Solitary Confinement
The first time she visited me, I was still a child.
While I was bundled up in my Winnie the Pooh comforter, relishing on the softness and warmness the fabric provided, the foreign sensation of a weight being pressed down on the edge of my mattress awoke me. I opened my eyes and, although they were blurry from waking from a miraculous deep slumber, her figure wasn’t hard to miss.
She was overwhelmingly tall and skinny, dressed in a black gown. Her skin was discolored, as though she had recently died, and yet her body froze in time. Her face covered by a black curtain. Whether it was a veil or her long black hair, it was impossible to tell.
I held my breath, waiting for this strange creature to snatch me away. To hurt me. To kill me. But she simply observed me while sitting perfectly still. As harmless as a silhouette, nearly disappearing in the darkness of the room.
Regardless of her inaction, I wanted to call for my parents or my sisters. But I knew it was useless.
None of them were home.
The pattern of her visits continued for most of my childhood and the beginning stages of my teen years. She’d come at night, sit on my bed, and observe me until I couldn’t help but give in to exhaustion. She seemed to be selective with when she’d grace me with her presence—attentive to the circumstances of my life—for she never visited me when someone was in the house or when I had a particularly memorable day with friends.
I was well aware she relished in my presence and my presence alone.
I was also well aware of how her stillness began to bring me peace instead of fear. Her tall figure appeared more so ethereal than malignant.
When everything in my life began to head downhill, she was there, the only constant.
These should’ve been early warning signs not to continue to rely on my usual ignorance. Not to allow her to instill contentment and camaraderie in my heart.
| | | | | | | | | | | | | | |
The first time she talked to me, I came to the realization that friends can, in fact, abuse you. They can forget you without a second thought.
I mourned the shattered friendship as one mourns the death of their first love. Desperately trying to grapple with how I had allowed a person very dear to me, someone I loved deeply, to relish in disassembling the foundation of my sense of self. Their betrayal rendered me to a hysterical sobbing mess on the cold floor of the school’s bathroom, clinging with all my might to the minuscule amount of dignity I had left.
She appeared as she kneeled in front of me, gently grasping my hands with hers. “This is for the better, my girl,” she said. Her voice was melodic and soft. “When you’re here with me, no one can hurt you like they did,” she continued, “I would never hurt you as they did.”
And I vowed to her, and to myself, that I wouldn’t give my trust as freely as I used to. I hid the key to my heart in a never-ending riddle that constitutes my expectation of others. There is no answer because nothing anyone provides will ever be enough. Not anymore.
Later that week, my distraught state melted into acidic fury that drove me to hide rather than having to face those who hurt and abandoned me. I had nothing but the companionship of a few used books in the school’s library—and her, always her, standing over me like a fallen guardian angel.
Their fiction section was lacking any book that provided something other than the good old notion that a romantic relationship will save a girl’s life. Although I braved on reading Cassandra Clare’s “Clockwork Prince,” trying to give the story a chance, the damned book posed me the question, “If no one cares for you at all, do you even really exist?”
With a sharp inhale and my heart threatening to come out of my throat, I slammed the book shut.
There was no way I would let that God awful book humiliate me any further.
I heard someone call my name, searching for me in the confusing bookshelves’ maze organized by the stern librarian. By the time I got up from my hidden nook and put the book away, the dark looming angel was long gone. Where she once stood was replaced by a friend brave enough to interact with me, disregarding the fact that doing so would most definitely render his social state to a pariah. But he was willing to be one with me.
My heart ached wistfully, clashing with my brain’s incessant indecision. After all, I was still reconciliating with one of multiple gaping wounds inflicted by people close to me, as well as the heavy weight of her words. I knew she’d be disappointed with my apparent lack of self-respect.
There I was, considering trusting someone again. But maybe being suddenly forgotten by those around us doesn’t matter as much, as long as we have one another to remember our existence.
I don’t think she liked him, though. She never made herself known when he was with me.
| | | | | | | | | | | | | | |
The first time she touched me, I was long gone from my home country.
Far away from everything that was familiar. Far away from a place that holds the memories of my childhood. Far away from the small number of truthful friends who remained with me through the hardships, who held pieces of my soul in their hearts as a parting gift.
