that she could maintain her youthful health? She was so sturdy. And so unlike his mother, who had eaten her way into a nearly fatal obesity at such a young age. <\/p>\n
Those scrapes, those scratches, those burns\u2014those were her connections with a sort of dreamlike solitude that existed only in brief and fleeting moments. Those moments when her head would stop its screeching and its cage-rattling. When her body would stop its twitching and its pussy-aching. <\/p>\n
Every time she felt the pain, her strength was regained. She was refreshed. And it wasn\u2019t only in the moment. Every time she saw a slight red scab, or felt herself, while straddling Mark during sex, begin to burn the scrapes on her knees with the friction of the sheets beneath her, she felt the waves of calm come easing in, setting her adrift, far from the shore, with its moaning, landlocked demons, and into a world all her own. A world of blues and calms and setting suns as she looked out across glassy waters.<\/p>\n
So what the fuck?<\/em> Why wasn\u2019t there any pain? Why wasn\u2019t there any swelling? She\u2019d hit it hard, she knew she had.<\/p>\n \u201cHon? Would you mind taking a look at this for me?\u201d Mark yelled out from the living room to the garage. \u201cI don\u2019t see a letter label on this piece.\u201d<\/p>\n Fucking idiot. Just look at the diagram.<\/em> Glancing once again at her despairingly healthy pink thumb, Katharine put down the useless hammer and hid her vodka in the Christmas box again. That night, Katharine could think of nothing but her painfully painless thumb. What the fuck?<\/em> How did it not hurt? Perhaps her pain tolerance had increased, though that didn\u2019t make sense. Not so soon, nor so quickly. And no marks.<\/p>\n Maybe she hadn\u2019t hit it hard? But she had. She had. It had hurt in the moment. She had screamed \u201cFuck.\u201d Mark had called out to see if she was okay. What the hell?<\/em><\/p>\n Finally, at 4:45 in the morning, she couldn\u2019t take it anymore. \u201cHoney, I can\u2019t sleep. I think I\u2019ll get my run in a bit early today,\u201d she whispered, shaking Mark\u2019s shoulder.<\/p>\n \u201cHmmmm, okay,\u201d Mark shrugged in his sleep. \u201cWait…um…what time is it? It\u2019s still dark.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cIt\u2019s early in the morning, but the sun will come up soon.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cAre you sure? But you don\u2019t even know the area that well yet,\u201d he mumbled. \u201cI can…um…go with you, if you want,\u201d he added reluctantly.<\/p>\n \u201cNah. I\u2019ll be alright,\u201d she responded.<\/p>\n \u201cOkay, if you\u2019re sure,\u201d he muttered, falling back to sleep on the last word.<\/p>\n Sometimes she loved how strong and capable he thought she was. <\/p>\n She threw on her running clothes and ran into the darkness of the early morning, seeking answers.<\/p>\n As she ran, Katharine thought of possibilities. Perhaps it had been a hallucination. She hadn\u2019t gotten much sleep since the wedding. Between the interminable drive, the sinister surroundings, the inconvenient new ways she had to rearrange her belongings in the shared space, and Mark\u2019s unforgiving optimism, she hadn\u2019t really had a good night\u2019s sleep in a couple of weeks. So maybe she\u2019d imagined it.<\/p>\n But she\u2019d gone weeks without sleep before. She never slept much. A few hours here or there. Mark was always impressed by her efficiency. She could be up at 3 am and have her entire apartment sparkling clean by 4:30 without a complaint. She could stay up until midnight if he needed her to look over some of his cases with him, no coffee needed. <\/p>\n So it couldn\u2019t be lack of sleep. Then what? What was it?<\/p>\n Perhaps she\u2019d slipped her grip on the hammer. Perhaps she\u2019d yelled \u201cFuck\u201d without the hammer actually hitting her thumb. Perhaps she should check the table where she\u2019d positioned her hand. See if there was a dent where the table had taken the worst of the damage. <\/p>\n Yes. That was what she would do.<\/p>\n Lost in thought, Katharine cut abruptly to her left, turning to head back home.<\/p>\n \u201cFuck!\u201d \u201cFuck fuck fuck!