by reid kalaw
edited by jessica liu and alloe mak
It’s hard to look at.
Not because it’s ugly. It just keeps changing; its shape, its colour, its size. My eyes don’t know where to look.
Were you a good person?
The words suck the air out of my lungs and replace it with lead. I can’t breathe.
Even with no eyes, I know that it is staring at me, through me, into me.
It asks me again.
Were you a good person?
When I wake up, Jon is still sleeping.
We’re so close. I can feel him breathing; soft huffs of warm air on the nape of my neck, his chest against my back.
In. Out. In. Out.
When I slip out from under the covers and into the bathroom, I almost feel sorry.
Scattered on his sink counter are a mix of mine and his things: his aftershave, my La Mer, and his fraying toothbrush. On the corner, next to his contacts, sits Jon’s prescription Adderall. Within the orange bottle, the pills stare at me, begging me to let them out. I glance back through the bathroom door, double-checking that Jon is still asleep before I relent and empty the bottle into the palm of my hand.
The warmth of my hands melts the outsides of the capsules. Before I can regret it, I toss them into my mouth and swallow.
My phone vibrates.
SARAH: we still on tdy? i miss u
I text her back.
ME: yea ofc. miss u 2. ill see u soon.
I wash away my guilt with my travel-size Barbara Sturm and spray myself with his cologne.
When the air returns, I avoid the question.
“Is there such thing as a good person?”
For a second, The Universe swells, and I think it is over. A second later, it shrinks again, smaller than it was before.
By the time I arrive in Los Feliz, Jon’s cologne is already gone.
Sarah greets me with a small kiss and a caress of the cheek. It makes my stomach hurt.
The place is not my usual scene. It’s a small, hole-in-the-wall restaurant with low ceilings and LED candles. The vintage Hermes on my arm makes me feel painfully overdressed. But Sarah lives around the corner.
“How was your family dinner?” She leans forwards. Our knees are touching.
“Good, yeah.” I sip my drink and purse my lips. It’s sour.
“Yeah?” She is close enough that I can see every detail of her face. I can count her freckles. In the sun, her hair is brighter than my mimosa. She smiles at me again and squeezes my hand.
I hum and take another sip of my drink.
Sometimes I feel bad for Sarah. For lying to her. For not loving her. For fucking her anyway.
The guilt comes to me in the middle of the night. It screams at me, asking for answers I cannot give. Do you really love him? Why can’t you love her? Why can’t you tell either of them the truth?
Sarah clears her throat and motions for a waiter to bring the check. She begins to search her purse, looking for her wallet.
“I got it,” I offer.
“Are you sure?”
I wave her off. “It’s fine, really.”
Her smile is coy when she kisses my cheek. As she peels back, she whispers in my ear. “I’ll pay you back when we get back to mine, ‘kay?”
Sometimes I feel bad for Sarah.
But the thought escapes my mind when she is on top of me.
It asks me again.
Were you a good person?
At this moment—this weird, tiny, little space between life and death—the Universe feels tangible; like I could reach my hand out and grab it by the throat. I want to. I want to bring it close to me, force it to listen to me, and make it see my side.
I try, but before I can open my mouth, the Universe shakes its head and says the words I am beginning to dread.
Were you a good person?
Sarah is asleep. Jonathan is texting me.
JON: What should I wear tn?
My finger is tracing abstract shapes along Sarah’s thigh. I type a response lazily with my free hand.
ME: im wearing blue pls dont clash ahaha
JON: LOL. K. Send a pic over, I’ll match w/ my pocket square.
From her kitchen, Sarah’s cat is staring at me. He hisses at me. I flip him off.
ME: perf ty
JON: OFC. Love you.
I turn off my phone and reach for the still-lit cigarette on her bedside table.
The sun is shining through Sarah’s blinds, bleeding onto her bare skin. I can’t take my eyes off her.
For a moment, I am tempted to stay in bed.
I am tempted to forget about everything:; my gallery, my commitments, my art. For that moment, that single little microsecond, I want to forget about my life with Jon.
When the moment is over, I slip out of bed and text Jon that I’ll be home soon.
