Yazmin
“Idiot, idiot, idiot,” I mutter one month and three weeks after Spike took me. I’m standing in front of the bathroom mirror, staring at myself, wishing I could reach into my reflection and throttle the wide-eyed moron who stares back at me. I want to hit something. I want to scream. I want to cry. “Idiot, idiot, idiot.”
I go into the main room and sit at the kitchen table. It’s ten in the morning, half an hour before the time when G usually comes to bring me some supplies and clean my room. She’ll often have time to sit down with me and have a chat, too, and I can only hope today is the same. I think about asking Spike, but for the past week he’s barely been here and when he has, things haven’t been the same. We haven’t had sex, we haven’t kissed, once we didn’t even speak. I refuse to go back to the way things were, with me sharing everything and him sharing nothing, and he refuses to open up, so we’re at a stalemate. Maybe if I went to him, he might understand. But then again, maybe he’d kick me out or something. I can’t risk it.
I’m biting my nails, something I never do. I watch the clock. The hand seems to tic around in slow motion, as if trying to torture me. I’ve only wanted time to speed up this badly one other instance in my life, when I was nine years old and Mom told me that she was going to introduce me to my father. I’ve never known if she was really going to introduce me to Snake or if it was a bizarre lie, but I remember sitting in my bedroom staring at my digital clock, convinced that it was broken. I would lean forward to check the batteries before the numbers changed and I’d lean back. Almost a minute later, I’d be doing the exact same thing. When the door opened, it was only Mom, holding a takeout container of Chinese food to make up for being alone.
Tic, tic, tic, and time crawls on. My forefinger is a stub, so I start on my middle finger. By the time half past ten arrives, all the nails on my right hand are short and jagged, and two of my left hand are as well. The knock comes at the door as it always does, quiet, timid. I go to the door. “G?” I ask.
“Y.” I can always hear her smiling through the door. “Step back, I’m opening it.”
“Okay.”
I step back and she swings the door open. G steps in with a bucket of her cleaning gear and a paper bag with some vegetables sticking out the top. I take the paper bag from her and stow the vegetables away, my heart pounding in my ears.
“G,” I say, turning as she goes into the bathroom to clean it. “You don’t need to do that. You cleaned it yesterday. I’m not that dirty.”
“It’s my job.”
“Then let me help.”
She rolls her eyes. “You always do this.”
“Let’s not break the habit, then.”
I snatch a scrubber from her before she can argue and the two of us go to work on the bathroom. “So how’re things with the boyfriend?” I’m delaying, I know. I should just come out and say it, but the words won’t form on my lips. We’ll sit down afterward, I tell myself. We’ll have a cup of coffee and talk like friends.
“Not so great,” G mutters. Her boyfriend is a gardener and G thinks he’s sleeping with a woman whose garden he works on. “He came in last night stinking of perfume. I mean, really stinking of the stuff, you know? So I ask him why he smells that way. I think that’s a fair question. He’s always getting on at me about working here, thinking I’m doing stuff with the men when I never have. Isn’t that a fair question?” We’re at my bed, stripping the sheets. She pauses in stripping a pillowcase to look to me for approval.
“It’s a fair question,” I assure her.
“Exactly!” she snaps. “But you wouldn’t think so by the way he reacted. Started stomping around the apartment and telling me I’m paranoid, telling me it must be my time of the month. I should break up with his ass.”
“Why don’t you?” I ask.
“I love him,” she says quietly, “that’s the problem.”
Once the cleaning is done, I make to sit at the table, but G packs her stuff away and flees for the door. I chase her, standing near the door, half blocking it. “I thought we’d have a coffee!” I’m being way too intense. I can tell she’s shocked by it.
“I have to go into town. I have some apartments today. Sorry. Tomorrow though, okay?” She makes to move around me.
“Wait!” I wave my arms. “Wait,” I repeat, trying to make my voice calm.
“What is it?” She squints at me like I’m mad. Maybe I am.
“I need you to do something for me.”
“What is it, Y?”
I tell her. Her eyes go wide and she looks like there are half a dozen things she wants to say to me, but in the end she nods briefly and says, “Tomorrow morning. I’ll bring it tomorrow morning.”
The rest of the day is a torture of creeping time. Ever since being here, I haven’t given much thought to escaping. I know I can’t stay here forever. And more and more, with Spike, I’m starting to think that getting out of here might be necessary. I’m starting to think that sitting him down and explaining to him that I want to go into the world alone might soon be something I’ll have to do. But as for escaping—searching the walls for weak points, thinking about darting out the door when G comes to clean—I haven’t given it any thought. But now, as I try and work out to distract myself, as I stare at the clock, I miss my freedom desperately. I could just make a quick run to the store. Instead, I have to wait an entire day.
