Something Blue

Trigger Warning: references opioids, references a human corpse.

Something old, and something new. Something borrowed, and something blue.

Something old: a silk scarf embroidered with butterflies is draped around the bedpost, the same as it once draped over her grandmother’s shoulders. Its colors are faded. It smells of powdery perfume.

Something new: a plane ticket. It’ll take her to their wedding destination in Thailand. Her fiancée will be here soon with the taxi.

Something borrowed—that’s easy. It’s a CD her big sister lent her years ago: Pink Floyd’s Dark Side of the Moon. People forget about that sort of thing after a while.

Finally, something blue: a bottle of blue pain pills. Not romantic, but necessary. From looking at her, one wouldn’t think she needs them. It’s only been about an hour, and so far it’s no more than a dull, constant drone.

Her fiancée told her that being born is traumatizing. She wouldn’t know. It seems that this pain is the closest thing to it she might experience.

She packs a veil and a white slip. Rooting around in the closet, there isn’t a pair of white pumps to go with it. The beige ones will have to do. The veil looks like something a bride would wear at a bachelorette party. At least, that’s what he said when he saw it.

In the living room, on the mantle, there’s a picture of her and her sister at their grandma’s one hundredth birthday party. The sights of balloons and warm embraces, the sounds of chatter and song, the scents of snuffed candles and sugary icing drip steadily into her mind. She drops it into the suitcase.

She empties her jewelry box into a slider bag and grabs a couple sets of clothes. She cracks open the safe full of important documents—social security card, birth certificate, and whatnot. Into the suitcase they go.

Birth certificate. Technically that’s something borrowed, too. All this stuff is. Not that it makes a difference.

There’s a whole collection of vinyl that won’t fit. Why couldn’t they all have been CDs?

She gets down on her knee, bending to peer under the bed and—

She hisses, holding her back. There it is. They always told her to lift with her legs, and she didn’t listen. Neither did her mother or her mother’s mother. She glances at the suitcase, considering the meds. He said to only take them if the pain was an eight or higher. Whatever that means—the pain is too new to quantify. Best hold off for now.

She takes a second to breathe before straining to reach a shoe box under the bed. Gritting her teeth, she slides the shoebox out. Inside are more pictures. She shuffles through them, evoking a cacophony of memories. Most of them are childhood photos—anything newer than that would be on her phone.

She hovers over the suitcase, clutching the box. The suitcase is getting full. Perhaps the clothes could be thinned out.

The bag of jewelry is arguably the most valuable thing, next to the medication. The jewelry holds memories, but they’re thin and faint. It doesn’t sparkle the way the photographs do. The jewelry clatters when she dumps it out onto the floor. She pours the pictures into the bag instead. It fits neatly in the suitcase.

Someone knocks on the door. She pauses.

“Don’t worry, it’s me.” Her fiancée, Roger.

She lets him in.

“What’ve you got so far?” he asks, looking over the suitcase. He frowns, inspecting the bag and the framed photo. “Lots of pictures.”

“I like the memories.”

He gives her a sidelong glance. He sighs, and his eyes search the ceiling. When he finds what he’s looking for, he drags a chair into the kitchenette and steps onto it. “Did you pack toiletries?”

“Toiletries?”

He cracks a smile. “Toothbrush, toothpaste, soap.” He takes the batteries out of the fire alarm, steps off the chair, and throws them away. From a drawer, he grabs another slider bag and heads for the bathroom. “I’ll get them for you. Take another look around for anything you can’t live without.”

Sounds and images cling to every little thing. If only she could take those parts without the things attached.

Roger emerges from the bathroom holding the slider bag, which is now filled with bottles. He offers it to her. “See? Toiletries.”

She looks them over. The bottles are covered in a lot of text that feels like bursts of soapy fragrance and hot water on her skin. The toothbrush, wrapped in toilet paper, floods her senses with keen mint. She takes the bag from him and nestles it in with the rest.

“I think this is it.”

He puts a hand on her shoulder. “Are you sure? Remember, we’re not coming back.”

She takes one last look around. The more she sees, the more whatever meaning attached simply fades away. It withers like a ghost departing. After all, there are new memories to be made.

“I’m sure.”

He looks down at her left hand, frowning. He holds it up. “The ring.” He smiles. “We can’t forget that.”

“Right. I’ll get it.”

Regardless, he follows her to the bathroom and leans against the doorway. She bends down, and another sharp pain shoots through her back.

He clicks his tongue. “Sorry you have to deal with that. It’s a good sign, though. It means the procedure worked as intended.”

She nods, gritting her teeth and lowering to her knee. “I don’t know if it’s an eight or not.”

“You’ll figure it out with time.”

She reaches to the limp hand of the donor she was cloned from—Amanda—laying in the bathtub. The donor’s fingers are ice cold. The ring is cold, too, when she slides it off and onto her own finger.

Amanda takes one last look at the donor’s face. At her own face. The only difference between that and looking in a mirror is that the donor’s eyes are closed, and Amanda’s brain keeps tricking her into seeing them flicker from sleep or a rise and fall in her chest. Amanda has to remind herself that she isn’t actually moving.

“Let’s get going,” Roger says.

Roger gently helps her up. He empties a can of lighter fluid into the bathtub, strikes a match, and tosses it in. The flames are quick to start, and Amanda covers her nose. He takes her by the hand and leads her away. He zips the suitcase closed, carrying it for her to the front door before urging her through.

“What would I call her, anyway?” Amanda asks.

Roger takes her hands, smiling. He kisses her. “It doesn’t matter. Let’s go.”

They take the elevator down.