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[short story] the girl in the basket
🕑 Added 2023-03-16 20:02:06 +0000 UTCthis was a story i wrote a few years ago. a bit nsfw though so... avert your eyes if you're shy ♥
I did something dumb and overslept in the park. It was dark when I shuddered awake. The hum and rumble of traffic still flowed through the crisp night air. It was much colder now with the sun gone. I sat up and hugged my knees. This was my secret spot, hidden from the rest of the city by hedges and trees. I shivered, and I couldn’t tell if it was from the cold or from the thought of being discovered by someone with ill intentions.
But maybe I deserved it.
I clenched my jaws and shut my eyes. My side and my hip still ached from the accident. The cuts on my face and arms and legs still stung from where I hit on the sidewalk. Somehow, the cold made it worse, sneaking through the gash in my shoulder and pushing its chill deeper into my body where the secret in my womb would become visible soon. I was wearing my favorite purple sweater, the one Anita had knit for me, and jeans, but I felt frozen to the core.
When I opened my eyes, I decided I’d put the blanket on like a shawl and rush out of the park. I’d never been here alone at night, but I was small and quick. If anything tried to stop me, I reckoned I’d be able to squeeze out of their grasp and get to the street.
I stood, stretching and moving my arms in small circles. My shoulder still clicked and hurt, but I didn’t want to be stiff if I had to make a quick escape. I shook out my legs and jumped in place. My physical therapist had me doing this for weeks. Most of the pain was gone, and the therapist had wondered if the lingering aching was psychological. Another yawn possessed me, but I felt a bit warmer. I walked over to the picnic basket I’d emptied before the sun went down.
What a sad ceremony it had been. Getting out of my parent’s house and walking to the park to celebrate not being dead. I’d baked sweetbread, brought jam and peaches from my favorite organic shop, and devoured everything while daydreaming about getting back out there and meeting new people and figuring out how to be happy. I wondered if I should have called Anita. To let her know I was okay. But how do you reach out to someone after you’ve already shoved them out of your life? Maybe that was why I’d put on this sweater today.
The basket was too heavy for me to even budge. I paused for a moment, one hand still on the handle, then knelt and pulled back the lid and found the girl.
No. Not a girl, but a woman, naked and curled up with her knees to her chest and staring at me with wide fluorescent eyes. It was like staring at two lightbulbs. She didn’t make a sound, her face frozen in illuminated shock and horror.
I stared back, my mind racing with thoughts. I couldn’t help but notice the glistening scales on her cheeks. The white flowers and twigs in her dark locks of hair. Her skin was so brown and smooth. And there were stories drenched in those eyes. Stories where I might stumble upon things I shouldn’t or couldn’t fathom, but stories I knew would be inescapable once they’ve begun. “Who are you?” I asked softly.
Her lips opened, but she didn’t utter a syllable. I wondered if she was cold, if that was why she’d hidden in my basket. I slid off my sweater without a second thought and draped it over her. Even though I was already freezing, I figured the blanket would keep me warm enough. No matter what, and it was a rather inexplicable feeling of loyalty, I wanted her to be safe.
When I let go of the sweater and it fell upon her, she grabbed the edges and stared as if she’d never seen one before. Her eyes went wider than I thought possible. Then she looked up at me, her bottom lip wobbling. Tears glistened and shimmered down the scales of her cheeks. She started bawling.
The sound was heartbreaking. I reached inside the basket instinctively to console her. To find out what was wrong, but she flinched so violently that I flinched as well and fell back. A flurry of purple and blue sparks burst out of the basket. She was gone. She’d taken my sweater with her.
In a thin t-shirt now and shivering, I wrapped the blanket around me so that it covered my head and my torso. I wondered if I was still asleep and dreaming while slipping through the slight part in the bushes and leaving the safety of my hidden spot. I left the basket just in case the girl returned.
