Issue 11.1 Fall 2015

11.1 cover image

 

 

Justine

 

Zeph Webster

 

 

Justine laid helplessly in bed, fully awake and surrounded by frilly pink blankets and sheets. She kept her eyes closed in hope that she would fall back asleep, but the struggle was proving to take so much effort that it was the thing now keeping her awake. Her hair was creased against the pillow in such a way that it made her scalp hurt. Her neck muscles were tight and she felt the need to pop her toes. She was on her left side, nose pointed toward the alarm clock that sat atop the nightstand. Her arm had started fading into numbness sometime around 5:30 A.M. She opened her eyes and checked the time. The clock read 6:13

A.M.

 

Justine felt less like the bed was a tool for her comfort and more like a friend she mooched off of. She was the bed’s tumor. A nuisance to its existence. She promised herself she would get up at 6:30. She had another seventeen minutes. She thought to herself that things would be better when she got up. Action always made things bearable. When she left the bed she would gussy up­­rub her scalp, make those creases disintegrate a bit; she would get a drink of water; she could get a drink of water and get out some of the heat that lingered in the cave of her mouth; she could get in the shower and rinse off some of the filthy buildup that she felt caked against her skin. She tried to stop thinking there. Thinking of the day ahead fed her anxiety. Justine had been growing increasingly paranoid that Jo was fed up with her, and she was tired of apologizing to Jo for her sadness. She was tired of apologizing for apologizing. Hell, she wished she would just stop being sad. She wished she could break whatever cycle of torment she had been in for the past few months, but there seemed no way out of its coils. Radical action was what she needed. She needed to start exercising again. Not for her body. She didn’t want to be one of those girls motivated by superficial things like fitness. She was done with that. She just needed it for herself. She wanted action. She needed more people. But there were so many people already. Friends­­both old and new, half­forgotten and ubiquitous; family; family friends; peers; coworkers; most painful of all were the acquaintances just barely hanging on, bridges on the brink of burning down and being forever lost.

 

She so loved the idea of humans that their execution proved lacking. People gave her life. She so craved the company of others, and yet no relationship­­romantic, friendly, casual, intimate, shallow or deep­­no relationship proved to be able to sweep her away from her melancholia.

 

As she thought of these things she knew that running them through her head over and over again would just make things worse.

 

But nonetheless.

 

6:15 A.M.

 

She remembered some words of advice she had heard a while ago­­she would take this second, this infinite and ongoing moment, and soak up every ounce of goodness in it. So she tried to focus on the warmth of the blankets that engulfed her. She thought of her life living in a cozy bed, her cozy apartment, the wonderful network of support she’d had her whole life. SHe thought of how much better her life was than not only those in underdeveloped worlds, but even the dim­witted, ugly, unprivileged people she attended school with. It was chilly. She was surrounded by the sting of cold and her bladder was full. She had had to urinate ever since she woke up. . . .

 

Jo’s alarm clock woke her up at 6:00 A.M. She got off the mattress at 6:01.

 

In the bathroom she rinsed the stench from her mouth and minced to the kitchen to brew a pot of coffee. While it boiled she went back to her room, brushed her hair, and put on a bit of makeup. She contemplated brushing her teeth but decided to wait until after her coffee­­it would just make the coffee taste like mint. Then she got dressed and went back into the kitchen. She covered a blueberry bagel with butter and added cream and sugar to the coffee. Then she grabbed a textbook and began reading the lesson that she had put off the night before.

 

After a few minutes of trying to learn about, but mostly resenting, permutations, Jo heard the shower start. It was 6:45 A.M. She felt a bit of relief knowing that Justine was up and on time. She began reading again, this time with a smidge of earnestness.

