The Yellow Couch

My teeth dug into the worn leather of the pocketbook that doubled as my keychain as I fumbled through my purse for my apartment key. Cherry-red lipstick. A receipt. Half a granola bar. More lipstick. A sudden misstep had me stumbling forward, ankle rolling painfully inside my strappy wedge sandal and nearly pitching me face-first into the hallway carpet. I stifled a giggle and pushed my key into the lock.

“Why isn’t this thing working,” I muttered as the keyhole drifted again.

I blinked hard, trying to clear the haze as stone scraped against metal. It took me a blurry second to realize… I was holding my black tourmaline protection charm my sister had bought for me when I moved into the dorms instead of my key.

“Shit.” My curse muffled against leather as I dumped my purse open, spilling its contents onto the carpeted hallway. A tube of lipstick bounced up, clinking softly against the door.

I sucked in a sharp breath and held it, not daring to add to the noise.

One second.

Two.

Three seconds.

A muffled scrape sounded inside the apartment, followed by the distinct shuffling drag of half-asleep footsteps.

Shit.

I jerked down, scooping up the miscellaneous items and shoving them back into my purse, hoping to make a dash for the alcove before—

“Jenny?”

My fingers curled around the cool, black stone, my eyes dragging their way up from the mismatched socks in front of me to the striped pajama shorts and crop top my roommate always wore to bed. Her face was perfect blend of shock and judgement as she glared down at me.

“Hey Maegan—just grabbing m’key fob.” I straightened up, then reeled from the motion, room spinning strong enough I had to fling an arm against the wall to keep from keeling over.

That’s the last time I do tequila shots on an empty stomach.

“Jenny, what the hell? It’s three in the morning!” Maegan leaned closer, taking a sniff and wrinkling her nose, the chain on her nostril piercing wiggling with the movement.

“Ugh. You smell like you took a shower in tequila.”

“Ding, Ding, Ding. Clever as’ever.”

“Please tell me, you didn’t drive?” Maegan snapped, folding her arms against her chest.

“Of course not,” I stammered, indignant at the accusation, but also admittedly totally lost as to how I actually did get home.

“You’re unbelievable,” Maegan scolded.

“What can’I say? Tequila is m’lady.” I took a step towards the door, giving a sloppy, sarcastic bow and slamming my shoulder against the door frame hard enough to stumble sideways and into an unamused looking Maegan.

“Oh my g—” She cut off as my hand flipped up, smacking her in the face. “Just get in here!” She jerked me roughly inside and the door clicked behind us. In the cramped entryway, Maegan positioned her body to shield the little shelf, housing the spillover from her insane Labubu doll collection. She threw her arm out protectively. “Watch it!”

The buttons of my overcoat were smooth and large, but my fingers felt clumsy as I tried wrangling them through the buttonholes. “Stupid, tiny… things.”

“Let me do it.” Maegan uncrossed her arms, her fingers slipping the buttons easily through each slot with practiced, annoyed movements.

“Sorry,” I chuckled, allowing her to work her sober magic as the last button slid through and my overcoat hung open.

“What the fuck!” Maegan jerked her hands back, her eyes flying wide. My immediate thought was a spider had somehow crawled out of my nightmares and into my coat and was currently making itself a warm little web home of my shirt. I jolted back, hands flicking in quick panicked motions down my torso as I bumped against the wall, dislodging one of Maegan’s Lububu dolls. Its plush body fell to the ground with a deafening plop.

Maegan didn’t even look.

“What’s wrong?”

She didn’t answer.

“Are you mad I borrowed your shirt? Sorry I didn’t ask, but it’sall good—I was careful! See?” I held the loose ends of the silky material out like sail and glanced down. My lips sagged into a frown as I studied the fabric beneath my bleary gaze. “That’s so weird.”

Wasn’t her shirt white before?

What’s all this red stuff—

My gut wrenched like an invisible fist had sucker punched me and I reeled, nausea filling every pore. Terror permeated everything around me so thickly, I could almost smell it.