\u201d she cried out as she fell toward the ground. Some damn construction worker had left wood everywhere. Looking around, she saw her right foot twisted awkwardly between two beams. Fuck.<\/em> Something was seriously wrong. And God, fuck, her left wrist was screaming. <\/p>\n She turned her eyes to her arm and nearly vomited. The sight, even to someone accustomed to self-mutilation, was repugnant. Her arm had landed on another board, and sticking up, straight through her left wrist, was a three-inch nail. Blood poured down her wrist, dripped down onto the board, and leaked onto the ground. \u201cJesus H. Christ,\u201d she sobbed. <\/p>\n How would she get hold of Mark? He would be so mad. He had a lot to do at the firm, and he couldn\u2019t be late, not during one of his first few weeks there. Of course he wouldn\u2019t show it. He would be kind and consistent, but Jesus, he really shouldn\u2019t be late. Not in his first few weeks. And Goddammit this was all her fault. Why was she like this? Why didn\u2019t she just assume that she hadn\u2019t hit her hand as hard as she thought? Why had she hit her hand with a hammer in the first place? What kind of fucked up person does that? And why had she gone to the garage for a drink? Why did she need to drink? She was starting a new life, and all of this old crazy bullshit needed to end. Those days were over. It was time. Time for marriage. Time for love. Time for Katharine and Mark sitting in a tree. Time for a baby in a baby carriage. What the fuck?<\/em> What was wrong with her? How would she get home?<\/p>\n \u201cFirst things first,\u201d Katharine thought. She had to see if she could get her twisted, probably fucking broken ankle out from between the boards. Gritting her teeth, Katharine shifted her weight to her left side, causing the nail to drive itself further into her left wrist. Then she looked toward her ankle, bit her lip, and lifted. <\/p>\n The pain was nearly unbearable. She thought she might pass out. Her ankle didn\u2019t want to budge, and the boards were far too heavy for her to lift. \u201cFuck,\u201d she cried, pushing with all that she had.<\/p>\n And then, suddenly, her right foot popped out. She cried out in shock and looked away, afraid to see the damage. But the pain…the pain seemed suddenly gone from her ankle, her leg. She looked up to see that her foot was no longer in an awkward position. It fit snugly and squarely in her shoe, and the ankle, she could see above her sock, was unscathed and in perfect, dauntingly perfect position.<\/p>\n \u201cUgh,\u201d she cried. Certainly this couldn\u2019t be happening. Shifting her weight onto her right side, she made a fist with her right hand, took ten rapid breaths, and drew her left wrist slowly up, watching as the nail slipped from her flesh, leaking blood and oozing pain. <\/p>\n She nearly cried in terror, for, in her blurred night\u2019s vision, her wrist healed before her eyes, the skin covering over the gash immediately, with not a trace of wound, not a single splotch of red. And as she looked down at the nail and the wood, she found no lingering spots, no sign of her accident.<\/p>\n But this couldn\u2019t be real. Perhaps she\u2019d dreamed it. Perhaps she\u2019d had more to drink than she thought she had in the garage. Perhaps she was passed out. Or perhaps this was just a crazy hallucination brought on by sleep deprivation. It couldn\u2019t fucking be real.<\/p>\n \u201cFuck. Fuck fuck fuck!\u201d she cried, and were the development established, she could be certain she would\u2019ve woken neighbors. Mothers in robes would go to check that their darling two year olds slept soundly in their beds, nightlights still shimmering, reflecting off the ceiling, lullabies still playing softly out of their electronic ladybugs and caterpillars. But of course she woke no one. No one had seen; no one had heard. <\/p>\n In disbelief, she got up and ran. She ran home and lay back in bed and slept in the cold terror sweat, safe in her new invincibility.<\/p>\n And when she woke, she convinced herself it was all a dream. A momentary insanity brought on by the stress of the move, the anxiety of her job, the lack of sleep, the liquor in the Christmas box. <\/p>\n And for weeks, despite shaving nicks dried up with no need for toilet paper wads, despite bumps into the corners of tables leaving no bruises, despite the lack of muscle pain after a fifteen mile run, she kept herself from thinking about it. She drank, and she forgot.