 

When Jo finished her bagel, she crumpled up a napkin and threw it towards to open garbage can. She missed, but laughed to herself, thinking it was closer than her average. Then she walked to the garbage to gather the rolled up napkin and heard a loud thud, quickly followed by a lengthy squeak. Her head shot toward the bathroom. Eventually her legs followed. She walked past the hall and approached the bathroom door, behind which she could only gather the pitter patter of falling water. She slowly turned the doorknob and her eyes searched for Justine’s pink flesh. Passed the translucent wall of the shower Jo could see only checkered linoleum and droplets of water.

 

Justine lay down in the tub, sobbing silently. Water shot from the showerhead and soared down through the air, where eventually each drop exploded against Justine’s soft skin. Her desperate sobs were in tune with the ambient white noise of the vent and the splish splash of water droplets. Justine’s mind screamed at her. Her imagination swirled with visions of the future and regrets of the past­­friends lost­­bittersweet memories­­lovers never to be known­­horrors conjured from the depths of places she didn’t like her mind going to. Her eyelids were shut as tight as her body allowed, yet tears came through, invisible in the camouflage of the surrounding water. She had done so well for so long. But the bell jar had fallen and the Bad Thing was back.

 

Jo approached the shower feeling sick to her stomach. Jo opened the door and said Oh, Justine. It’s okay.

 

Justine let out panicked breaths at irregular intervals. Now that Jo was here she felt so much worse. She lay twitching in the water, oblivious to the draft that crawled up her legs and the other parts of her not under the span of the water’s falls.

 

Jo reached into the tub and rubbed Justine’s naked shoulder. Water dropped onto Jo’s sweater. Justine continued to weep.

 

Oh, Justine. Come on, let’s get out? I’m sorry, Justine.

 

She tried another approach and asked if the water felt good. Then she reached over and turned it off.

 

Inside the tub Justine moved her knees into her breasts and hugged herself, forming a cocoon.

 

Jo felt a little gush of water in the back of her eyes. She turned her head and unknowingly pitied Justine. She made herself comfortable and sat on the floor. She watched as Justine trembled under the weight of her depression. Tears continued to leak out of Justine’s eyes. Saliva built up in mass quantities inside her mouth. When she purged it out the spit traveled along stream, down the length of the tub, moving closer to the drain, only to be blocked by Justine’s crossed legs.

 

Jo continued to pat her friend and spat out generalities she knew that Justine hated.

 

It’ll be okay. You know I love you, Justine.

 

I’m sorry, Jo. I’m so sorry.

 

No, don’t say that. It’s not your fault.

 

You deserve better than this.

 

Jo was was quiet for a moment and then said, Shhh. You can’t say things like that, Justine.

 

They stayed there for a long while, the two of them. Jo had shut off the shower a while ago and Justine was now dry, save a few lingering patches of moist skin, and she continued to cower in the tub. By now her eyes were too empty to cry. Jo’s sleeve was soaking wet. She didn’t bother hiking it up.

 

Come on, Justine. Let’s get up. You don’t have to leave, we just have to get out of the tub. You can go back to bed.

 

She sat up into a crouching position and reached into the tub. Softly, she said,

 

Come on, Justine. She stretched her arm around Justine’s side and tried to pry her fingers under Justine’s flesh. Then she lightly pushed up, hoping the act would be the catalyst for lifting herself. When she didn’t feel Justine’s weight lift itself she gave in and tried to raise the deadweight herself.

 

Come on, Justine, you have to help me.

 

Justine told her limbs to function. She felt them fumble around. With Jo’s help she managed to stand.

 

Now lift your foot. Step over the tub. It’s okay.

 

Justine struggled but finally stepped over the ledge. Jo walked her to her own room, leading her like a battered soldier. When they came upon the bed she let Justine fall into the sheets. She covered her in blankets, turned out the light, and sat on the bed.

 

They sat in the dark room together. Justine with anvil eyelids and Jo petting her back.

 

I’m sorry, Jo. I’m just so tired.

 

Jo frowned and said all she could: There, there, Justine. There, the

 

 

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