Short Fiction

Megan With A Me

“I love you, baby.”

“You too.”

And so ends a midsummer evening; in a double bed, curved into the contours of another’s body. The extra space goes unused. Here is all the space we need. I put my arm over his body and rest it in the curve of his waist. His hair smells like forgotten sweat and three days’ gel. There is nothing more soothing in the world.

My name is Megan, and I always talk like this at this time of the night. I am awake; the rest of my world is asleep but my mind is awake and it talks to me. It is 2:47am.

Usually it says my name to me. Megan. Mee-gan. Megan with a Mee. The stress is on the first syllable. Megan. Megan. Megan.

My inner monologue tells me other things too. It lures my demons away from my consciousness and sleeps behind me at night, with its arm around me, protectively murmuring in my ear. It tells me not that I am pretty, nor that I am witty, but that I am unique. Only I could possibly have my characteristics. It tells me that should the sort of things that one panics about at these chilled minutes of the pre-dawn occur – an intruder, an alien, an attack, an accident – I will find somewhere in me the resource to deal with it instinctively and more efficiently than everyone else.

I panic about these things because I do not give the impression of a physically resourceful person. I am full-figured, but this does not mean, perchance you should think so, that I am fat. Which is good, because I cannot be a narrator of a tale and expect to engage your respect and your trust if I were fat. You would assume – naturally – that my judgement means less than yours, as seeing as I obviously cannot understand the consequences of five burgers a day, I couldn’t explain to you what I was seeing and what it represented, I would lie, I would cheat you out of the ‘truth’ that you deserve, you being someone who knows how to be a person, who understands self-restraint.

This is a tale of self-discovery; of love and sex and blood and death; of pushing your limits to their limit. I wanted to know whether I do have the resources to survive emergencies and crisis situations. I am here to share my tale with you, so you can live vicariously. You can follow my exploits and live inside my head and heart so that you never have to actually test yourself and discover whether you would fail.

“How can you have a meaning of life? How can you honestly say that you know what the meaning of life is?” he slurs drunkenly, gesturing with an unlit cigarette. He points it at me and I lower my glass.

“I’m not saying that I know what the meaning of life is, baby,” I begin. I love these times. It’s very late and we are sat at the kitchen table. The candles have burnt low and we have forgotten to turn the lights on, engrossed as we are in our discourse, in the sounds of each other’s voices. The candlelight flickers off the four empty wine bottles, the uncleared plates. I have left the fat from my steak, he has left his spinach, as we always do. “I can’t possibly know something that doesn’t exist. Life doesn’t have a meaning, it’s all evolution. We are just-” I pause for effect “…monkeys with cutlery – there is no meaning of life, how can living – breathing, eating, shitting, fucking - mean anything?” I take a mouthful of my drink while he lights his cigarette and narrows his eyes at me, preparing his response.

It is something that really interests me though. I don’t believe in God and I don’t believe in an afterlife. He does, I think, or he takes that stance when we have these discussions and argues well. I hope he doesn’t really, because I don’t understand people who do. I don’t understand how someone can logically come to the conclusion that we can have no brain function, be physically dead, and still retain a sense of self and memory elsewhere. Because that’s what he says – that there is a soul, not a physical imprint, and I just can’t begin to comprehend how intelligent people can believe that. I understand why they would, but not how. I do honestly believe that we are animals and as such the only remnant we leave behind is a lump of tissue and bone.

I sometimes stop while watching the news and look at this junk we have created – Wall Street, Shadow Cabinets, VK Ice – and I think, wow, what a perversion of our natural instincts. We are supposed to get born, breathe, find food, breed, die. (I’m not really digressing – you’ll see.) It was thinking like this got me to wondering, so what is the most unnatural thing we do? And it must be killing each other. I mean there’s something seriously unnatural about the fact that we deliberately poison ourselves by drinking, inhaling and swallowing measures of poisonous chemicals in an attempt to get wrecked at least once a week, but killing, though, and not to eat, just to kill – where does that come from? Is it possible to kill and be human?

The door slams. I stop what I’m typing and extinguish my cigarette. He is home, but he’s not walking through to come and kiss me like he normally would. I know he’s been to the pub after work, maybe he’s drunk and trying to hang up his coat. I get up and leave the laptop open, blinking like it has a pulse. I leave it on the kitchen counter and go into the hallway. He is there, leaning against the door with his eyes closed. I go closer and he opens his eyes, but does not look at me. He smells of beer and smoke.

‘Baby?’ I say. ‘Are you okay?’

His eyes drop to rest on me. He is looking at me in a strange way.

‘I went to the pub with work,’ he says, not dropping his gaze. I am uncomfortable.

‘I know, honey,’ and I help him out of his coat, if only so he will turn away from me. ‘Did you have a good time?’

‘Oh, I’m sure it wasn’t as good as YOURS,’ he says and on the last syllable snaps round to face me. His eyes are aflame with sudden rage and his face is set. My hands tighten around the coat. ‘Did you like it, baby? Did you come?’

