Driting Apart

Drifting Apart

by Eva Boeglin

Drifting Apart

by Eva Boeglin

To Noah For giving me a place to belong, even though it was temporary

Table of Contents 1. The Whole Time 2. Friends 3. A Lifetime 4. Things I Want to Tell You (But Can’t) 5. Don’t I Make it Look Easy 6. Hideaway 7. Room 8 8. In Your Nature

The Whole Time “But I was here the whole time!”

--Joyce Carol Oates, “Where Are You?” The two had fallen into a sort of comfortable rhythm that preceded each day.

They told each other their hopes and dreams, their stars in the galaxy, their collections of snowflakes that fell in the summer. When one fell, the other crumpled. It was too easy to forget themselves while drowning in each other. It was too easy to forget their difference in ideals. For those two, it was okay to indulge for once in a fantasy. But one could not completely ignore the reality, while the other had begun to develop a naive hope that everything would work out. A disparity was slowly growing. Even when they screamed at each other only feet apart, the chasm between their words stretched miles.

Instead of walking the distance, they barricaded themselves in fortresses of patchwork white lies. No point in looking out at the horizon. They would cross that bridge when they came to it. So perhaps it wasn’t that much of a surprise when the betrayal reared its head. The rain poured down, coating the asphalt in a thick layer of aching damp.

They were alone, no one to witness the act aside from the uncaring crows that hid under an awning. “Where were you?” she said over and over again, though her gaze was not accusatory. She was not speaking to the girl who she had kissed--the girl who allowed herself to admit her darkest secrets and deepest scars with a vulnerable tremble in her voice. She was speaking to the ruthless automaton that would stop at nothing for results. “You left me feeling so alone.” And as her lover laid on the asphalt, red seeping into the clear layer of rainwater, the girl--the assailant--answered, “But I was here the whole time.”

Friends The first time we met, I was five years old and only just starting to realize how little anyone cared for me. “This is Audric,” my father said, squeezing my shoulder gently yet firmly. “Make sure to play nice.” You better not upset him, his touch told me.

But there was not an issue. Audric was a gap-toothed boy with curly, brown hair and eyes that were the reddish-brown color of mead. He was a follower, and I was a leader. He always did whatever I wanted to do. Perhaps it was taking advantage of his kindness, but the thought never occurred to me. We ate where I wanted. We played games I chose.

He always probed me for my thoughts, which I secretly enjoyed. No one ever asked to know what I was thinking. Of course, my answers were not exactly truthful. “I am thinking about what is for dinner later.” Easy falsehoods to give because I did not dare to actually bare my heart.

Even as we grew older, he never stopped following me, never stopped asking questions. I tolerated it, and perhaps even enjoyed it, in the deepest depths of my heart that I would not admit to even myself. I noticed how, as we grew older, more girls followed him with their eyes, their cheeks lit up with a rosy flush as they giggled to each other. I always notice things.

He kept calling himself my friend. I never denied it, yet never affirmed it. I do not have friends. I am not his friend; I am someone who fulfills Audric’s desire of being told what to do.

First we were friends, then my father started talking about us. “Betrothed,” he said. “Fiance.”

The first time he’d said it, we were 12. When Audric heard those words, he flushed red and would not look at me. I never reacted--or cared. This was how love was for everyone, right? It is out of convenience, not affection. So when he said that he loved me, I nodded, neither denying nor confirming it. Now he was the leader, and I did whatever he wanted to do without complaint.

Audric is a good man. He is handsome, kind, warm, and very, very wealthy. He is a lot of things. But he is not my friend. He is not my love. When I look at him, I feel nothing.

Friends The first time we met, I was five years old and only just starting to realize how little anyone cared for me. “This is Audric,” my father said, squeezing my shoulder gently yet firmly. “Make sure to play nice.” You better not upset him, his touch said.

But there was not an issue. He was a follower, and I was a leader. He always did whatever I wanted to do. Perhaps it was taking advantage of his kindness, but the thought never occurred to me.

He always probed me for my thoughts, which I secretly enjoyed. No one ever asked to know what I was thinking. Of course, my answers were not exactly truthful. “I am thinking about what is for dinner later.”

Even as we grew older, he never stopped following me, never stopped asking questions. I tolerated it, and perhaps even enjoyed it, in the depths of my heart that I would not admit to myself.

He kept calling himself my friend. I never denied it, yet never affirmed it. I do not have friends. I am not his friend; I am someone who fulfills Audric’s desire of being told what to do.