<\/p>\n And then she remembered. Christmas break came, and writers were on hiatus, and she had nothing to edit. No one was working. She had nothing to do.<\/p>\n Mark convinced her she could learn to bake, if she really wanted to. She could set her mind to anything, and she could achieve it, he said. <\/p>\n So she began to bake. Gingerbread cookies, and brownies, and sugary sweets. And she was doing fine.<\/p>\n But one night Mark came home, and she was baking pumpkin cookies, fudge, and Gingerbread men. She was heating a caramel glaze in a small pot on the stove. And the kitchen was a wreck. Bowls and pots and pans everywhere. She\u2019d spilled flour all over the floor and salt all over the sink. It smelled like burning plastic because she\u2019d left a stirring spoon on a hot burner.<\/p>\n And Mark came home. He\u2019d gone to happy hour with his colleagues; he was pleasantly buzzed. He came up behind her, and he rubbed the small of her back and began to caress her, to press himself against the backs of her thighs. <\/p>\n And then he looked around. He noticed the disaster and laughed, \u201cWhat happened, Kat?\u201d<\/p>\n She hated that he called her Kat. \u201cOh, I just left the spoon on the burner,\u201d she muttered.<\/p>\n He laughed again jovially. \u201cThat\u2019s probably because you\u2019ve got three projects going on at once,\u201d he teased, patting her shoulder. \u201cMaybe you should stop and just get your ducks in a row before you burn the house down,\u201d he laughed. Then he went to the bathroom to take a piss.<\/p>\n And she moved the warming pot to another burner. And she put her right hand on the bright orange coils.<\/p>\n Immediately and unintentionally, she pulled her hand away. \u201cFuck,\u201d she muttered. Then, she placed her hand back upon the burner. There it was\u2014she could feel it\u2014the heat searing into the flesh of her palm. She began to notice a faint burning smell. <\/p>\n She wondered if Mark would notice. He was in the bathroom, but if she waited long enough, kept her hand on long enough, surely he would smell the smoke…<\/p>\n She couldn\u2019t take it anymore. She had to see if she\u2019d done any damage. <\/p>\n Slowly, she pulled her hand off of the burner, watching as some of the flesh peeled off her fingers. She smiled as she looked at her palm, red and seared, just as she\u2019d wanted! But then she watched with horror as her hand inevitably healed. The smell dissipated; the pieces of flesh on the burner disappeared before her eyes. <\/p>\n There she was again. Horrifically, devastatingly fine.<\/p>\n On Christmas night, she wandered out into the deserted development. The few residents had left, their families unwilling to travel out to \u201cGreen Valley Acres,\u201d for a visit. They\u2019d gone to cities and suburbs, to families and well-lit heathers.<\/p>\n Mark stayed at home, entertaining his lonely father, who\u2019d come out to escape his crazy ex-wife. After dinner, the two men had started drinking Scotch and smoking cigars in the garage.<\/p>\n And so Katharine had left, claiming she was going on a run \u201cto work off that pecan pie.\u201d Mark had asked if everything was okay. \u201cYou sure, hon? It\u2019s pretty cold out there.\u201d<\/p>\n But she\u2019d been insistent, and he didn\u2019t want to ruin her stability, interrupt her habitual exercise.<\/p>\n So she\u2019d left. <\/p>\n She\u2019d run around the deserted lot twice, scouting for the best option. About half a mile out by her measure, she\u2019d found it.<\/p>\n An unfinished house in which great progress had been made. The primary structure was complete\u2014the beams, the boards, showing the shadow of a home. Plywood soon to be covered in siding, window holes and a place for the door.<\/p>\n So she\u2019d looked around, checking for bystanders while simultaneously knowing full and well that no one was around on this frigid Christmas night. And she\u2019d walked up the first flight of stairs. Then she walked across what would one day be the second floor and ran up the second flight of stairs.