Shadow figures marked the path. Unable to tell if they were trees or bushes or lampposts, I rushed by, trying not to appear helpless or make too much sound and draw unwanted attention. It didn’t help that I was so tiny, and the further I sped away from my safe spot, the smaller I felt. But I knew the streetlights and the never-ending traffic of the city were just a few steps away.
Guilt prodded my heart with every shuddering breath. Anita’s sweater was probably gone forever. The last thing I had from her. I was thinking about the way Anita’s hair bounced when she walked. How her lips twitched with the promise of a smile whenever she had anything to say. How her nose wrinkled whenever she couldn’t decide between a latte or a donut. She could’ve had both, but she would be watching her weight. I’d buy both and she’d ask for a sip or a bite anyway.
I was thinking about how the last time I saw her, I screamed at her to leave me alone. She’d knocked on my apartment door and waited for hours, but I was nothing but venomous anger and self-pity and hatred.
The sobbing girl with the scales and my sweater reminded me of her. My thoughts in an uproar, I didn’t notice the person who’d loomed out of the darkness. Nearly tripping, there was no way to stop this collision. My heart struck harder and harder. I moved to the left, but his legs were too long. His hands reached for me. A low grumbling from his throat. I could practically feel his breath on my face. The scream caught in my throat like a hiccup. My mind folded inward, over and over.
For a moment, I thought he’d grab me. that he’d tear the blanket off my body and drag me into the bushes and claim my skin with his fingernails and teeth. The man toppled to the side with a groan, and I hurried by, not caring enough to glance back as he landed with a thud.
When I stumbled into the street and saw a healthy trickle of yellow cabs, I remembered to breathe. I raised my arm, one of them stopped, and a man with a thick mustache and a deep, rolling voice asked where I’d like to go. My adrenaline pumping, I blurted out my old place where I’d lived as a prisoner and warden for two years. I caught myself halfway through and started again after apologizing. I told him my parent’s address.
He eyed me in the mirror, stroking his mustache as he waited for the traffic light. No doubt, he wondered what I was doing alone in this part of the city with just a blanket against the cold night. His dash read 11:32 pm. He didn’t say a word.
My mind wandered back to the girl in the basket as my heart rate steadied. The streetlights and traffic blurred away. It was a twenty-minute journey, leaving the city and venturing into a quieter neighborhood. An empty one.
My mind was still in a flurry, and I didn’t realize I’d handed the driver too much cash until he said, “Miss?” and returned a few bills to me.
“I’m sorry,” I mumbled then slid out of the cab into the cool embrace of the night. As the cab drove off, I pushed the fence open and moved like a shadow around the house to the backyard. I folded the blanket and placed it neatly on the porch then unlocked the backdoor. It shut quietly. I tiptoed up the steps to my room, my sneakers in my hands.
Well, it wasn’t really my room anymore. My dad had turned it into his office after I’d left, but he’d thrown a futon and a drawer into it when I asked if I could stay a while. After the accident, a while became a month, and now I was just the ghost lingering in their home.
When I was younger, my mom would scream and yell and throw things if I stayed out too late. Anything past 7 pm was an affront. Now they were afraid of what I might do again. Would I run off with another boy? Get my own apartment in the city? Walk into traffic again? Only to return even more broken, even more fucked up. Like a cursed yo-yo.
They must have been relieved today when I left the house. After the breakdown, the court assigned therapy, the pills, the screaming… after I’d asked to stay with them for a while because I lost my job, my apartment. Then the accident. Somehow, I walked away with only a few fractures, bruises, and scratches; it didn’t hurt as deeply as I wanted it to. It didn’t erase what I wanted it to.
I touched my belly and wondered when I might start showing. What were they going to say to that? The day had started with a wonderful visit to the park, and now I was once again sunken in ugly thoughts. And I’d lost the sweater Anita’d given me.
My bedroom door was ajar, and I felt a scalding flash of anger picturing my mom going through my stuff. Trying to get into my laptop to see who I’d been messaging. Or looking for condoms or toys or anything that would damn me to hell.
