Annika Baldwin* The Reflection

“Yeah, I saw it in the basement, but I don’t know if it is still down there though. I finished that passage you wanted me to read. Where do you want me to leave it?” I asked, shifting slightly. “That’s alright, we will find it. Keep the book, dear. Consider it a replacement for your doll. We will see you soon,” Maria responded as Lily and her left, closing the shop behind her. It took only an hour for them to come back with the items in hand. Before I knew it the day was over, and I was snug in bed asleep. “Rae, get up!” Nicole whimpered as she woke me up, shaking me. “What?” I mumbled, blinking up at her, bleary eyed. “I saw that creepy lady, Rae! She’s in my room, my chest hurts so much!” she cried while clutching her chest as she dropped heavily to the floor. “Mom, get in here! It’s Nicole!” I screamed, kneeling next to my sister as I heard sudden thuds of footsteps rushing from our parent’s room.

ANNIKA BALDWIN

The Reflection

So, this was what it all came to: being surrounded by a multitude of individuals and being completely alone. This was what it was all about: meaningless chatter falling on her deaf ears. Without a single sound word of advice or comfort. Not, she bitterly thought, that she would have taken it if it was given. Yes. This is what it’s all about. This was what it came down to. This is it. What she imagined Hell to be. The lighter flickered, and the cigarette glowed against Era’s lips. The burn sunk into her chest as she breathed deeply. Despite the effort of her muscles, she still coughed on the exhale. Her nose crinkled as she eyed the cylinder between her fingers. Poison neatly rolled in paper. Stunk of death, too. No telling why she still insisted on putting it in her mouth and airways. Era sucked on the cigarette as though her life depended on it. The smoke blew out in an aggressive huff. “Why do you insist on killing yourself?” Her mother had said, needing no answer. “My choice,” Era had answered anyway. “Well, I wish you wouldn’t.” Era had shrugged. Her mother’s added thought was said in an undertone— “Of course, it doesn’t matter what I say…” “It’s nothing, really,” Era shrugged again. The nonchalance spilled off her easy shoulders and bored mouth. Letting another exhalation of smoke fill the air, Era shook herself free from her thoughts. Her eyes drifted to the maze of puddles inches from the door. Rain painfully dripped from the miniscule awning. The sky must have been depressed that winter—it rarely stopped crying. The obnoxious nobodies huddled into their seats, cradling their cigarettes. Era leaned out into the rain, studying the puddle before her. She caught sight of her reflection, ghostly and insubstantial. Bold lipstick, slick eyeliner, eyelined-stars on the cheekbone, washed-out skin, hollow under the eyes. Era tapped ashes into the puddle, the resulting ripples disrupting the image.

Samuel Marsen had the kind of arms that swallowed their recipient. Blue eyes that twinkled, wrinkles gathering around the edges. Strength and stubbornness passed on like a family heirloom. When she was twelve, Era didn’t need to witness the hospital conversation to imagine how it had happened. The doctor says, “Your heart’s clogged up in the right and left coronary arteries. It could be from eating habits, but it appears to be smoking primarily.”

“Smoking?” Mama says. “He hasn’t smoked in years.” The doctor shoots a look at Daddy, who shrinks further into the blankets around him. Mama’s face darkens with her own personal storm clouds. “This buildup would only be from consistent smoking,” the doctor says. “It’s either quit smoking, or shorten your years.” Mama glowers at Daddy down on the bed. “I knew it,” she says. “I knew you’d lied! You’ve been smoking at work, haven’t you?” But all Era certainly knew was what her Daddy told her. “When that doctor told me it was either quit smoking or die sooner than later,” Daddy would recount, “that was it for me. No more smoking. It was no choice.” Era knew the stubbornness, but she saw the strength. Resting her head on her arms, she had smiled—and inwardly she vowed to carry that strength like a coat of arms.

The shot burned all the way down, a warm glow—bittersweet all the way. The alcohol dropped into her stomach and settled there, making itself at home. In ten minutes, maybe less, the aftereffects would sweep through her slim body. She swallowed guilt like a lump in her throat. Era motioned to the bartender. “Another Jameson, please.” The room squeezed in on itself like lungs deflating of air. She punched back at the nagging voice that dripped through her brain. She was a lightweight—a voice warned her. It didn’t matter— another voice fired back. The next shot was warmer, less like fire and more like candlelight. She squeezed her eyes shut, imagining the flow through her bloodstream. She waited a minute before tapping on the bar again.

