The Unwanted Guest

My black converse squeak on the fake hardwood floor, as I nod in acknowledgment to the lady giving the unit tour. My hands shake with poorly-restrained excitement, as my feet land in front of the open double doors to the empty guest bedroom. This is perfect I think to myself, scanning the four walls, two closets, two windows, aggressive ceiling fan, and full bathroom. I move onto the living room, kitchen, and loft bedroom, picturing the life I would have here. What table would I put here? Should I put pictures there? What will my roommates bring? I was right about one thing, I would have a life here, but it would look nothing like what I had pictured. In some ways for the better, and in others for the worst… 

Every preconception I once had of this room melts away as I peel my eyes open to the same aggressive ceiling fan circling above my head. I’ve woken up so many times in this room. In the past it would be with all my friends and roommates piled on the floor after a party. Some mornings I would wake up on my mattress, which I hastily dragged down the stairs in order to spend a long night with my roommates, whispering about guys we liked, or classes we hated. Recently, it’s been just me, existing in this apartment, waking up alone on my mattress where it now belonged down here. But this morning feels different. Hazily, I gaze down at my bare skin, feeling so foreign to this body I’ve woken up in. I stretch for a blanket but they’re all out of reach. I sit up, noticing my clothes thrown about, abandoned along with my blankets. I try to recollect the events which led to such a distraught and quite literal wake-up call. My body aches as I manage to make my way to the bathroom, greeted by a used condom on the carpet. There’s so much evidence of the company, yet little to no recall of the late night guest. My memory flashes to sliding into the same striped strapless dress that now perches on the edge of my bed, anticipating last minute plans to go to a party. I was dreading another lonely night watching youtube with the two cats I adopted and snuck into the complex, so I happily rescheduled my default plan. I heard a loud knock at the door and shortly left with J who had taken a few classes with me. We had hung out briefly before and he was an acquaintance to both my exes, so I didn’t see the harm in going to a party with a potential friend. To be honest, the party wasn’t much of a party, just a dark living room with lights flashing, enough people to fit in a minivan and terrible Orlando trap music blaring a few decibels too loud. Unfortunately, it wasn’t too far off from some of the parties I’d been to before. We played beer pong without beer, made introductions, and engaged in meaningless small talk. I had a few mixed drinks, but I didn’t want to drink too much, because I had a shift at work the next day. We won a few more games of beer-less pong, drank a little more Malibu, then suddenly J was whisking me away in a rush, claiming he needed to get home. I try to fill the gaps in my head, but I draw a blank as soon as we’re leaving the so-called party. Frustration licks my pale, lifeless, skin, maybe I can wash away the confusion and disgust I feel for my lack of memory. I shrug it off as I turn on the shower, assuming I had too much to drink and I’ll have to live with the drunken mishap. I force myself back into somewhat of a routine, scrubbing myself, brushing my hair into a low bun below my hat and sliding into my work tee-shirt. I pack an outfit to change into after my shift, so I can attend a school event right after. I feed my cats, and I walk to work with one ear-bud in, so I can hear if a car’s passing on the left. I hope one of my neighbor’s is on their way to school, I think. If I’m lucky a friend will pass and offer a ride. Well no luck today I guess. I sigh and turn up my music, trying not to sweat the remainder of my makeup off. I make it to work, a few minutes late, out of breath, and clearly out of sorts. I somehow manage to push through the first half of my shift, indifferent to the everyday annoyances. Although, as the morning rush fades, and the dining room is lulled to a silent hum of machinery, my thoughts get louder. I look up at the TV every once in a while to try to distract myself from discomfort, but my skin crawls as my jeans slip down when I bend over. Anxiety creeps over me, when my manager talks to me in the back alone. I can’t help the urge to shed my skin like a snake and abandon it like my blankets. I want to scream, but this time for somebody to notice that something’s wrong, it wouldn’t hurt if they could fill in the gaps too. I choke back tears, yet to process why they’re forming to begin with. I remind myself of shifts I had in high school, wiping tables and choking back tears, fighting for breath as people ordered chicken strips and talked about their plans for the weekend. I’m familiar with pain, whatever this is, it’ll pass I tell myself. After my shift is up, I sigh a breath of relief, clock out and head straight to the staff bathrooms of the school. The stalls are bigger, it’s kept cleaner, and plus there’s free tampons for me to stock up on. I strategically transform from a fast-food employee to an art school socialite, all the while collecting a few bruises and a cracked phone screen. I scramble to shove my uniform in my pink duffel, and freshen up with a few spritz of a body spray I found on sale at bath and bodyworks and deodorant from the dollar section at target. I slick back my loose baby hairs, secure my bun with a Bobby pin, and walk my way into the crowd of crazed creatives, in search of any distraction.