The room was dark, the curtains drawn. When I clicked the light on, I saw the girl again. She sat on my futon, wearing my sweater and holding a book on her bare lap. My tampons were strewn around her in an odd hexagonal shape. I spotted some pens, my bookmark, and my vibrator. Swallowing, I shut the door softly and turned the lock. She glanced at the doorknob then back at me. Her fluorescent eyes felt like they were searching me, but she doesn’t say a word.
“You can read in the dark?” I asked, my voice quiet. I didn’t want to spook her again and risk her crying or screaming or worse.
Her scales glistened as she nodded. “It’s a really pretty book.” She raised it to show me the blank cover where I’d scribbled the title. I’d written the book. It was my collection of stories that I printed ages ago and never showed anyone. Izanami, Lachrymose.
Heat rose to my cheeks as it always did when someone spoke about my writing. “Thanks. You can have it if you want.” I felt more confident approaching her, even if she stared with those innocent, watchful eyes. She seemed like a stray cat I was trying to win over. Blink slowly. Squint a little. No sudden movements.
“I’m called Fay,” she said, flipping through the pages. There was an air of beauty around her that I couldn’t explain; I just knew I wanted more.
Sometimes, a girl was more than pretty. It wasn’t just simple slenderness and delicateness, but a nonspecific grace and vibrancy. It was something most people couldn’t truly understand when all they sought were curves and surface features. They couldn't see that careful narrowness. The lines that even God had to color within. You couldn’t trace this kind of wonder. Every part of her connected and intertwined gently into something breathtaking. She reminded me even more of Anita now.
I walked over to the radiator by the window and sat, trying to warm my butt, still at a loss for words.
“You’re cold,” said Fay. The book lay shut on her lap. She stared with the intensity of prey, as if I might pounce at any moment.
“Well, yeah,” I said. “You took my sweater.”
Her brows furrowed. “You gave it to me willingly.”
“Then why’d you start crying and disappear?” I felt a hint of annoyance at the way she said that. Almost childlike and naïve. How old was she anyway? And should I get her some pants or would that make her cry too?
“I’m one hundred and forty-three years old,” she said, sticking out her chin. “I’m not a child. And I’m not ashamed of my skin.”
My eyebrows went up. “Sorry,” I whispered. She can read my thoughts.
Fay rubbed my purple sweater between her fingers, lifting it so that I could see the scales on her navel. “You gave me something you love dearly, so now I belong to you.” She said it so matter-of-factly, all I could do was nod.
She stretched out her legs, the book still on her lap, and she wriggled her toes. There were scales around her ankles like an ornament.
“Why did you start crying at the park?” I asked.
“You were sad,” she said, sniffing. I remembered how she flinched when I tried to console her before, so I didn’t move. She wiped her scaly cheeks. “You were so peaceful when you were asleep. Your dreams were all delicate and sweet, and I couldn’t help curling up near you. Then I fell asleep too.”
“Oh,” I said, wondering how she fit inside my basket in the first place. She looked about my size now, sitting on my bed. This girl was definitely magic.
She slid off the bed and stood in response to my thought. She was a little shorter than me. Her hair was alive, flowing and moving on its own. There were flowers and vines and twigs in her luscious brown locks. My sweater came down to her thighs, and for a flickering moment, I wondered about her privates before I realized she would know my dirty thoughts. There was an accusatory look on her face that made me blush with embarrassment.
“Why did you give me your sweater?” she asked, chewing on the sleeves.
“Don’t you already know?” I watched her pull the sweater this way and that, tugging on the neckline, playing with the sides. I thought it suited her warm skin tone.
“I was too shocked.” She picked up one of my tampons and studied it under the light. “I haven’t been enslaved in a long time.”
“Enslaved?” I said in shock. “No. I don’t want that.”
She stuck out her tongue and tossed the tampon. “Well too bad. I’m your pollen girl now. The last guy who had me went off to fight in a war and never came back. So, I lived in the park. Then you came along and now I live here.”