The Universe is changing. Shrinking inwards and folding into a new, human-like shape. It grows limbs first. Then a head. Then pointed leather shoes—the kind I haven’t seen since I stopped going home.
The shape of my father stands across from me.
He’s dressed in a suit, staring at me. His dark, empty eyes are fixed on my face. I feel the urge to squirm under his gaze.
He’s exactly the way I remember him.
With slick dark hair, his calloused hands remain clasped behind his back as his dark leather shoes shine impossibly in the void of my limbo. As he takes a step in my direction, I feel the inexplicable compulsion to apologize.
My father is pacing back and forth, shaking his head. I feel like a child again, a little misbehaving kid who broke one of daddy’s things.
And then he looks at me again. And I want to shrink backward until I no longer exist.
My father’s eyes bore into me, digging a hole through my skull and into my brain. I used to think a piece of my father existed in me—moving me, controlling me, changing how I think. Sometimes I think that the part of me that loves Jonathan and the part of me that is my father are one and the same.
In life, my father spoke in discipline. In death, he does the same.
Were you a good person?
Before we leave for the party, Jonathan pulls me into the bathroom and kisses me on the nose.
“You’re so beautiful,” he whispers. He is holding my shoulders, his touch gentle. Always so gentle. “I love you.” He smiles. “So much.”
I can’t look at him. He notices and uses one of his hands to nudge my chin, forcing me to look anyway. He sees my expression before I have the thought to change it.
“Is something wrong?” He frowns. “Bea. Look at me. Seriously.”
I shrug. “It’s nothing. Really.” He doesn’t believe me. “You don’t need to worry about it, ‘kay? It’s not important.”
He frowns and pulls me closer to him. “Are you sure?” He’s whispering. “You can tell me anything, y’know?” I hum and shrug his arms off of me. He kisses my forehead anyway.
I have to go on the tips of my toes to kiss him back. When I tell him I love him, I do so with my face buried into his chest.
The shape of my mother sits in front of me, legs crossed. Her eyes are empty of emotion. She grabs my hand. Hers are cold. She pulls me down to the floor. She begins tracing a star into my palm. Her inky fingers leave no trace on my skin.
I am nearly convinced she is real, that she’s really here, next to me.
Nearly.
But it is too quiet.
If this were real, if she were real, she would say You need to eat. Sit up straight. You look tired. And maybe, if she was feeling more serious, Why don’t you come home?
I’m busy, I would say. Sorry.
My mother wouldn’t care. She would force me to look at her when she would ask: Why do you leave me alone?
I would lose my temper. Stop bothering me, I would say.
Then she would snap at me, say: You should never talk to your mother that way.
And maybe I would apologize. More likely, I would say that I don’t care. Or that I don’t have to listen to you. And then I would storm off to my room, run upstairs, and slam my door.
Then my mother would follow with a bowl of freshly chopped fruit in her hands and a soft knock on the door. I wouldn’t open it. For a while, we would sit there, separated by a door. Eventually, my mother would leave and I would grab the bowl. The fruit would sit in my garbage can until it rotted.
But this is not real.
So my mother and I sit in silence.
Before I learned how to yell, my mother would brush my hair with her hands. Now she does the same. We sit for a long time. Maybe minutes. Maybe hours. I don’t know. We just sit.
Eventually, my mother breaks. She is crying when she asks me again.
Were you a good person?
Sometime after I arrive at the party, I find myself alone at the bar.
Jonathan is gone—presumably socializing, which is fine.
My gallery is a success. The room is filled with various other affluent twenty-somethings who try to prove their class by staring at my art with pretend-pensive looks on their face.
I motion for the bartender to pour me another drink. She’s pretty. Dark, curly hair is pulled into a low ponytail that sways behind her as she mixes me another drink.
“Here, miss.” She slides the cup across the counter. “Is there anything else I can do for you?”
I down my drink before I answer. “You can make me another.” She grabs my glass. “Thanks.” I drum my fingers on the bar counter and scan the room.
I find Jonathan on the other side of the gallery. He’s talking amicably with some pretty-looking pseudo-socialite. I can’t quite see her face from this angle.
I squint. She’s tall. Her long red hair looks like fire in the candlelight. Her freckled legs peek out of the slit of her vintage Galliano slip. Something clicks.