Three shot glasses rested in a row on the metallic-sounding top of the ancient washer. Daddy shimmied the top off the bottle of Maker’s Mark. Like muscle memory of an old sport, he smoothly poured the whiskey into each glass.

Over her shoulder, Era’s older brother grinned, shaking his head at their father’s rekindled interest in whiskey. Daddy handed them each a glass, peeping at the laundry room door. Mama was upstairs, but one never knew. “Cheers,” Daddy said. The glasses clinked, followed by the addictive fire flowing down Era’s chest. “Merry Christmas!” Daddy added with one of his wide, silly grins. “Who the hell are you, dad?” Her brother shook his head, smiling. When Mama found the whiskey, Era could hear her open mouth and fiery eyes, though she was in a completely other part of the house. “Are you becoming an alcoholic again?” She all but shrieked, her voice borderlining hysteria. The pressure she carried around on her shoulders came out in the irritability of her tone. “I can’t have a little whiskey at Christmas?” Daddy responded. “You never have a little whiskey at Christmas.” “Well, maybe I was craving some.” “And that’s what worries me—” Mama yelped. Era rolled her eyes to the ceiling, searching for answers she’d never know. A sip of whiskey didn’t make one an alcoholic. A single shot didn’t mean there was an addiction. She blocked out the sounds of the yells. “Know your limits,” Daddy nodded seriously at Era, later, where she sat at the kitchen’s bar, chin in her hands. “That’s what I do. When it starts going down too smooth, that’s when I know to stop.” Era had never truly enjoyed alcohol. She liked the taste of whiskey, but she had no intention of regularly drinking once she was of age. Yet she stored away her father’s advice.

The third shot was smooth as fresh ice. The fuzzy sensation of warmth was finally dulling Era’s nerves. Her feet took on block-like quality, detached from her form, yet thick like bricks. She twisted her hands before her eyes, studying the ashen quality of them. Her fingers twitched, graceful and decaying. The crooked, done-in-a-basement tattoo on her knuckle seemed further blurred. The numbing spread through the knuckles and bones. Era’s body felt light as she studied the room. Forget, forget, forget, she told her brain. The country song playing cut through her like nails on a chalkboard. She flinched as the volume pounded on her skull. The karaoke volunteer lay on the music altar, a sacrifice, and he was dying slowly—or so his voice would lead drinkers to believe. Era tripped slightly as she moved farther away from the microphone. She slid into the high top in front of the wall spanned by a window. The glass of vodka and cranberry in her hand sloshed, unforgotten. She studied it for a moment longer than necessary before taking a sip. When Era had come from Florida, looking for an escape from the empty silence of her apartment, she had entered the bar to a hero’s welcome. Glasses raised, they sorrowfully saluted her. And every coming had felt like a victory—yet every return also like a defeat. And now? She nursed her solitude like a war injury.

Era built up the walls around her form, retreating deeper within herself. She radiated aggression, secrecy, and disgust—letting it paint her face and curl her mouth—her shoulders hunched forward. Forget, forget, forget, she blearily told herself. “When it goes down too smooth… Quit smoking or die sooner than later…” Die sooner—die sooner—die sooner—like the throbbing of her heartbeat. Her father loomed in her mind— She shot the vodka and cranberry, hoping the poison was good for something. The fluorescent lights behind her hit the glass and clashed with the night. The resulting mirror quality caught Era’s eye. A slight jolt flashed through her. But, no, it was just her reflection. Her own. Dark eyes, pointed cheeks, raggedy hair…

She was sixteen years old again. Her legs pounded against the driveway, arms pumping, lungs burning from the exercise and the anxiety. She burst through the garage door. “Daddy—” the scream that broke free from her lips was unearthly. It called out for the ghosts in every corner of the house; it shrieked in the voice of the demons inside her. Every word was anguished, breaking into a million pieces, wrenching free from her throat. Daddy's blue eyes were terrified as he stumbled around the corner, catching the child that flew into his arms. Words got suffocated and choked in her throat, her fists, her screams—uncontrolled—as though there was no more Era, just the chaos. I can’t—I can’t—I can’t—The screams reverberated; the dogs cowered, one of them diving beneath the couch. Era could feel the darkness pressing in on her, trying to touch her body—caressing it. There was no way to cover herself. Daddy’s eyes searched the hallway behind the trembling form he held in his arms. She sobbed into his chest, the shirt soaking with saltwater. The stoic man said nothing. He smoothed her hair down her back, clutching her to him. And he never did find out what happened that day. Era never told him; he never asked. But the next time her heart shattered and flooded from her mouth like darkness in a fantasy movie, Daddy was no longer there.