Blood.

It’s blood.

So much fucking blood.

My legs trembled as I lunged towards the bathroom, fighting the careening floor and infuriatingly off kilter walls.

“Jenny—shit—” Maegan’s hands flew to my back and arm, guiding me towards the bathroom. We had barely made it there before pain jolted into my kneecaps from how hard I slammed to the floor, heaving mouthful after mouthful of hot, sticky tequila into unsuspecting porcelain. My scalp tugged as Maegan lifted my hair back, cursing softly. When it was finally done, my whole body was shaking. With trembling fingers, I gripped the sides of the toilet for balance, then wiped the back of my mouth with my sleeve.

My red splattered sleeve.

An image seared into my conscious thoughts. A yellow couch. Red liquid pooling on an oriental rug—

Tightness gripped my stomach again, but I’d started dry heaving five minutes ago and there was nothing left for it to reject. I focused on the cool porcelain beneath my fingertips, refusing to linger for even a fractured second on what those red stains blossoming on Maegan’s white shirt might mean, where they’d came from, or rather who they’d came from, because it sure wasn’t from me. Other than the stabbing headache that threatened to pound my skull into oblivion, there wasn’t a scratch on me.

I took a shuddering breath, pushing back until my weight rested on my feet. The straps on my wedges dug into the skin around my ankles but almost welcomed the jolt of clarity the small bite of pain afforded me.

“What happened?” Maegan’s question pounded in my skull.

“I don’t—I don’t remember.”

Maegan’s jaw clenched as she wrung her hands together. “Was it. Did you—”

“I said, I don’t remember!” My head spun and I spread my palms flat against the tile floor to anchor myself against the sudden waves of dizziness.

A sudden hiss sounded as the shower sprung on, accompanied by the scrape of metal against metal as Maegan ripped the shower curtains open. “Get in,” she ordered, gesturing to our bathtub shower combo with a curt nod. “We’ll talk about it after you’re cleaned up.” When I'd lifted both legs over the lip, she held out a hand, eyes hard. “Hand them over. Everything you have on.”

A strange sort of numb pressed in on all sides as I torpidly obeyed. Maegan looked away while I slipped my skirt down my slick legs, pooling in a messed heap on the bathtub floor, then my underwear. Water drizzled on the fabric, soaking them in seconds, rivets streaming from them in thin red lines. My hands shook as my fingers gripped the shirt fabric clinging to my wet torso and arms. I peeled it over my head, the material heavy with moisture as it dragged over my skin.

My stained red skin.

The blood had soaked through the fabric and was now clinging to me in thick patches of crimson, demanding to be acknowledged. I rubbed furiously at the red, trying to rub it away. “Oh god, oh god. Get it off.” My voice pitched high, then cracked as I scrubbed and dug at my skin until my stomach was raw. “Get it off! It won’t come off!”

Images flashed, sharp and sudden.

A dark club. Dancing. Tequila shots at the bar. A cute guy with a small scar through his eyebrow. Laughing with the boy’s arm linked through mine.

My knees buckled and I sunk into a crouch, whimpering and hugging my knees to myself as the tears flowed hot next to streams of falling water prickling against my bare skin. I made myself focus on the droplets dripping from my hair to join the steady stream of pink water disappearing down the drain. Each breath scraped against my ribs as I fought the billowing waves of panic.

Another flash of memory.

The cute guy reclined over me with a lopsided grin. Heat rippling through me as our mouths connected. His tongue slipped into my mouth. My hands covered with thick, sticky blood—

“No, no, no, no!” I grabbed a handful of my soaked hair and moaned into my knees, sobs racking my body again. Earthy, guttural sounds I didn’t even know I could make seeped out of me as my body spasmed with uncontrollable shivers.

“Jenny!” The curtain rustled as Maegan pulled it back and reached for the shower faucet. The water drizzled to a stop and the bite of the cool air nipped my exposed body.