“Do you always talk so fast?” She was going to live with me? Enslaved? I grabbed some plain panties and striped pajamas out of the drawer and offered them to her. “Here. If you’re staying here, you can’t roam around like that.”
Fay sniffed the panties then wrinkled her nose. “You touch yourself in these.”
“I... what?” Blushing again, I snatched them back.
But she brought her face to the pajamas. “And you’ve been hurt in these,” she said quietly, taking them. “I’ll wear them.”
“You’re supposed to say thank you,” I said, giving them to her.
She didn’t take off the sweater, but as she slipped into the pajamas, I couldn’t help but notice the scales stretching from her navel to her inner thigh in a diamond-shaped pattern. She didn’t have pubic hair.
“Do you want this?” I asked, holding out a clean shirt from my drawer. The sight of her holding my panties was making my heart pound, but I didn’t want her to talk about my habits again. And I was trying way too hard not to think about how badly I wanted to explore her body.
“I can’t take this off, now can I?” she said, tugging on the sweater. Then she plopped back on the bed and cleared away the things she’d played with. She patted the space, and I sat.
“So, what happens now?” I asked, wondering if I was actually still asleep at the park. Or if something worse happened, and this was all conjured by my mind to distract me from a horrible reality.
“Is that what you want?” she asked. She turned me away so she could grab the ends of my hair.
“I guess not,” I said, wondering what she thought of the violent imagery in my head.
“You haven't really been taking care of yourself, huh?” She reached around and patted the belly I’d gained.
Squirming a little, I shrugged. “It’s not like I’m not trying. I just stopped the extra stuff like conditioner and moisturizer. And I’m eating what I want. What’s wrong with that?”
“Nothing,” she said, but her hand remained on my belly. She rubbed it gently, then slid her fingers under my shirt and touched my skin. When I shivered, she put her other hand on my shoulder, rising to rest her chin on my head. She felt so warm.
Her fingers traced my ribs. She found my bruises and held firmly when I squirmed.
“Pollinated,” Fay whispered softly.
“What?”
She sniffled in response, and I realized she was crying again.
“What’s wrong?” I asked. She squeezed my shoulder hard, her palm moving in circles over my navel. Her fingertips brushed the waistline of my pants every so often.
Wordlessly, she massaged my skin. A part of me wished I was undressed. Wished she’d taken off my shirt and pulled down my pants and traced circles on a different part of me. Just a bit lower…
“We call that pollen dancing,” she said in my ear, her breath tickling me. She repositioned herself, wrapping both hands around my waist.
My face was hot knowing she’d read my thoughts. But she continued.
“Clothes are so weird,” she murmured. “If you want to take them off, you can. You’re my master now.”
I grabbed her arms and stopped her. “Please don’t talk like that.” When I turned to look at her, I felt a pang of guilt. Tears glistened on her cheeks. Her eyes wide and still too bright. Her lips pressed tightly together; I wanted to kiss them so bad, but I couldn’t, and she already knew.
Not to mention how bizarre it was she kept saying enslavement and master. As if giving her my sweater was some sort of sacred bondage.
Then another thought struck me. “You can feel it, can’t you?” The thing growing inside me, the accident. The truth.
I brought her fingertips back to my belly button. Fay nodded.
“Should I keep it?” I asked.
She bit her bottom lip then shrugged. “Can I braid your hair?”
“That’s what I thought you were going to do before. You know. Then you started feeling me up.” I felt a bit deflated by her dodging the question. Then again, what kind of response could I expect from a scaled girl who slept naked in the park?
She made a face. “I wasn’t the one thinking naughty thoughts.”
“I’ll be right back okay?” I said, standing quickly. I felt too hot, and I needed some air. She felt real enough. The feelings blossoming within me felt real enough. But it was all too much. I made an excuse about not wanting to relax in my outside clothes.
She nodded and began pulling off my shirt.