“What do you want, darling?” The blustering boy spanned the bar with his arm. “Anything you like!” Era masked the dripping disgust with a shy smile—shaky from Jameson. “Tequila!” Her voice rose over the grating music. “You heard the lady,” the boy grinned. He touched Era’s arm, and she flinched. Her fingers snatched at the tequila shot the bartender placed before her. Salt—shot—lime. Her mouth screwed up as she grimaced. “Woo!” He hollered. “I like a girl that can shoot her liquor.” If possible, he moved closer. “I could easily do another,” she fired off a smile that she hoped was coquettish. It hit its mark, sliding all over his glazed face.

“I’ll drink to that,” he grinned again. “Callie!” The bartender turned. “Two more tequila

shots!”

He shot his tequila and devoured Era’s appearance. Era swallowed the booze and the cringe that swept through her.

“Era?” Her mother’s voice sounded faraway and stuffy. Era wasn’t sure she wanted to deal with this right now. She had to be at work in thirty minutes; she wasn’t even completely dressed. “Hey, Mom,” she struggled to keep the edge of exasperation out of her tone. “I’m already running late for work. Can I call you later? I gotta go.” “Your father’s dead.” The Marsens didn’t beat around the bush or sugarcoat truth. The words knocked the wind out of Era’s lungs. Her brain, meanwhile, continued to slowly turn the idea over, unable to comprehend. Your father’s dead—your father’s dead—your father’s dead—like her heartbeat pounding. “What?” She finally said. “Daddy’s dead.” Her mother’s voice caught on a splinter. “It was last night—in his sleep— his heart…You know, how his heart is.” “No,” Era numbly replied, though a reply wasn’t warranted. “I’m so sorry, honey.” The tears were coming through the phone. “I’m so sorry. We found him…” “No,” Era interrupted. “No.” No. The ground crumbled beneath her feet. There was nothing.

The liquor burned just as much coming back up—probably more. Era retched out her intestines into the toilet beneath her shaking palms. Muffled, the mellowness of “Ain’t No Sunshine” drifted through the bathroom door. Era paused, feeling her chest squeeze. Maybe she was having a heart attack. Maybe it would end it quickly. “Ain’t no sunshine when she’s goneOnly darkness every day— ” Era held her breath. Her guts spilled from her mouth into the toilet again. She would be surprised if she had any guts left. She wretchedly coughed on the bitter acid tearing at her throat. Era shakily moved to her feet. She turned to the sink behind her. Water flew from faucet to face. It was everywhere—dripping from her hair—sliding from her cheeks—blurring her mascara—or had she put any on to begin with? She gulped the metallic-tinted liquid, trying to rinse away the burn.

She straightened, and her breath caught in her throat. A creature of ash and shadow stared back at her. Something dripped from its torn and thinning hair. Its eyes were gaunt and red, yawning black holes. Its nose was hooked. Its mouth leered at her, teeth jagged, blood drooling from the corner of the lacerated lips. Era stepped back, squeezing her eyes shut and digging her nails into her temples. It was just her reflection.

“I’m moving out, Dad.” She had said it quietly, packed with conviction. The sort of walking on eggshells she typically did at the time. Daddy had looked up from his mug—the kind that holds about four cups of coffee. “I got an apartment,” Era added. Daddy’s jaw tightened slightly, but all he said was, “Where?” “In Florida.” His eyebrows shot up. “I got a job down there. I’m gonna finish school there,

too.”