First we were called friends, then my father started talking about us. “Betrothed,” he said. “Fiance.”

When Audric heard those words, he flushed red and would not look at me. I never cared. This was how love was for everyone, right? It is out of convenience, not affection. When he said that he loved me, I nodded, neither denying nor confirming it.

Audric is a good man. He is handsome, kind, warm, and very, very wealthy. He is a lot of things. But he is not my friend. He is not my love. When I look at him, I feel nothing.

Friends The first time we met, I was five years old and only just starting to realize how little anyone cared for me. “This is Audric,” my father said, squeezing my shoulder gently yet firmly. You better not upset him, his touch said.

But that was not an issue. When I told Audric to keep my secrets, he kept them.

We held a balance.

He always probed me for my thoughts, though my answers were not exactly truthful. He always said what was on his mind. I tolerated it, and perhaps even enjoyed it.

He kept calling himself my friend. I never denied it, yet never affirmed it. I do not have friends. I am not his friend; I am someone who fulfills Audric’s desire of being told what to do.

First we were called friends, then my father started talking about us. “Betrothed,” he said. “Fiance.”

When Audric heard those words, he flushed red and would not look at me. I never cared. When he said that he loved me, I nodded, neither denying nor confirming it.

Audric is a good man. But he is not my friend. He is not my love. And he does not deserve a lie.

A Lifetime

Audric had sent me something in the mail. The guards checked it at first, before giving it to me. It was a chipped tea set, pint sized for little hands to handle. I used to play with it as a little girl, having tea time with Mary, Abigail, Joker, and Malcolm. Then a lifetime went by.

Everything has changed. I am a different person from the little girl who sat in her room as the setting sun washed over her dress, having tea and chatting idly with her playmates. Things could not be more different. The one thing, though, that has remained is something I have never told anyone. Not Audric. Not my father. Not the maids. Not even Leona.

Mary, Joker, Abigail, and Malcolm never left. I still see them, even now. They follow me, though they have long since learned that I will not respond to their pleading.

They do not beg with their mouths; they beg with their eyes. Over the years, they have not aged. They do not grow older, but rather more sinister. After all, it is normal for a little girl to have imaginary friends, but when that girl is 17, it is not quite as endearing.

Everyone already thinks of me as cruel; I do not need them to believe me insane as well.

Mary and Abigail are normal. They are pale and slight of stature, like myself.

Mary likes to sing, and Abigail sews with an expertise only grown women possess. They like to wear twin patchwork dresses and overalls, while Malcolm scoffs at them. He had always been a traditional boy. The four of us had always remained steadfast friends through thick and thin.

I did not need to be reminded of those things. Perhaps to someone like Audric, sentimentality is a comfort. But Audric and I are two very different people. For him,

childhood was a blissful time of peace and innocence. But the tea parties of my youth are not something I can look upon in recollection with fondness, now that I have clarity.

Imagine having fond memories of friends from your youth, and then discovering said friends did not actually exist.

What about Joker, you ask? Well, we do not talk about Joker. Let us just say that he is the one behind me whenever I make my gambles--when Audric says I have a scary look in my eyes as I push all my chips forward, wagering on an offsuit hand.

Things I Want to Tell You (But Can’t) 1. When Audric says he loves you, he really means it. And he is not a fool for feeling so. He is in love with the way you make destruction an art. You could set the world on fire and have him almost wanting to enjoy it just so he can see that maniacal grin on your face.

2. One of the girls said the other day that you will outlive us all because you’re an android in disguise. She is both right and wrong. You will outlive us all, though you’re just as human as the rest of us. You’re so shrewd that you’ve perfected the art of dying and then coming back. Even when the buildings turn to dust and people no longer remember the word “America,” your name will be a mantra chanted among the masses. You will be immortal, having outsmarted Father Time himself.

3. I am aware that you let me win that first game of chess. I think you know I know.

If you really didn’t want me to catch on, then I would’ve never pieced it together.

4. You look the best in suits, though the scars that line your back don’t deserve to be hidden. Nobody would say anything if you wore an open-backed dress. Not unless they had a death wish.

5. The money spent on just your fencing lessons is more than my entire house’s worth. But I don’t hate you for that. Nor do I hate you when you walk past a dollar bill on the ground, not worth the effort of picking up.

6. You would be a lot happier if you weren’t so scared. Your way of running away from something is to throw yourself right at it, even if it burns you alive.