“I can’t get it off. M-my hands. The b-blood w-won't—”

“Shh. Calm down.” Maegan’s hand felt heavy on my head, the pressure oddly comforting. I leaned into it, gripping her palm with both of mine like the whole world might shatter around me if she let go.

“I d-don’t know what to d-do,” I blubbered, sobs wracking my small frame.

“It’s okay. We’ll figure it out together.” Maegan’s words permeated a space inside me between abject terror and disbelief with something far more dangerous. I lifted my mascara-streaked face towards hers and the sincerity I found there caused the sensation to dig its claws in a little deeper.

Hope.

That bitch.

“Hand me the clothes, Jenny.” Maegan didn’t wait for my reply to start grabbing the soaked shirt and skirt and wringing out most of the water, then shoving them into a garbage bag she was holding. “Your earrings too. Everything you were wearing.”

I swallowed hard, fingers gripping the cheap hoops I’d found at the corner thrift store to unclasp the hinge-style backs and feeling the pinch of skin as they slid out one by one. I dropped the earrings into the open sack on top of the water-logged shirt, which had gone from white to red to pink in the span of a few short hours, and my throat went dry.

“Is that it?” Maegan’s tone was sharp as she scanned the tub where I still crouched, shivering. I nodded. “Okay... okay.” She tied the handles of the bag into a tight knot, then disappeared into the hallway.

The seconds felt like hours as I listened to her retreating footsteps, then then clatter of a cabinet closing in the kitchen. She could be going to the authorities right now. She had all the evidence. I’d literally handed it to her. The thought sent a fresh wave of shivers down my spine. I wouldn’t blame her. If she’d come back at three in the morning, covered in—

Well... I wouldn’t blame her.

The rustle of feet shuffling closer made me peer out from under my arms, heart hammering. I ran through the list of likely candidates Maegan might have gone to and something heavy dropped into my stomach.

Who would it be? The RA? Campus police?

“Jenny—shit. Your lips are blue. Why didn’t you dry off?” Maegan grabbed the towel from the back of the door, wrapping it around my back. Instant warmth covered me like a shroud and not just from the thick fabric.

She was alone.

My eyes stung as tears started spilling all over again. Maegan dipped out of the bathroom and tossed me the oversized Stranger Things t-shirt I usually wore to bed. “Put it on. Can you walk?”

I slipped the t-shirt over my damp hair and stood, groaning a little as my stiff muscles stretched. The fabric fell over my breasts then hung loose, just beneath my dangling fingertips. I gripped the edge of the fabric. “I think so.”

She jerked her head to the sink. “I put your toothbrush on the counter. Come to the kitchen when you’re done. I’ll make some coffee.”

My throat tightened at the idea of sitting at our rickety kitchen table to answer whatever questions Maegan might ask. Questions I didn’t know the answers to. And I wasn’t so sure I wanted to know.

The acrid smell of my own sick stung my nostrils as I washed up. Even after several pumps of soap, the smell lingered on my fingers as I sat at the kitchen table, gripping the mug and tilting the hot bitter liquid into my mouth. Maegan sat across from me, the tied-up garbage back of my clothes beside her and my purse sideways with its contents spilled out in front of her. She narrowed her eyes. “Tell me what happened. Everything. Don’t leave anything out.”

I gripped the mug tighter letting its warmth spread into my fingers, then pressed the ceramic to my lips until they stung with heat. “I don’t know. I only remember bits and pieces.”

“Okay.” Her expression tensed. “What do you remember.”

I drew a ragged breath, letting the steam from the mug seep into my lungs. “I went out clubbing with Stacy and the others. To that place on sixty-third? There was this cute guy. He kept buying me tequila shots. I remember leaving with him. But then, I don’t—the memories get hazy after that. I’m sorry. I don’t remember.”

My pulse skipped as Maegan’s mouth pressed into a thin line. “Try.”