Daddy raised the mug and took a long swig of coffee. He swallowed with a grimace, pushing words out. “Why?” “I gotta move out,” Era simply replied. “Why?” Daddy repeated. “And why Florida? So far.” “I can’t keep doing this, Dad.” She shrugged off her own words and the words that echoed through her head. Always someone else’s voice inside. The plague of the Overthinker. Daddy studied the maple tree outside the sliding glass door. “Is it your mother?” He finally asked. Era was quiet, tapping her fingers on the bar. “I’m not a bitch, Dad. And I’m not a whore,” she quietly spoke without directly answering. She met his eyes. The day she was sixteen passed through their gaze. “I need to get out. It’ll be better for all of us.” Daddy absentmindedly nodded. “I leave in a week,” Era finished, leaving the room and her father in her wake. Letting his eyes chase after her. The night before she left, Era trudged up to the garage, stinking of cooking grease, her bones aching. Her father reclined in a folding chair in the mouth of the garage. A beer was in one hand as a cigar perched between his knuckles. Era was too tired to feel surprise. “How was work?” Daddy greeted. “Fine.” Era moved past. “Wait, honey—sit.” Daddy waved a hand to the floor by his side. Era hesitated. “Dad, I’m exhausted.” “Just sit for a minute.” Sighing, Era lowered herself onto the cement beside him. Their unspoken thoughts filled

the murky air. Their unspoken secrets—so like each other. Era thought of the full pack of cigarettes in the console of her car. Untouched. Just in case. God-willing, her mother and job would drive her to seek consolation in a cylinder of drugs. Yet she never lit one; she just kept it. A reminder— of her father’s words. “Sing something for me, would ya, baby?” Daddy finally broke the silence. “Dad…” But she stopped with another sigh. “What do you want me to sing?” “‘Ain’t No Sunshine.’” So, Era sang. The notes drifted around them and lifted out of the garage and into the twilight

air.

“Ain’t no sunshine when she’s gone, and this house just ain’t no home, every time she goes away…” When Era finished, her father drank his beer, staring off into space. And Era simply rose and walked away. The next day, Era left. Ohio didn’t greet her again for two years. And when she did return, the garage’s music had died, shattering in a million broken music notes on the pavement.

The tequila guy was jostling against Era’s body. How many cigarettes was this now? She mentally asked the flaring paper in her hand. She laughed, almost hysterically, the sound spilling from her lips and staining the air. She almost dropped the cylinder of hot ash. The boy smoothed her hair. Jerkily, she pulled away. “Someone bought shots for the whole bar,” a man shouted out the back door. The boy whooped, grasping Era’s arm. “Shots on the house!” He sang. Era grinned through the smoke. Her chest constricted like someone had placed a blood pressure gauge around her lungs—squeezing tighter and tighter. She clumsily brushed the guy off. “Cigarette first,” she told him. “Go drink.” She sucked the nicotine into her lungs, feeling them constrict further. Then she tossed the butt—missing the ashtray—stumbling back for another shot.

His ashes were placed in a container and dropped within the ground. A burial plot that cost over $1000—cheaper than it could have been had Daddy not requested to be cremated. It was Era that wanted a stone. A plot. A place to sit and stare. A place to leave—well, flowers, she supposed—though bars of chocolate would be more appropriate.

In Memory of Samuel Marsen Aug 10, 1968 - Jan 5, 2020 Forever and Always

The words burned themselves as an imprint into Era’s brain. She stood frozen, hands shoved in her pockets, letting the world of mourners continue to float around her. Arms around her shoulders—people that asked, “How are you?” —straight A’s a semester after—a move, a job, an apartment and bringing in the rent —people that said, “Your dad would be so proud of you.” So proud of you. Era replied, “I don’t think the dead care all that much.” “Your father would be so proud of you,” Mama told Era over the phone recently. “…I’m…proud of you.” The effort to push the words out pinched Era’s ear. She cringed away from the words she’d never heard from her mother’s lips—the words her father had never heard. Though Mama couldn’t see it anyway, Era turned up the corners of her mouth. “Thanks, Mom.” She should make a bigger effort. She should come around more. But she didn’t. And she flipped off the living room lights and locked the door. And she climbed into the car and drove back to the bar. And she pulled out the pack of cigarettes in the center console. And she ordered a shot of Jameson and quickly took it—letting it flood her senses that refused to be entirely silenced. And she took another shot of Jameson and let it silence the nagging that persisted, telling her what she was doing—but she never took advice anyway, did she?