‘What are you talking about?’ I ask, alarmed. My eyes are wide and I must look the picture of confused innocence. ‘Did I like what? Go where?’

‘I said, did you come, you dirty little whore,’ he drawls, taking a step towards me. He is drunk. He places his hand against my stomach and steps into me. I shuffle backwards, awkwardly, and hit my head on the banister. He continues advancing, and purrs his words at me. His breath is hot and he is smiling a nasty smile. ‘I know he was here, you slut. I know he was in our bed. I know you let him fuck you like the dirty slut you are and I know you loved it.’

‘No! No!’ I cry. ‘Who? I don’t know what you’re talking about! I’ve been on my own all evening, writing -’

‘Liar,’ he breathes, pushing me. I lose my balance and land on the stairs in a bizarre sitting position. He kneels down over me, sliding his hand between my thighs and under my skirt. ‘Your pussy is still full of his cum.’ He moves his hands to my hips and pulls my knickers down, leaving my skirt on. I can see that he is hard and yes, my natural responses kick in and I know I’ll be wet when his fingers push their way into me. He smiles at the sensation and wets his lips in desire. He is looking straight into my eyes and does not break his gaze when he kneels and runs his tongue up the inside of my thigh and I catch my breath... I cannot help but let out a moan and that is all the encouragement he needs before we are fucking on the stairs, loving like… animals … until he comes and grins and I giggle. I like our roleplays. This is only the second time we’ve tried this one. I retrieve my pants and he goes to put the kettle on.

As I was saying, I was thinking about killing and whether it was possible to kill someone and be human. But thinking of unnatural emotions - isn’t love unnatural? Do animals feel love? Or attachment? I suppose it is all some perversion of innate cupboard love, that we believe this person – this replacement for the lack of Mummy/the reparation for the shortcomings of Daddy will provide us with something we need. So I could say that love and murder are equally perverted. Or maybe connected. Perhaps the incorrect balance of love can cause people to kill, like vampires, to gain souls, gain another’s love, absorb it, consume it, own it.

I think I became a little obsessed with this idea. You see it on the news, in films and books all the time – we are as obsessed with death as we are with love. But wouldn’t it be physically quite difficult to kill someone spontaneously? I don’t think I’m strong enough to strangle, or beat someone; someone you poisoned might vomit or not swallow enough; pushing them off something might not work – you might lose your balance, or they might not die, or worse they might land on someone else and kill them instead; I don’t have a gun and I wouldn’t know where to stab someone, plus I don’t really like the sight of blood.

“Honey, if you were going to kill someone, how would you do it?” I ask when he returns with the tea. He sits besides me.

“Shoot them?”

“Yeah but where are you going to get a gun from? I mean you, how would you do it?”

“Me?” he says, and tilts his head slightly in thought. “Well, I guess it would depend. Do I get to plan the killing or is it, like, spontaneous?”

“I don’t know,” I say. “It’s just a stupid idea.”

He smiles and kisses me. “None of your ideas are stupid. I’m hungry. Shall we order in?”

Much later that evening, we’re sitting in bed together just watching television. I get up and take the plates downstairs. I clatter plates around in the kitchen, and think. I don’t really know what I’m doing with my life. I wish I could do something, I mean really do something, you know? Something that means I have grabbed this life and been someone, been unique. I am unique. I deserve uniqueness. A hand grabs my neck from behind me and I shriek and half turn. He is holding me by the neck and it hurts. He smiles and releases the pressure slowly, shaking his head.

“You couldn’t strangle someone,” he says. “If you catch someone by surprise they tense up… the neck is not designed to be crushed.” His fingertips trace a pattern along my throat and I am suddenly overcome with a rush of emotion and tears well up.

“I want to be somebody,” I sob, and he folds me in his arms. “I wish I… I wish I could write, something, or be someone… I don’t even have a job, how can you love me, I’m nobody…”

He strokes my hair and rocks me. “You are somebody. You’re my somebody. You’re my everybody.”

I look up into his face and it hits me. I am his. I only exist inasmuch as he allows me to and in this moment I am filled with an impotent rage. As he continues to murmur soothing nothings my anger swells and builds. Impotent! I am not impotent! I am important! I am not here to be his come-home-shag-on-the-stairs and wash his dishes and sleep in his bed. I am a young, vital person and I deserve – I need – so much more than to have a man - a boy! – stroke my hair and say it doesn’t matter what I think about me because he loves me and his opinions are more important. I hate him. “I hate you.”

He stops mid-sentence. “What?”

“I said, I hate you.”

His eyes flicker in half-recognition. Oh, okay, this, he’s thinking. He puts on that husky drawl. “So what would you do if I touched you, pretty one?” His eyes take on the familiar intent and he strokes my face. I flinch and shake him off. If I wasn’t pressed against the kitchen sink I’d move backwards. “Don’t do that!”