There’s more chaos than I expected. I hear a DJ performing to my left, a motivational speaker on my right, and students aimlessly walking back and forth trying to pick which one to pay attention to. I spot two boys I had a few classes with before, James and Ethan, so I subtly make my way toward them. James hugs me, asks why he never sees me anymore, and introduces me to his friend Ethan. We check into the event, continue pacing for a few more minutes, then decide to ditch the mayhem. Ethan tells me more about his home studio set-up as he shows me to his car in the jammed parking lot. We're talking about music and the classes we had together, trying our best to break the ice on the way to his apartment. Next thing I know, we’re drinking an IPA and sharing the music we’ve released at Ethan's. I can feel all the tension start to relax in my muscles, I’m in my element now. As I’m humming along to lyrics I had written, I get a text. J is telling me how much fun last night was. I practically throw up my own heart, as it throbs in my the base of my chest. After a few moments, James breaks the silence and asks me what’s wrong. I tell James every faint detail I have: sipping on a few drinks, meeting a few new faces, then leaving in a rush, only for everything to cut to black. James hesitates to say anything at first, then asks me if I made my drinks. I sink back into my memory only to remember that J was so eager to refill my drinks, even claiming there wasn’t a chaser left, and to drink the Malibu straight. I had about two mixed drinks and two shots in total, less than we would at a family Christmas party, so that wouldn’t explain such a big memory gap. I message J back, over-analyzing every possible way of wording “what happened last night?” J, claiming he was drunk the whole entire night, yet showing no signs of intoxication, doesn’t leave out a single detail. He excitedly reclaims the fun night we supposedly had together. He sends message after message, saying how great it was and that it should definitely happen again. Still failing to recollect all the files lost from my memory, I continue to express my confusion. He sends one last message explaining that he took the condom off because it was uncomfortable, yet failed to address why the condom was my only morning greeting, followed by a medicinal haze and a missing memory. He ends the string of messages with “can you get plan B?” Then follows it with “are you going to get pregnant?” My stomach sinks as I nervously swirl in an office chair. James looks me dead in the eye, and gives me a rundown of his observations. Concerned, James continues to explain the fact that J having access to my cup all night, his sudden anxiety to go home (only to overstay at mine), the unexplained blackout and the pain I felt everywhere on my body, were not signs of a normal hookup. Without any further direction or guidance, I did what I do best. I blocked J’s number, I shut everyone out, and I shut myself in, feeling torn in this body which has satisfied others yet shrinks in shame under the covers. Time can heal, they say… If only they knew what demons lie in the mind of a young woman with repressed memories. 

All I see now is the single memory that later resurfaced, the memory I fought so hard to regain and now the memory I try forget again. It's almost as if I'm simultaneously waking up and falling deeper into a dream. It's the same old room, with the same aggressive fan, spinning above me. The only difference is this time, the guest is on top of me. It hurts, what's happening? I'm struggling to move or speak, but not a sound can save me anymore. Something's been taken, that can never be given back. If only I had stayed home that night, in that bedroom I now dread waking up in. Now every morning I lay, sick to my stomach, remembering the first time I recognized the room, but not the guest who stayed in it the night before... a fragile, cracked shell of a human carcass, devoured during her “sleep”.