Oh.
The bartender passes me my drink. I take a sip and tap her on the shoulder.
“Do you—” I swallow. “Do you see that man over there?”
The bartender—I glance at her nametag, Jenny—pauses her glass polishing and glances in Jonathan’s direction.
“He’s my…” I pause. “Boyfriend.” I take a longer, deeper, swig of my drink. “And her. The one next to him.” I point for good measure. “That’s my girlfriend. Ish.”
Jenny hums and reaches for my glass. I grab her wrist.
“Wait. Please.” I finish the drink. “There. Okay.” I lean forward and release the weight of my head into my hand.
My head is heavy.
“Here, miss.” Jenny passes me another drink. I grab it and tip it toward her gratefully. “So what’s the deal there, then?”
“Well, I don’t know, really,” I admit. “It’s complicated. Because I’m not doing anything wrong, right? But I feel guilty, y’know, just, like, all the time.” I take another sip. The room is spinning a little. “But it doesn’t make any sense. Jon’s happy. Sarah—” I take a deep breath. “—Sarah’s happy. I’m happy. So nothing’s wrong.” I turn away from Jon and Sarah. I can’t look at them. “I’m not doing anything wrong.”
Jenny takes my glass from me and hands me something clear. “It’s water,” she says. “Drink up sweetheart.”
I roll my eyes but comply anyway. “I’m gonna go talk to him. Her. Them. ” I finish my drink. “Whatever.”
The Universe splits in two, and I know who they are before their faces are even formed.
When Jonathan and Sarah speak, they speak in unison.
Were you a good person?
Jonathan and Sarah are talking to me. At me. Through me, maybe.
I’m not even sure I said anything.
I can’t hear them. Not really. I think I’m past listening at this point.
They’re angry with me, that much I can tell. It doesn’t matter. They would’ve found out at some point.
Involuntarily, my eyes begin to unfocus. I feel myself falling backward, but one of my paintings is there to catch me.
“What are you doing?” Jon pulls me forward. “Are you even listening?” People are staring at us. Sarah’s been crying.
I have to leave.
“I’m gonna go.”
Sarah doesn’t believe me. “What?”
“I’m gonna go.”
They’re coming closer. I can’t move.
Were you a good person? They ask me. Their voices are desperate now. Were you a good person?
“Stop.” I back up. “Please.”
They continue. Closer.
“Please.” I’m begging now. “Jon. Sarah. Please, stop.” Closer.
They’re crying. Inky black tears falling. Drip. Drip.
Were you a good person? Again. Were you a good person?
I’m on the roof.
Jonathan is following me. Sarah too. I can hear their footsteps. Thump. Thump. Thump.
It’s cold. Los Angeles is getting rare rain.
“Come back, please.” Jonathan’s voice has softened. Sarah agrees.
“We can talk downstairs.” She’s approaching me slowly, her hands held in front of her. “Let’s go.”
I have an idea.
I take a step closer to the edge of the roof. Jon’s body tenses. Sarah’s face drops. I resist the urge to smile.
“Beatrice, please.” Sarah’s voice is shaking. “Don’t be like this. Come on. Let’s go home.”
Jon takes a step closer as if to catch me. I take another step back. My heels are floating over the edge of the building. I could do it. I could fall. Just the possibility is enough to get my heart racing.
The rain starts coming down harder. Thunder rumbles in the distance.
“It’s gonna be okay.” Sarah’s voice is barely above a whisper. “C’mon.”
They almost forgive me. Jon’s fists have relaxed. Sarah’s face is white instead of red.
I just need a little more. I look over the edge. The pavement looks back at me, twenty floors below. There are people watching—cameras too. The flash makes my head pound harder than it already is.
Jon’s crying now too. He’s so close to me. One step and I’d be in his arms again, just like this morning. Sarah stands behind him, peeking over his shoulder.
It’s enough.
“Okay.” I take a step away from the edge.
But it’s wet. I slip.
I’m falling.
I can’t see anymore. Jon is gone. Sarah is gone. All that’s left are the voices.
Were you a good person?
I don’t have a body anymore.
Were you a good person?
I’m not real anymore.
Were you a good person?
I don’t know.