7. Pride is much cheaper than you’d believe. For someone with such expensive tastes, you sure have a lot of it.

8. I am aware that one day we’ll be enemies. That one day your back will be turned to me, and your chin held high in rejection.

9. You gave me a hand to hold when mine was empty. Clothes to wear when I was naked and vulnerable. But you cannot give me a purpose, no matter how hard you try. An empty kettle cannot fill a teacup.

10. My only conviction is to save you. You were always the hero. Always the one who helped me out in a pinch. Now I see that you’re in more trouble than all of us.

11. You’re scaring the kids, but maybe you like it. I can’t tell if you enjoy the way they cower away from you. But I can see the way your eyes light up when I refuse to bow.

12. I find it cute how you can’t tie your shoes, and how useless you are. The world is cruel to useless girls, after all, so I’ll protect you for the rest of my life.

13. I know the meaning of what you said to me the first day we met. Creo que te amo. “I think I love you.” Flaunting your superiority while also admitting an insecurity--nothing could be more like you.

14. Some nights when I’m alone, I dare to wish that I could just throw everything away and be by your side. Then in the morning, I have a hard time looking my friends in the eye.

15. I wonder frequently if I’m meant for a custodial career, as I’m so talented at cleaning up your messes.

16. One time, when you were asleep at my side, I counted how many scars lined your back. The answer is 38, though I can’t imagine how many others are hidden under the surface, dwelling in your heart.

17. I heard from your neighbor that she can hear sounds coming from your bedroom in the middle of the night. You may not remember your dreams when you wake, but I know that your deepest fears must chase you in them. I long to offer you my company, but you will refuse me if you sense my pity, which you always do with that bloodhound nose of yours.

18. I wish we had met under normal circumstances.

19. I wish I could tell you my wishes, but you would just scorn me for something so childish. I may have a year on you, but you have a lifetime on me.

20. When you say sorry to a plate you break, does it go back to the way it was, like nothing happened? No? Well now do you understand?

21. One time I tried to pet a stray cat, and it hissed and scratched me. I didn’t get why it was afraid of my kindness. Years later, I think I’m beginning to understand when I look at you.

22. I’ve always been a rule-abider. Now even more so, though I follow mainly my own rules. I will not beg you to stay when it’s time for you to leave. I will not kiss you in public. I will clean up my smeared mascara after thinking about you.

23. I remember your step-mother when I saw her in a magazine years ago. She was wearing a designer coat from a luxury brand. My mother had sewn that coat herself, as a child laborer in El Salvador. I know because there was a mark on the coat near the pocket--a little check mark.

24. We are meant to hate each other. Every aspect of society pushes us apart. But yet, I don’t. Even if sometimes I should.

25. I love you.

Don’t I Make it Look Easy Put on your designated outfit every morning; do not talk back to the adults, no matter how unfair they sound; when your father comes home, make sure to leave him be. He does not want to deal with your pestering. Do not tell him about the monsters under your bed--you are too old to see them, after all--for you are almost an adult; do not respond to Malcom’s requests to join him for tea; do not speak unless spoken to; always use your manners. When your betrothed kisses you, do not tell him you feel nothing--that you have a hole inside your heart that a man cannot fill. So many don’ts and not a lot of dos. This is how you hold your head high; this is how you show them what you’re made of; do not acknowledge the consternation inside of you, for it will go away eventually; when the adults ask you if you’re afraid, you answer, “No, sir,” because you know better than to give them the satisfaction of your terror; this is how you dress up your pretty face in the mirror; maybe if you put enough makeup on, it’ll hide the bitterness in your eyes. This is how you lure in a man before striking; do not think the world is your friend; this is how you get rid of your naive gaze; this is how you keep walking forward even when your legs are broken and bleeding--drag yourself, if you must; do not let yourself get close to anyone--even the naive girl with a good heart and a pretty face, for she will stab you in the back at the first opportunity, just like the rest of them; don’t acknowledge the face that looks back at you in the mirror and how it is not your own; this is how to make them fear you. Make sure to become friends with the villains inside your head, because they know the truest you; when you look your father in the eye, do not scream at him or get angry; when you look your father in the eye, hold his gaze with a stare that can freeze fire. He means nothing to you, just as

you meant nothing to him; do not acknowledge the earnest gaze from the girl that melts your soul into a warm puddle; take caution when walking the tightrope. There is no parachute if you fall, and the ground below is littered with the sharp spikes of your father’s apathy. When they look at you, say, “Don’t I make it look easy.” It is not a question, but rather a statement, because you do make it look easy; you are not one for questions. Your time is valuable, and only one person is worthy of wasting it. But, my love, I do not need to tell you all these things because you already know them. You know everything about me--every last detail, for your eyes are the ones that melt my soul and warm my heart. And because you know me, you will know that I will never choose you over my ideals. If you ever so much as dared to think otherwise, well, you know me as well as a stranger.