“What are you doing?” I asked, grabbing her hands. I was shaking now.
“You wanted to change right?” Her face was confused and hurt, and I figured she read my mind and saw the conflicting thoughts.
“Yes,” I said, gently taking her hands off my shirt. “Alone. I’m going to the bathroom.”
Pouting, she released me, and I grabbed my stuff and left to hide in the bathroom. In the mirror, I stared at myself. Sunken eyes. Cracked lips. Hair wispy and all over the place. My skin had an unhealthy dullness to it. And there was that wretched warmth in my belly that wasn’t exactly mine. Fay was right. I had let myself go.
I yanked off my shirt. My bruises were so dark against my pale skin, some of them purple and angry. Like little flowers blossoming from within my ribs. I slid out of my pants.
There was a jolt of pain in my hips, and I felt like I was back on that street. Headphones on. Watching the cars hurl by, waiting for the light, and then deciding I’d had enough. It wasn’t a glorious moment, thought out and heartfelt, but rather, a feeling of dismissal. I’d given up ownership of my life. I stepped forward just as the next car whirled into view and then I was all over the asphalt.
“Do you want me take away the pain?” asked a quiet voice from behind me.
This time I did scream, covering myself and nearly tripping on the mat. It was Fay, sitting on the edge of the bathtub, her eyes wide. She blinked out of existence, then there was an urgent knocking on the door.
“Are you okay? Is there a spider?” It was my dad’s voice, tired and low. I wasn’t sure how to answer, and after a pause, he asked if I was hurt.
Sucking in a deep breath, I said, “It’s fine. I’m fine. I just hit my toe on the bathtub. Sorry”
“Okay,” he said. I waited till his footsteps faded away and their bedroom door shut before I allowed myself to exhale.
My body hung on my skeleton. I felt as though I’d been run through the washer and dryer. I turned the faucet and rubbed my face with my wet washcloth. Then I rubbed my neck, my armpits. I cleaned up as best I could without committing to an actual shower before pulling on my pajamas and tiptoeing back to my room. Fay was waiting on my bed again, a sheepish grin on her face.
“Thanks for the heart attack,” I said, eyeing the dark hallway and my parent’s room before shutting the door and turning the lock. I looked back at Fay. “What did you mean, ‘Take away the pain?’”
“Let’s make a deal,” she said, shaking out her hair. Twigs and flower petals rained down on my blankets. “I’ll tend to you. Then you release me.”
“Release?” I asked. Then I decided I didn’t want her to elaborate on that. “Okay. Yes. Of course.”
Her smile broadened. She patted the bed again, and before I knew it, I was climbing under my blankets alongside her. She began humming as she stroked my hair.
“Should I turn off the…” I started, but she put her finger to my lips. With the wave of her hand, the bulb above us went out, casting us in the eerie glow of her eyes and her glistening scales. I swallowed as her fingers traveled down my neck, not caring this time as filthy thoughts came alive in the dark.
Fay held me down as she climbed on top, sitting on my thighs. She grabbed my wrists and pinned my arms.
“What are you doing?” I whispered, but I didn’t have any strength to resist. I barely had the strength to speak. To breathe. I felt like I did back then, lying on the street. Shouts and screams blurring overhead. I was bleeding out but clinging to life with a new longing that hadn’t left me since I woke up in the hospital bed, broken. She looked at me with those eyes again, then she brought her lips to mine, and we kissed. A deep brooding exchange. Her tongue pushing against mine, and I tasted honey and wild grass.
She pressed herself against me, kissing me deeper. Caressing my face and pushing her knee between my legs. “This is the dance of flowers,” she whispered to my neck. “An exchange of thought and feeling. A language of leaves and branches.”
Her sigh against my throat made me shiver. She helped me pull off my pajamas, then her lips were on my collarbone. She kissed me all over, from my cleavage to my belly button. She licked my hard nipples and giggled at my moaning.
Then she pressed her lips to the bruises on my side. “This is going to hurt,” she whispered before sucking on the skin.
