The Morrowlands

The thick, wet squelching sound of Willa’s boots on the grass reminded her of a sword sinking into flesh. 

     Once, it might have been enough for her to lose her breath, to double over and clutch at her chest as if physically trying to hold herself together—though it was never that easy. 

     Once, that is. 

     Now, she simply brought her cigarette to her lips and took a long drag. She blew  out a breath of smoke and watched as it curled towards the night sky. There was a warm, tingling feeling in her fingertips brought on by the buzz of cheap, room-temperature beer. 

     She hadn’t meant to come here, she thought, glancing around the crowded backyard that belonged to Stephen What’s-His-Last-Name. She certainly didn’t belong here. But she had been driving home from work earlier that evening, already lamenting the hours ahead of another Saturday night spent in bed with her thoughts, when she remembered that her coworker had mentioned a party. 

     Not that Willa particularly minded her own company, but lately, whenever she was alone, she felt her thoughts spiraling out of control—like a thread coming undone. It had been that way since she’d discovered the college acceptance letter hidden in the top drawer of her younger sister’s nightstand. 

     She hadn’t been snooping. 

     She had been looking for a copy of a Nancy Drew book that Jane had borrowed when she’d found the letter tucked between the pages like a placeholder. Willa still didn’t know what hurt worse: that Janie had applied to a college halfway across the country, or that she’d thought she needed to hide it from Willa. 

     She was proud, of course—her sister had gotten a full scholarship, all on her own. It was a feat that Willa could have never hoped to accomplish herself, even if she hadn’t dropped out of high school. 

     Jane was setting out on her own, and perhaps Willa might have found it in herself to be jealous if she hadn’t felt that her story had already finished long ago. She’d had her share of excitement and peril—rather too much of the latter—and she had known even before the day that her mother died that it was time to put away childish things, as someone had once said. 

     So she did her best to look after Jane and her grandparents. She got a full-time job waiting tables. She learned how to repair holes in knit sweaters and unclog a drain pipe and balance a checkbook. She bought tupperware. 

     And it was enough to convince herself that she’d done the right thing. 

     At least, she hoped.  ​

     She brought her cigarette to her lips once more, inhaling the sweet, purplish smoke. It reminded her of the Morrowlands in sommer, when the air was hot and dry and lingered on her skin. 

     As she walked across the lawn, she could hear voices talking over the crackle of the stereo: 

     “Is that Willa Hammond?” 

     “I haven’t seen her since she dropped out.” 

     “I heard she went crazy after her mom died.” 

     Willa parted her lips, the smoke twisting in on itself like the lithe body of a ballerina against the darkness. 

     Someone called her name. 

     Willa turned her head slowly in the direction of the voice, squinting to see through the haze of smoke that surrounded her. Movement caught her eye as one of her coworkers lifted their hand, waving a cup of beer at her from a plastic lawn chair. 

     Colleen had slipped a hand-knit yellow cardigan over her work uniform—which consisted solely of a plain white t-shirt and jeans—and her soft, cherub face was already flushed from alcohol. Her blue eyes looked large and watery beneath her halo of short, blonde curls. Willa’s other coworker, Jennifer, was perched beside her on the arm of the chair, dressed in a black turtleneck, her eyes heavily smudged with thick, black liner that made her look more sultry than usual. 

     Willa offered a wave with her cigarette, though her smile didn’t reach her eyes. 

     More than once, Willa had thought to herself that she and Colleen might have been friends, if circumstances had permitted. But the circumstances, as it were, seemed to be Willa’s entire life—starting on the day that her mother accidentally knocked a tea cup from the kitchen table. She didn’t remember much of the weeks that followed; the memories were soft around the edges, like a photo where the camera hadn’t quite focused. A fog of never-ending doctor’s visits and phone calls and hospital bills. ​

     Willa leaned back against the side of a garden shed and wiped her sweaty palms on the leg of her jeans. There was a vinaigrette stain on the front of her otherwise clean white shirt. ​

     She ran a hand through her short, ash-brown hair, but her fingers caught in the tangled curls, and she growled under her breath. She took a long drag from her cigarette.