“A yellow couch," I whispered.

"What?"

"I remember making out on a yellow couch—in some weird, vintage room." My lip quivered. “Things got heated. Then the next thing I remember is him, tequila guy, on the floor.” The words spilled out of me, hysterical and fractured like the images that would plague my nightmares forever. “There was so much blood. On him, the carpet. My hands.”

The mug clattered against the table as my grip slipped. I barely caught it before steaming coffee lurched onto my lap. “Shit.” I wiped at the drips of dark brown liquid that had sloshed onto the table with my shaking palm. “Shit. Shit. I did it, didn’t I? I mean. I had blood all over my hands. All over my shirt. I had to have, right? Fuck.” I pressed my trembling palms flat against my face, covering my eyes as if the reality of the man I’d killed might disappear if never opened my eyes again. “What do I do, Maegan? I don’t know—I don’t know what to do!”

“Jesus, Jenny.” Maegan’s hands dragged through her hair and for a long moment she just sat there, looking towards the apartment door. “Even if it was self-defense, it wouldn’t matter. Nobody’s going to believe a drunk college girl covered in that much blood—” She trailed off, nibbling her lower lip, then leveled her brown eyes on me. “Was it? Self-defense?”

“I—” I twist my fingers together, then whisper, “I don’t know. Maybe.”

“You wouldn’t have hurt him if he hadn’t attacked you first.” Maegan’s expression hardened with conviction. “It was self-defense. It had to be.”

I twisted my fingers tighter, unsure if the relief that trickled through me would damn me straight to Hell immediately, or if it was like a cumulative thing, built up over years of keeping a secret this big. Was it even possible? Even if the cops never tied the murder to me… could I live with myself, knowing what I’d done?

Maegan opened the garbage sack, tossing my purse inside. “We have to get rid of everything. Shit, I almost forgot. Go get your coat.”

My chair scraped as I got up. It felt like some kind of dream as I grabbed my overcoat from the crumpled pile on the entryway floor by that Labubu doll I’d knocked off. I shuffled back down the hall towards the kitchen, each step heavier than the last.

What was I doing?

Maybe the guy had tried to hurt me, and what I'd done was self-defense. But it didn’t change the fact that I’d taken someone’s life. Someone’s son. He would never see tomorrow’s dawn already creeping through the windows—and that was something I couldn’t just pretend away.

A heavy breath grated against my chest as panic tried to claw its way out again.

First thing in the morning, I would turn myself in to the police.

“What the fuck is this?” Maegan’s face was livid as she clutched a crumpled receipt, brandishing it towards me like a tangible accusation.

“I don’t—why are you so mad?”

Maegan’s eyes flashed angrily as she smoothed the receipt and read aloud, each syllable dripping with unveiled venom. “Greenwood Mannor. Immersive Murder Mystery Experience. Receipt for two.” She flipped the paper to a hastily scribbled note on the back. “Call me, hot stuff—Eric?” She growled, throwing the crumpled receipt.

It struck me squarely on the forehead and I nearly fell flat on my face as the night’s memories came rushing back.

Greenwood Mannor.

The yellow prop couch.

Eric laughing as I poured the blood packet—

“Holy fuck.” I clutched my knees, nearly hyperventilating with relief. “It was fake blood.” My muscles went ragdoll and I flopped to the floor, laughter bubbling up as fizzy as soda and sweet as southern iced tea.

“I’m going to bed.” I swallowed down the last of my giggles and I shot Maegan the most apologetic look I could manage considering the joy pulsing through my veins. Her scowl deepened. “Don’t fucking talk to me tomorrow.” She stomped across our shared living space, stopping at her door. “You owe me a new shirt.”

Slam.

I dragged an exhausted hand over my face, sinking down into the kitchen chair and resting my cheek against the table’s surface with a sloppy smile I might not lose for days. “That’s the last time I do tequila shots on an empty stomach.”