The wooden planks of the bar were uneven, grabbing at Era’s shoes, tripping her up. She just barely caught her footing. The room was full of faces—faces and faces and voices she didn’t know. Everyone was looking at her—at least, she thought they were. Their eyes devoured her like the boy’s. It was like a nightmare where she was naked. The eyes crowded in on her; the voices pounded on her skull like a hammer. The fortune of the bathroom door cleanly opening in front of her—rather than being locked—barely registered in Era’s brain. She slipped, falling to her knees in front of the toilet. Her kneecaps stung as her throat burned, more liquor and bile exiting. A trace of red laced the contents in the bowl. So, this was what it all came to: nicotine in her chest and four separate alcohols spewing from her mouth. The blue-eyed man with wrinkles around his eyes was a rotting corpse in the ground. His music and laughter silenced. His heart forever still. For all his words, his body still stopped. For all his advice against smoking and drinking, she had only failed. And after all, what were the words of a dead man worth? Nothing. “No,” the word hoarsely pushed free from Era’s lips. “Everything.” But it didn’t matter. She threw up the smoke that had gone to her lungs—and yet it stuck behind.

How could the world keep turning? She threw up the drink that swirled in her stomach, and yet her brain was muddled. How could the world go on when her rock was gone? She threw up the anxiety that twisted her chest—and yet it gripped her stomach. How could the sun go on shining? She threw up every thought that clawed at her brain—and yet not one was absolved. Wasn’t this all that it came down to? Nothing? “Your Daddy would be proud of you,” they said. But what were the thoughts of a dead

man?

Era achingly pulled herself to her feet. Every inch of every part of her body was sore. Her chest felt like it had been shot full of holes. As her hands gripped the edges of the sink, she rose her eyes to the mirror. The face was nothing more than a skull with grey rags of skin hanging from it. The mouth pooled blood, gaping at her. The hair fell out in chunks around her shoulders. The sockets dripped a smothering, sticky black liquid, pooling down her neck. Blood-struck, blackened eyes stared back at her. Era reached out a finger to touch it, and it reached out and touched her.

She would have sworn on God that mirror shattered, the shards splitting her open. She stumbled from the bathroom, the earth lurching beneath her. The people leered like the reflection. Clowns in a haunted house. She tripped, banging her elbow on the bar. Pay… She blearily forced her brain to function. Have to pay… “Careful there.” The blue eyes, long gouged out and digested by beetles, stared her in the face. Her heartbeat flooded her ears. “You’re pretty pale,” he continued. “I’d ask if you wanted a drink, —” He frowned at her— “but seems you really need to be cut off. You’re not driving home, are you?” “You’re dead,” she gracefully answered, her voice dripping monotone. But he went on wiping the inside of shot glasses. \ “Need to pay?” He asked, looking up again. She numbly nodded—then shook her head. He paused and continued studying her. “Want a cigarette?” “You don’t smoke.” “No—but you seem to.” He moved from behind the bar, haze surrounding him like a hot car on a summer day. Era was moving, gliding—his arm gently leading her. The rain sent a spray beneath the small roof at the bar’s backdoor. He flicked out a cigarette and a lighter, lit the butt, and placed it in her butterfly hands. It burned out between her fingers. “Why are you here?” She asked. But he silently watched the falling drops, a calm across his face.

“Why are you here?” She cried. The ashes tumbled down her knee, landing on her shoes. “I’m not.” It was a voice as deep and warm of a bass as she remembered—yet it felt like a voice she didn’t know. “Why?” Era whispered. “I loved your mom, you know. Always loved you both. Sunshine. Now, wanna pay out your tab?” “Wonder this time where she’s goneWonder if she’s gone to stay” Bill Withers was crooning again. “Let’s get you out of here.” She clung to the elbow by her side. “Come home-” Era whispered. “You’re not here.” The disconnected thoughts swirled in the pit of her stomach. “No, but you still are, baby.” The blue eyes sunk deeper into the head- into the flesh. “You can’t live like a ghost when you’re not.” Her melting flesh felt heavy on the metal of the door. Solid. Real. She was alive, imploding and fastening- collapsing and building- all at once.