Hideaway After ‘Come Out and Play’ by Billie Eilish I have never celebrated Christmas. My family did, of course, but I was never a part of their merriment. Every Christmas morning, I was locked in my room and given a single maid to look after me. In the night, I would leave once the celebration was over, and look at the house in all its decorated glory. Four stockings lined the fireplace. Not five. Four. Father, Mother, Kairo, Noah. My name was never there.

So I am apprehensive when Leona insists on taking me out Christmas shopping.

“Come on, it’ll be fun,” she insists, her nose upturned stubbornly.

I cannot say no to that face, and reluctantly agree to join her. People mill about on the street. Families with their children; bored teenagers; elderly couples; businessmen cutting through the crowd at a brisk pace. Their noise gives me a headache, but Leona looks excited, so I don’t say anything to dampen the mood.

She leads me inside a three-story American Eagle store, and we go up the escalators. Nothing I haven’t seen before. All the while, she is talking about who to get gifts for. “I have to get one for Chelsea. And maybe Josh? Screw it, I’ll get a gift for everyone.” She squeezes my hand, and my heart trills with joy before I stifle it. “What about you, Bea?” I wrinkle my nose in distaste at two mothers bickering over a discounted t-shirt, their young children watching the shameless ordeal. “Gift-giving is merely self-serving altruism that makes the giver feel some sort of false sense of superiority. The whole thing devolves into a stupid contest over who spends the most.”

“Oh come on. Don’t be like that. What about your family? I know you and your dad aren’t on good terms, but what about the others?”

A light flush dusts my cheeks, and I hide deeper in my coat as camouflage. “I have two younger half-brothers. Noah and Kairo.”

“Maybe get them sweaters with their initials on them?”

“Kairo’s full name is Kairo Kingsley Kramer Cartier,” I reply, shaking my head.

“It’s a good thing Cartier is spelled with a C. But even so, you can’t ignore the first three initials.”

Now it is her turn to blush. “Oh.” The second floor has a cafe, and we go to get refreshments. While we sit at the table, Leona hands me a mug. “Don’t touch it,” she warns. “It’s hot.”

“I believe the steam rising up from it tells me as much,” I say in return. The beverage is brown. I am unfamiliar with it. A candy cane leans against the side of the mug, half-submerged in the hot liquid.

A few minutes pass. Then Leona raises an eyebrow at me with amusement. “You don’t know what it is, do you.” A statement, not a question. She knows.

I shake my head. “I’m afraid I’m not familiar with this strange beverage.”

“It’s hot chocolate! Everyone drinks it for the holidays! C’mon, take a sip.”

I lift the mug to my lips. It is hot, but not scalding. Sweet warmth trickles down my throat, warming my cheeks.

Leona smiles. “How is it? I know you love peppermint, so I got you a candy cane.”

I smile in return. I don’t need to hide my true feelings. “...I like it.”

Room 8 Inspired by Bad Times at the El Royale “Room 8 again?” I asked.

The guest looked over at me, pushing her sunglasses down her nose and fixing me with a gaze sharp enough to cut titanium. “...Yeah.”

“All right. Please write your name in the ledger.” While she did so, I turned away and checked the back room in search of a mop. By the time I returned, she was walking away from the desk. “Would you like some--” The door slammed shut, along with my mouth.

I already knew that she wouldn’t be seen again until Sunday morning. The girl had been coming to this hotel for three years now, about once or twice a month. She was an enigma, the focus of curiosity from guests and employees alike. But for all her secrecy, I’d managed to pick up bits and pieces over time.

For starters, her name was Beatrix Cartier. I didn’t reveal that to other guests, though. Privacy policy. Every visit, she brought exactly two bags. One was a regular suitcase, while the other was a massive black bag. I assume she does fencing, or some other kind of sport. Whenever I carried her bags out upon her departure, I always noticed that her black bag was practically weightless. She never allowed anyone to come into her room--not even housekeeping. I’d heard from Penny (the maid), though, that whenever she leaves, she leaves behind a meticulously clean room, not a speck of dust in sight. Even the beds looked untouched.