Spike visits me in the late afternoon. We have dinner together but it’s awkward. I make us a curry and we both eat it all, but we hardly talk.
“We stopped the raid and we found the guns,” Spike says, pushing his plate away.
“Do you expect me to clean that plate?” I nod at the plate in question. I know I’m picking a fight just to pick one but I don’t care.
“I’m not doing it,” Spike says. “So yeah, I expect you to.”
“What exactly do you see me as? A hole you can spunk in every now and then, a hole that knows how to clean dishes, too? Is that all I am to you?”
Spike groans, rubbing his face with his hands. “All because I won’t open up,” he mutters. “All this because I won’t fucking share. Goddamn, Yazmin. God fucking damn.”
I want to stop, but anxiety is whirring around me. My life, so simple for the past month and a half, might soon get way more complicated. And the worst part is I should be able to tell Spike, to share it with him, but if he won’t share with me I can’t be sure how he’ll react. Maybe he’ll get angry. Maybe he’ll get hateful. Hate and pain, that was what he said. Maybe he’ll direct the hate and pain at me.
“I asked you a question,” I say, ignoring his swearing. “What do you see me as?”
“I see you as Yazmin. Ain’t that enough?”
“So I can walk out of here anytime I like, yeah? Because lately I’m starting to think I want to be on my own. These walls are starting to close in on me and I just want to get out of here, be on my own. So that’s okay, is it?”
“I don’t know about that,” Spike says quietly. “I don’t think I can agree to that.”
I stand up, waving at the door. “The hole is out of order today, I’m sorry.”
Spikes paces to the door, head low. Just before he leaves he says, “I see you as so much more than that, Yazmin. I want you to know that. I don’t just see you as a hole or whatever it is you wanna say. I have feelings for you, feelings I ain’t had for a woman—well, ever. I don’t reckon I should be attacked for not knowing how to express them.”
I want to go to him then, bring him back and hold him. It’s the first time he’s told me he has feelings for me. But then he’s on the other side of the door, bolting it, leaving me alone. I do the dishes—despite the argument, I’m not going to sleep with crusted curry plates a few feet from me—and then pick up the paperback. I read for a while, but my eyes keep straying to the clock. Instead of hearing the voices of the characters, I hear the tic-tic-tic. Instead of seeing their faces or the scenes the writer paints with words, I see its hands, moving inexorably.
Finally I go to bed, lying on my back and staring up at the ceiling. My stomach is a knot of nerves. I want it to be morning time. I want to close my eyes and open them to find that it’s time for breakfast. But every time I close my eyes I see Mom’s dead body and the bed of blood. Lately, I haven’t been seeing it as much. Maybe Spike has been enough of a distraction. But now sleep is refused to me and I see the bed of blood instead. I distract myself by thinking about what Spike said. He has feelings for me. He just doesn’t know how to express them. I have to believe that it’s true. I have to believe there’s something there apart from lust and power.
I roll over, willing myself to sleep. A night of tossing and turning ensues, a night of half-formed dreams and half-formed memories. But finally I’m awake, waiting at the kitchen table for G to knock at the door. When she pushes the door open, I almost leap on her.
“Did you get it? Have you got it?” I snatch the plastic bag from her hand, opening it. “Oh, thank God.”
“Don’t thank Him yet,” G mutters. “You haven’t done the test.”
I turn to her as she’s getting out her cleaning supplies. “I have to do it now,” I tell her. “I haven’t had a period in almost seven weeks, G. I’m an idiot. It’s only—there’s been so much for me to think about, so much to distract me from it. It was only yesterday morning that it hit me.”
“Go ahead.” She waves toward the bathroom. “I’ll do the kitchen first.”
I run into the bathroom, dropping onto the toilet seat and holding the pregnancy test in the bowl. I hear G in the next room, moving about. I try and pee but nothing comes. I remember times as a girl when I had to sit cross-legged because I needed to go so bad, but now, nothing. Nothing.
“G, can I ask you a favor? Can you bring me some water?”
She pokes her head in, smiling awkwardly as she hands me the water.
“Have you ever done one of these things?” I ask, and then neck about half the bottle in one swig.
“Yes,” G says. “I don’t think I’ve ever been more nervous. Nervous and excited.”
“And?”
“Negative. What are you hoping for?”
“I don’t know.”
Then, blessedly, the peeing starts.