<\/p>\n There, from what would one day be the third floor, sitting on what would most likely be the softly carpeted floor of a nursery room in greens and blues or perhaps pinks and browns, she looked out at the desolation.<\/p>\n The streetlamps continued to flicker in that random rhythm of electricity\u2019s hidden movements, illuminating with derision the rubble lying all over the ground.<\/p>\n The whine of the lamps and the disorganized, sprawling dump of a \u201cneighborhood\u201d made her grit her teeth. And then she began to think of Brad, Mark\u2019s father. How his hard teeth kept pounding into one another, popping and snapping even as he chewed on the most pliable foods\u2014mashed potatoes and cranberries in sauce. <\/p>\n And the world began to spin, and the noises and images began to grow wild and unfettered, tearing at her with the hunger of a wolf\u2019s snapping jaws. And then that damn baby, that baby she knew must be there\u2014if not currently fermenting then lying in wait\u2014seized upon the opportunity, and she swore she could hear it tapping lightly with its fingernails upon her stomach wall. <\/p>\n So she stood. And she jumped.<\/p>\n And though, despite herself, she tried to break her fall by steadying her knees so that she could soften the blow, as her feet hit the ground and her weight toppled her, she heard two loud cracks as her legs broke beneath her. She crumpled onto the ground.<\/p>\n \u201cFuck! Fuck fuck fuck!\u201d she thought. What would she tell Mark? Or Brad? Mark seemed to be guessing that she wasn\u2019t doing well\u2014he kept telling her to \u201ctake it easy.\u201d But Brad? Brad had no idea. And she couldn\u2019t show him this. She would bear his grandchild one day. She couldn\u2019t turn out to be just like his crazy fucking ex-wife, Mark\u2019s mother. He didn\u2019t deserve that. Not after all he\u2019d been through.<\/p>\n How the fuck would she get help? No one was out here. Not a soul.<\/p>\n And then, once again, the pain disappeared. Her legs straightened and locked into gear, relaxed and ready to complete the run. <\/p>\n So she returned, flushed and panting but otherwise unharmed. Mark and Brad were still there, laughing and chatting in a haze of smoke and buzz. She went to bed, claiming that the food and the run had made her tired.<\/p>\n New Year\u2019s Day came and went. In the spring, she got pregnant. Mark was thrilled. Brad and his new girlfriend Jillian came by to congratulate the two of them. <\/p>\n Mark told her to do whatever she wanted with the nursery. He knew it wasn\u2019t \u201chis place,\u201d so he gave her his credit card and told her she had \u201cfree rein.\u201d And her mother and her sister insisted on a trip to IKEA. She purchased a \u201cNurture\u2019s Touch crib,\u201d complete with a matching set of sheets and stuffed animals. Her sister bought her a nightlight that illuminated false stars on the ceiling, and her mother bought her an electronic turtle that hummed a nighttime lullaby.<\/p>\n By six months, she\u2019d stopped running. Although the doctor said she could continue, Mark was concerned. He kept telling her she needed to \u201ctake it easy.\u201d Besides, he said, there were so many potholes still in Green Valley Acres, she could twist her ankle and fall. Katharine had almost laughed out loud.<\/p>\n Finally, after weeks of watching Katharine languish, Mark suggested she go for a short walk on the newly paved path by a lake nearby. Initially, she refused, saying she didn\u2019t want to have a lot of people talking to her, asking her questions about \u201chow far along she was.\u201d But Mark had insisted, citing that since this was a still a new development, she could go on a weekday morning with no threat of strangers with their innocent, nosy questions. She just needed to watch her step on the walk there.<\/p>\n And so she\u2019d left the house around 6:45 in the morning, after Mark had already left (he had many cases to deal with that day). She walked the mile over to the lake.<\/p>\n Mark was right. There was no one there. It was quiet and calm. Katharine sat on a bench and watched as the water lapped quietly, the breeze easing over the waves in soothing patterns.<\/p>\n And then, seemingly out of nowhere, an old woman came along, her cane tap-tap-tapping on the rocks. As she passed the bench, she caught sight of Katharine.