I grit my teeth to keep from crying out. She held my hand as she drank from my body. As she pulled something out of my soul and sucked it off my skin. I felt my mind compressing and decompressing as she paused to swallow and take a breath before continuing.
She worked her way up my rib cage, then licked my arm. She turned me slightly so she could sink her teeth into the gash on my shoulder. She was wrenching on my aches, my hurt. I felt like a tree, and she was stripping away the bark. Yanking me till my roots were wriggling in the air and desperate to be back in the dirt, safe in the moist earth.
When she was done with my shoulder, she wiped her lips and pressed her face against mine. We kissed again, over and over. My arms wrapped around her. Her fingers on my back I turned her over so that I was on top, and she made a sound of surprise. This time, I kissed my way down her front, kissing the sweater I’d given her before getting to her waist.
I yanked her pajamas down, my limbs possessed by some inescapable desire. I licked her scales and loved the way she shuddered in my grasp. I pressed my nose to her belly and kissed around. Her hips came off the bed when I spread her thighs and tasted her for the first time.
I knew then that there was no going back. And she knew that I knew, and she curled her fingers in my hair and held me in place as I kissed and sucked and licked, twisting my soul like a piece of cloth trying to soak in every last drop of her essence.
The hours of the night melted away. My lungs filled with her aroma, her body shuddered against mine, and she made me completely unravel with her fingers and tongue.
My eyes opened when she wriggled in my arms. Sunlight danced across our naked forms, reflecting off her scales and painting the walls with curious fractals of light. She was still in my arms, snoring gently. I could hear my parents downstairs, having breakfast. The clink and clangs of my dad cooking. My mom’s shouting as she searched for her things even though they were exactly where she left them.
Fay was pressed so tightly against me, I never wanted to let go. But she turned and pressed her lips to my neck. “You’re lousy at pollen dancing,” she whispered. Then she wrapped her leg around my hips and pulled me against her. “But it was your first time accepting the truth so it’s okay.” Her fingers found me once again, wet and still wanting.
When we’re done with our encore session, I pulled my pajamas back on. “Do you want to have breakfast?” I asked, wondering how I’d explain her presence to my parents. Maybe I could introduce her as a hipster friend who expressed her art by painting scales on her skin.
But she plopped back onto the bed, stretching like a cat ready to take another nap. “I’m still full from last night,” she said with a heavy sigh.
Realization dawned on me. I wasn’t stiff at all. My body felt refreshed for once. I hurried over to the bathroom mirror and pulled off my clothes to find that my bruises had gone. My skin was glowing and warm again. My lips soft. The bags under my eyes had retreated and even my hair felt silkier.
Shaking, I brushed my teeth. My mind was overflowing again. My shoulder no longer hurt. There was no evidence of my injury, of my accident. My insides didn’t feel the same either; the hurt was gone and so was that dizzying feeling of guilt. Making a note to schedule with my gynecologist, I joined my parents for breakfast.
Mom was sitting at the table reading emails on her tablet. She had her makeup and pantsuit on. “You look rested,” she said. She got up and pressed the back of her hand to my forehead. She searched for a moment, looking for something else to comment on. “Maybe you should put some aloe here.” She poked my cheek with a knuckle, but my blossoming positive energy didn’t falter.
Dad put a plate in front of me and asked how many pancakes I wanted. But he paused when he looked at my face. “Are you feeling better?”
I nodded as he filled my plate.
“Good,” he said, kneeling to kiss my forehead. “Good,” he repeated. He paused as if there was something he wished to say. As if he’d noticed something out of place, but it was welcome, and he didn’t want to disturb it. He turned back to finishing the last batch of pancakes as mom left.
I brought my breakfast back to my room. Fay was gone. The sweater was draped over my bed, and I knew what I had to do. I dug around for my phone, finding it in my pants. I pulled up Anita and texted, I’m sorry.
Comments
Such a sad, beautiful story.