In all ways, she would seem boring. Constantly locked up, simplistic luggage, no eccentric manner of speaking. But it was precisely because she was so mundane that

my curiosity grew. I’d seen countless types of people, from corrupt politicians, to all sorts of unscrupulous criminals. Frankly, I’d found enough evidence over time to put quite a few people behind bars, should the urge strike me. But of them all, Beatrix and Beatrix alone sparked my interest so intensely.

I couldn’t stand it anymore. I would do something about it.

That night, I wrote my number down on a napkin, and knocked on her door. She answered after a moment, but kept the chain intact, her eyes wary. “Yes?” “Would you like to join me for a drink?”

“No.” She began to shut the door, but I stuck my foot in the opening.

“Wait. I’ll pay.”

For a moment, she was still. Then she sighed. “All right. Meet me at the lounge.

I’ll be there in five.”

As I waited, I began to get nervous. She was always so sharp, and so predatory.

It threw me for a loop. Something white caught my vision, and I looked over to see a silken glove laying on the floor. It was hers.

It would’ve been rude of me to neglect telling her, so I picked it up and headed towards her room. To my surprise, the door was very slightly ajar. She must’ve left it open by accident. I went to close it, but then a sudden, impish thought struck me. What was inside her room? This was the perfect opportunity.

You could get fired for this! my mind argued. I ignored it, and stepped inside. The door slowly shut behind me with an ominous, squeaky groan. The room was pitch black, and I stumbled around for a light switch. God, it smelled awful in here. Finally, I found the switch, and flicked it on.

I’d seen countless horrors in guests’ rooms. Evidence of every crime imaginable.

But no matter how terrifying, how disgusting, I always made myself forget. It wasn’t my business, I told myself. As long as I got paid. Even when the police came poking around a few times, I kept my mouth shut, waiting for my paycheck.

I quit that night.

In Your Nature One lone night, a girl was taken to a place where everyone was forgotten about.

Through no fault of her own, she was sentenced to a life of unhappiness. At that place, a valkyrie appeared before her.

“Just do as I say, and everyone will be saved,” the valkyrie vowed.

The girl didn’t know what else to do, and reluctantly agreed. The others around her warned her, telling her the valkyrie was a monster incarnate, but the girl was trusting, and did not believe them.

So she did as the valkyrie said, and rallied the others under a noble cause.

“Equality for all. We did nothing wrong.” They flocked to her like sheep, charmed by her naive ideals.

But that wasn’t enough, and the girl found herself unsatisfied. “Tell me what to do next,” she asked the valkyrie.

“Make an example of those who defy you,” the valkyrie replied.

The girl did not have the heart to do something so cruel. So when the valkyrie did it herself, the girl took a secret relief in not having to shoulder that burden, and assured everyone that it was for the best.

“It’s in her nature,” they warned the girl. “She was born into cruelty. Betrayal lines her bed and lies coat her tongue.”

To her, the valkyrie was not any of those things; she was vulnerable, and scared of being hurt. A wild animal: majestic and untamed, wary of all. True, her first instincts were to lash out, but the valkyrie was gradually learning how to file her claws. The girl

believed anyone could change, and trusted her friend. In fact, they became very close.

Their bond was peerless, and their love unshakable.

The girl gave and gave, and the valkyrie continued to take. Even so, the girl did not notice. It was in her nature to forgive. So she held her tongue when the valkyrie did things she didn’t agree with, and rallied supporters to her side.

And one day, when they had finally reached their destination and society was toppled, the girl stood at the smoking wreckage, looking out at the bleak horizon. Tears dripped down her face.

“This isn’t what I wanted,” the girl wheezed, the pain of betrayal poisoning her lungs. “Why would you use me like this?”

The valkyrie looked away, no longer the shining knight, but rather the wolf in sheep’s clothing, the burning horizon lighting her back, casting a long shadow across the empty lot. “You forget that it is in my nature.”

I really liked the flow of your chapbook. I felt like it had a nice arc, and all of the individual stories went together nicely. I think that, once you format it and take out the unnecessary revision statements, it will be a very complete chapbook. Your language is beautiful, and there were some lines, specifically in your list story, that I really enjoyed. I also think your anchoring character came through strongly, but wasn’t too overpowering. Overall, I enjoyed it!