<\/p>\n \u201cAaah. How far along?\u201d she asked, gesticulating with her cane.<\/p>\n \u201cSeven months now,\u201d Katharine responded, rubbing her belly and smiling her most benign of smiles.<\/p>\n \u201cAah. Your first?\u201d the old woman asked.<\/p>\n \u201cHow could you tell?\u201d Katharine responded.<\/p>\n \u201cThat look of fear, of bewilderment,\u201d the old woman chuckled. \u201cDon\u2019t worry. It will all be fine once that baby comes along. Though nothing will prepare you for the pain of childbirth. It\u2019s indescribable. It\u2019s true, what they say, we women are stronger than men could ever be,\u201d she laughed. <\/p>\n Katharine smiled, shaking her head.<\/p>\n \u201cWell, best of luck to you and your baby,\u201d the old woman said, clicking and clacking away with her cane. Katharine watched her fade into the trees to the left.<\/p>\n \u201cThe indescribable pain,\u201d Katharine thought. \u201cI think I know what that\u2019s like.\u201d<\/p>\n Once the woman was gone, Katharine filled her pockets with heavy rocks and waded into the lake. Once she got to the middle, she urged herself underneath the water\u2019s surface. As she gazed up through the water, she tried to hold her breath. She sank. And then she bobbed to the surface. She waded out, soaking wet, and loaded her pockets with more rocks. She sank. And she bobbed, inevitably, to the surface. So she got out of the lake. She lifted a giant rock, twice the size of her head, and carried it without pain into the water. She tried to sink again. She looked up through the waters above her and prayed.<\/p>\n And as she inevitably bobbed up again, she saw four ducks swimming in the distance. Four ducks in a goddamned perfect row.<\/p>\n Diane Kenealy lives in Colorado with her husband and her dog. When she\u2019s not reading or writing, she\u2019s probably either sleeping or doing her best to help close the education gap for urban middle schoolers. <\/p><\/blockquote>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":" \u201cJesus H. Christ,\u201d she muttered through clenched teeth as she heard him begin that awful scrape of sliding Styrofoam boards. He was attempting to remove the slabs of (probably fucking fake) wood from the box to assemble the first piece of furniture they would own together as a married couple, the Ikea coffee table, which …<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":2730,"featured_media":0,"comment_status":"open","ping_status":"closed","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"footnotes":""},"categories":[3,1177,108],"tags":[1178],"class_list":["post-8202","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","hentry","category-fiction","category-tcl-12-summer-2014","category-urban-fantasy","tag-the-colored-lens-12-summer-2014","entry entry-center"],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/thecoloredlens.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts\/8202","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/thecoloredlens.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/thecoloredlens.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/thecoloredlens.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/users\/2730"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/thecoloredlens.com\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fcomments&post=8202"}],"version-history":[{"count":1,"href":"https:\/\/thecoloredlens.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts\/8202\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":139611,"href":"https:\/\/thecoloredlens.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts\/8202\/revisions\/139611"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/thecoloredlens.com\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fmedia&parent=8202"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/thecoloredlens.com\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fcategories&post=8202"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/thecoloredlens.com\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Ftags&post=8202"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}
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