Poetry & Flash Fiction

Agnes and the Cemetery Bus

pop the oxy in my mouth. Look for a glass of water. Remember I spilled it in the night. Grab a t-shirt from a pile of clothes to mop where the water fell, wring out a few drops into my hand, bring that to my mouth and swallow. The pill sticks in my throat. I hack it up. Decide to snort it instead, which sucks. I put the wet t-shirt on. It feels cool. I think I have a bra on, but I’m not sure. I think, “How stupid I am to have to look to see if I have a bra on.” Mom calls through my closed bedroom door, “What are you doing in there?”

*

Out in the sunshine I stand next to a Greek urn of red geraniums. The Edson Cemetery bus is late. That bus will take me to Mr. Tortoise Shell Round Rims, the therapist my parents pay for. They won’t drive me. “Take the bus,” dad says. “It’s convenient,” mom says. “Shit,” I say. I’m in a wet wrinkled t-shirt and no I don’t have a bra and here comes the Cemetery bus.

*

You need to trust me. Start at the beginning. Tell me your troubles. Talk about your pain. There’s nothing you can’t tell me. (Round Rims adjusts his glasses.) Nothing I’d consider ‘wrong’ to say. Everything has value. Even small things. (He’s staring at my breasts.) I’m ready for him. “Oh, you know, remember last session when you like suggested I should keep a diary and I said I can’t write because well I showed you my bad mangled hand and you said ever try voice-to-text and well I did try it this week and can I read it to you now?” Round Rims almost falls off his chair. “That’s wonderful. Of course. Go right ahead.”

*

The beginning of my troubles happened the day I stuck my hand in a chain link fence to pet a neighbor’s dog who I thought was sad or lonely but turned out to be vicious and he tore off my pinky and mangled my hand which the doctors were unable to fix (period) They sent someone back for the pinky but it must have been eaten (period) The dog’s name was Odee (period) He had one eye that was blue (comma) the other so dark it looked black or maybe just empty (period new paragraph) They killed Odee and cut off his head and sent it for rabies testing but no one waited for the results just started me on the rabies shots and pumped me with a ton of morphine before they stitched up my hand (period) No one ever did find that missing finger but they gave me a script for oxycodone before leaving the hospital (period) So that is the story of my pain and welcome to my life (comma) such as it is (period stop)

*

I step out into the sunshine and stand next to a Greek urn of red geraniums. “There you are,” says Mom. She looms large in the door frame. “Jesus! Have you been standing there all night?” I say, knowing this isn’t mom, I’m not back at my bedroom, I’m having one of those delusion events. “Just curious,” she says. “How are you doing this morning?” I brush past her to get to the hall bathroom. The pill’s stuck in my throat because in the delusion I forgot to snort it. “Remember your therapy appointment at 10 o’clock,” she nags, “and don’t forget your Charm Card. It’s got plenty of money on it.” I’m in the bathroom but I can feel her leaning on the door. On the other side, I lean away. “I’m taking a shower now,” I lie. The Edson Cemetery bus pulls up.

*

Addict me and normal me rummage through the laundry for a bra. We find one that’s sweat-crappy, but we put it on. I sort of brush my hair. She rifles through pockets for crumpled bills. I flatten out the cash and count if there’s enough for a score. She says, “You’re good. Now call you-know-who.” I say, “Who’s you-know-who?” She says, “The guy at the corner of Lincoln and Fifth.” I say, “That’s in Edson Cemetery.” She says, “Damn right. He’s got oxy all day. Or at least until four.” I say, “Aren’t we thirsty and shouldn’t we eat?” She says, “Are you crazy?”

*

I stand next to a Greek urn of red geraniums.

By Susan April

View this poem on The Forge Literary Magazine website here and view Susan’s author interview here.