“Don’t you like it, baby? Don’t you want it?” He presses against me and in that moment I feel a flash of the strongest revulsion I have ever felt.

“No I don’t!” I scream and with that swing the plate I was holding at his head. It hits him hard in the side of the face and he makes a surprised noise. I don’t stop before I raise it up and bring it down, both hands on the top of his skull. It breaks in three pieces and he stumbles sideways. I guess I’m stronger than I think but this is not the time to stop. He is so surprised he still hasn’t reacted but is gasping, bent double, holding his head, trying to arrange words enough to protest. I am groping the counter behind me, trying to find something else without taking my eyes from the lino pantomime. Teaspoon? Cheese grater? Could throw a tumbler – but my aim is not good. I need to gain momentum to do anything and he is recovering by the second. I take a brief glance over my shoulder and he is up, he is on his feet, he grabs my hand and slams it down on the countertop, on top of an upturned fork. I shriek and struggle, all murderous efforts drained, I can’t do it, I won’t do it, this hurts, this hurts, he won’t let go of my hand, this really hurts.

He releases the pressure but doesn’t let go. Taking a step back, he takes my other hand and places it on the injured one, then lets me go. Gasping, I cradle my bruised hand – I wonder why it’s not bleeding? I guess it didn’t hurt as much as I thought it did – and double over. He stands there and waits for me to straighten up.

“You know what I’d use?” he said, trying to keep his voice even, but wincing. His head hurts. “You know? A knife.”

I say nothing, my head bowed. Tears trickle down my face.

“Ask me why,” he said. I say nothing.

“Ask me wh-”

“Why! Okay, why?”

“Because,” he says, moving his right hand slowly towards the counter top. His hands close on something behind me and it makes a scraping sound. I swallow.

“Because, if I were to stab you, now, if I were to plunge this knife into you, just once, let you fall, and ring an ambulance, and stem the bleeding, there is a fair possibility you wouldn’t die. But you would know I wanted you dead. Don’t you look down. Keep your eyes on me. That’s better. You would want to be dead. You would want to die because it would hurt, and you would be so scared. Pain and fear, that’s what you want. You are nobody, but you want to feel like you’re somebody. And nothing would remind you that you are human more than realising you are alive but having your senses scream at you to die.”

I look at him. My voice is not quite a whisper. “You wouldn’t.”

“I could.”

“But you wouldn’t.”

We stand there in silence for a long time.

We were both right, you know. I wouldn’t, but more importantly, I couldn’t. It would have to be easy, bloodless, quick, and have no consequences, so perhaps if I could snipe from a roof, or perhaps arrange a hitman and then get him done. But I don’t have the capability to kill.

I breathe a long, slow, steady breath and place my hands on his chest. He looks at me for a second before folding me in his arms and everything is resolved. I am natural, I can love and I am loved. I think there is a difference between people and animals, and I think that difference is empathy – the ability to understand another being. And I understand him and he understands me.

Everything was fine for a few days after that. It’s funny, when you remember, it’s when nothing really happens that your memory is so sharp. I can still taste the chips we had for tea that night, I remember the dialogue of the film we watched. I can remember the last time he told me he loved me, and the last night we curled up in bed together. I can remember thinking that the uncomfortable mattress spring on my side of the bed wasn’t quite as uncomfortable any more.

It’s funny what you don’t remember. When real things happen. I’ve spent this long telling you my side of what happened, I have represented him as best I can but I don’t know if you’d have expected him to attack me again. I didn’t. It was only once, he came in drunk again and this time it was with his bare hands and he wasn’t playing. I can remember running up the stairs and I remember being dragged back. I remember having that really strong sense of slow motion you get when you’re off balance, you know? Everything seems to slow down, you know you’re about to fall, you can’t really decide what to do…? I don’t remember being at the bottom of the stairs, I don’t remember his face, I don’t remember the ambulance or all the other things I assume will happen. I don’t remember any of the time I was in the hospital, because I’m not there any more. But I seem to not be able to make new memories. I see my mother every day, she comes in and feeds me, washes the not-too-fat contours of my inert body, turns me over, opens and closes the curtains, and every single day the utter tragic look in her eyes fills me with shock, pain, and irritation. Every day I resolve that tomorrow I’ll get up, tomorrow I’ll tell her that I’m okay, tomorrow I’ll blink, tomorrow I’ll be human again. I’ll be natural. But I forget, she comes back, the nurse – whose face I don’t remember – lets her in. I don’t know if I’ve seen him, I don’t remember. She doesn’t mention him anyway.

But I do know what is after life now. I do know what is after it all. And by the way, it isn’t that good. Because I’m not alive, but I sort of am. This existence isn’t anything. I retain everything I had to my name when I was alive – but now I know.

Live, laugh, love, know, as if you were me.

Maybe I’m just reading too much into all this. But I know.

Make sure you never do.

Katy Tucker