     ​It was strange, even now, to look in a mirror and still not recognize the person that she’d become. She was taller and thinner, her baby fat giving way to soft, lean muscles and defined cheekbones. She had chopped off nearly all of her hair with a pair of sewing shears, save for two braids—one with a bead of blue glass, the other with beads of ivory and wood, as well as a golden bell. Even the shape of her mouth had changed, no longer as quick to laugh or smile. ​

     She closed her eyes, listening to the distant hum of the stereo. The wind rustled through the branches of the trees, and she tipped her head back, feeling a lump rise up in her throat once more. ​

     Gods. Sometimes living was exhausting. ​

     She turned her head at the sound of footsteps. ​

     A boy stopped beside her, propping his shoulder against the side of the garden shed. He was not much older than her, with flushed cheeks and chestnut hair that was a little unruly on one side. Willa wondered if it had been styled that way on purpose. 

     “Can I bum one?” he asked. 

     Willa straightened and shook out a cigarette from her pack. She flicked open her lighter, and the boy leaned in close enough that she could smell the beer and sweat on his skin. 

     The boy blew out a breath of smoke and looked down at her from beneath his dark lashes. “Thanks.” 

     “Don’t mention it,” Willa replied. 

     “Are you enjoying the party?” 

     Willa shrugged. “At this point in life, I take what I can get—and unfortunately, that includes shitty lite beer.” 

     She hadn’t really meant it as a joke, but the boy still offered her a crooked smile in response. He reached out to brush aside a stray curl that had fallen into Willa’s eyes.  

     For a moment, Willa considered kissing him. 

     She had kissed plenty of boys before—and even some girls—but none of them had ever made her feel anything. And it always left a dull ache in her chest because she knew—she knew—that she would never find what she was looking for. Not in this world, at least. 

     She dropped her cigarette to the grass and stomped it out with the toe of her boot. She turned to go without saying goodbye. 

     “Wait,” the boy said. 

     And then he grabbed her wrist—not roughly, but hard enough to get her attention. His fingers were soft and clammy, like they were made of wax. 

     His boots squelched on the wet grass as he took a step towards her. 

     Squelch. The tang of blood on her tongue. Squelch. Chunks of soft, waxen flesh gathered beneath her fingernails. Squelch. A pair of white lips pursed in a small O. Squelch. A figure crumbled on the marble floor. 

     Willa blinked. 

     When she opened her eyes—slowly, as if waking from a dream—the boy was lying on the ground, clutching his nose. Blood leaked from between his fingers. 

     She looked down at her own hand, trembling at her side. She unclenched her fist and felt a dull, throbbing ache in her knuckles. 

     A small group of partygoers had gathered around them, and Willa could feel their eyes on her. Their mouths were moving, but she couldn’t make out their words over the rush of white noise in her ears. 

     She gulped in a breath of night air, and as soon as it hit the back of her throat, time began moving once more. 

     She snatched up her bag from where it had fallen in the grass and slung it over her shoulder, her fingers digging into the fabric hard enough that her nails bent back. 

     Willa forced her legs to move, carrying her across the backyard and out into the dimly-lit street. 

     She slid into the driver’s side of her grandfather’s ancient truck and rested her forehead against the steering wheel. She closed her eyes, breathing in the scent of old leather and smoke and vinaigrette. 

     She knotted her fingers in her hair, and the golden bell at the end of her braid chimed in the silence. 

     A soft, choked sound that may or may not have been a laugh left her lips.  She opened her eyes and sat up straight, pulling herself together one thread at a time.  

     When she finally felt like a whole person again, she slid her key into the ignition and gave the truck a moment or two before it rumbled to life beneath her. She turned up the volume on the radio, drowning out her thoughts with a Joni Mitchell song about the color green.  

     As she put the truck in drive, she had almost forgotten about the vinaigrette stain on the front of her shirt.  

     Almost.