Just a Rock

The door banged open, the fumbling key dropping to the floor as the tangle of overlapping limbs stumbled inside. Shedding glow sticks and body glitter, the groping symbiotes bumped against the table, the edge of the couch. The clothing between them was all that briefly complicated their mission to taste every inch of each other's skin.

"What's that?"

Sorrel unfastened her lips from tomorrow's hickey and glanced after the pointing finger. "Oh," she said, wiping her mouth as she extracted her body from grasping hands. "Just a rock."

The attractive guest, who probably had a name at some point, craned his spit-slicked neck as Sorrel swept the rock off the table. "Where did you get it?"

"Um," Sorrel paused, the rock in her hands sliding in and out of focus. "I don't know. I inherited it."

"Had it a while, then?"

Sorrel shrugged. "As long as I can remember. Why are you so interested?"

The nameless stranger, seasoned with sweat and perfumed with booze, frowned and chewed his sticky lips. "I don't know. I think I recognize it. Can I see?"

Holding the rock at arm's length, Sorrel marched it to the hall closet. She set it on a high shelf, then closed the door. "I don't want to talk about it."

"Okay." The stranger held up his hands. "Noted. Now where were we--"

"It's getting late."

The, actually, when you look at him, not incredibly handsome stranger said, "Wha--really?"

"Yup."

"Hey, it's no big deal." Getting less handsome by the minute. "It's just a rock."

"What rock?"

The eyebrows went up. Eyebrows that said nobody picking up nameless strangers had a right to be shocked by crazy. Recognizing it, the gentleman said, "Okay..." and let himself out.

Sorrel sighed. To the rock in the closet, she said, "I'm not crazy."

The rock did not respond.

The night's liquor was trampolining from her stomach to her brain. Sorrel kicked out of her shoes to feel the cool tiles pebbling the bathroom floor, and peeled shimmery layers from her sweat-tacky skin. The mirror showed a puffed and smeary face, seductive smoke now a sad panda smudge. Sorrel let the water run, transfixed by her own bloodshot gorgon gaze.

A sound in the hallway made her jump. Stepping away from the rushing faucet, Sorrel peered down the length of discolored plaster. Hadn't her guest left? Hadn't she locked the door?

Pulling a robe around her shoulders, Sorrel padded barefoot down the corridor. Heavy dread dragged at her ankles; her arms crossed tight against the chill. Side-stepping boxes and unkempt piles of untidy debris, Sorrel turned on the lamp by the table. As the shadows fled, she saw her infernal tormentor.

Just a rock.

"You--!" Sorrel grabbed the rock, acrylic nails scratching at the rough surface as she marched it to the bedroom. She thrust the rock deep into the bottom of her laundry basket, smothering it under layers and layers of cotton-poly blend. "Quiet!"

Turning on a radio to cover the silence, Sorrel spooled out her second-hand extension cord to balance the speaker by the filling bath. She dropped some fancy salts into the water and breathed in the mentholated vapor. The sharp air spiked into the front of her skull, the first rumble of hungover thunder. That was a problem Sorrel knew how to solve.

Padding down the hall, with soothing music at her heels, Sorrel turned on the light over the kitchen counter and gasped, clutching her heart.

Just a rock.

"You know what?" Sorrel yanked open the door to her freezer, took out the vodka inside, and dropped in the rock. It stayed there, on a bag of frozen pizza rolls, with nothing to say.

Slamming the freezer door closed again, Sorrel cracked open the vodka. Burning ice rolled down her throat, spreading in waves over tingling capillaries, every cell in her body breathing a deep, relieved sigh. Slinking back down the hall, warmth and light and music all around her, Sorrel ran an idle finger over the crumbling wall.

"I know what's going to happen," she muttered to herself. "Because I know how this fucking thing works. I'm going to turn this corner, and it'll be right in the middle of the fucking tub."

The rock sat silently beneath the rippling surface, no expression on its featureless face. "Perfect."

Melodic comfort crackled through the radio. The bathrobe slid to the floor as Sorrel stepped into the water. She settled into the warm saline, breathing in the heady scents, the bottle cool against her palm. "I'm tired," she said.

She closed her eyes, leaning back her vodka-fogged head. And cradled the rock against her chest. "You win."

Inch by inch, the water crept over Sorrel's skin. The music muffled underwater as the weight of the rock pressed down deeper and deeper. Sorrel slipped beneath the surface, the ripples closing over her face, one small bubble rising up as she let go.

The rock cracked.

Sorrel burst upright, gasping. The vodka bottle smashed across the tiles. Deep cracks split the rock's surface, the rough weight shuddering from within. Slipping on the slick edge, Sorrel kicked and scrambled, upsetting the plug as she fought to escape. She fell out of the bathtub, a wave of water washing over the radio's frayed cord. Shards of rocky shrapnel pelted Sorrel's cheek as the cord sparked, and the lights went out.

In the sudden dark, Sorrel heard only her own breathing. She stayed muted and still, huddled on the wet floor, listening. From the porcelain cradle, there was a small, soft sound. Like a sigh. Or a sob.

Sorrel felt along the edge of the tub, damp fingers skimming the draining basin. The broken pieces of the rock were rough on one side, smooth on the other. And thin.

Like eggshells.

Sorrel's hand brushed against something warm. It shrank from her touch, shivering, whimpering in the darkness. Sorrel scooped up the trembling weight, a tiny heartbeat drumming against her palm.

"I'm here," Sorrel breathed. "I've got you."

Folding the newborn against her chest, Sorrel began to rock.