The clumsy process of learning how to adapt to a completely different culture, while simultaneously having to erase even more parts of myself to fit the standard, shattered any notion of self I had left— the price we pay for safety and stability. Had I known, then, how culture is so intricately interwoven with what defines a human being, I’d fought harder to keep mine.
Now, though, I barely have any. Neither from Brazil, nor from the United States. A citizen of nowhere. A patriotism dedicated to distant memories that no longer ring true, especially in this frigid land.
When I was a pariah in Brazil, at least I had loyal friends who understood my struggles and had no qualms with confronting the world together. I wasn’t truly removed from community because we created our own.
Being a pariah in the United States is a whole different story. Being openly ostracized as me and my friends usually were in Brazil was better than the absolute inconsideration. Here, people go out of their way to make sure they don’t acknowledge you. They act as frigid as the weather sometimes, but so very warm with the ones they consider their own.
I know I don’t have the right to complain. I’m fed. I am not close to living under a bridge. There are no known killers knocking on our door demanding money. We are stable enough that my family isn’t always trying to leave. Hell, my mere presence here isn’t allowed by birthright. So, why am I complaining?
It shouldn’t hurt so much.
And yet, it does.
On the other hand, the dark angel seemed extremely content with my predicament. Judging by how her movements weren’t as listless, but rather confident and consistent. Her skin glowed with life. She grew bolder in how she made sure she was with me. Her voice echoed louder through not only within the walls of our new house, but also outside.
She was everywhere. In every room I entered, she’d be in the corner. As I walked down the street, I could see her in passing on the other side of the road. She was free.
She hugs me every night, before I sleep. Especially when I start to count the cracks on the walls, along with the uneven patches of paint. When the heater sounds ridiculously loud, like a construction worker hammering with incandescent rage. When the crackling of the pipes may as well be ghosts trapped within the walls, punching their way out.
She envelops me in her arms, and squeezes me tight, to the point my throat closes, and the darkness is stygian, and every thought that occurred during the day is closing in on me, and I can’t discern whether I am alive or dead, and is there really no one—
“Shhh. Breathe, my girl. Breathe.”
Yet, I somehow manage to find peace within the suffocation, distantly hearing her whispers of comfort, her humming some unrecognizable celestial tune.
| | | | | | | | | | | | | | |
The first time she hurt me, I was well past the point of being simply acquainted with the walls of my home. They were part of me now, to the point they may as well be my flesh and blood.
It took a pandemic plaguing our lifetime for me to realize that I shouldn’t love her as much as I do. The manner the rest of the world was describing her, reducing her to a never-ending doom, a mind-eater scum, a monster. It didn’t settle well in my heart. Initially, I ignored their vicious descriptions.
However, everything fell into place when I heard many of my college peers complain through my laptop screen about how miserable they felt during quarantine. Describing being stuck inside, away from friends or even family, like it was hardcore torture.
Whenever they expressed their sadness or anger, the fallen angel would dig her fingers in my shoulders and lean towards the screen. She’d tilt her head, slightly brushing my temple with her dark strands of hair as she scoffed. I remember following her lead, thinking they were weak.
Really? It’s just a couple of months inside the house. Nothing too difficult to deal with. Parents are never home anyway. Friends are a luxury you can learn to live without. Why are they complaining so much?
Then, some of them got curious as to why I was unphased at the state of the world. I’d explain that the pandemic didn’t provoke any major changes in my life. Since I couldn’t finish high school while sitting inside an actual classroom—on top of aggressive PTSD manifesting in my brain, social anxiety became too grave to allow me to go a day without a major panic attack. I had to resort to online school and had to focus on recovering. During the process, I had been essentially isolated from society since 2017.
People would stare at me through the grainy video feed with either pitiful or bewildered expressions.
And that’s when it clicked.
Oh.
Oh.
It’s not normal.
It’s not normal not to have any meaningful and substantial human interaction for five years. It’s not normal to forget what your own voice sounds like. It’s not normal for your hands to shake intensely whenever you’re around someone other than yourself. It’s not normal to feel gratification with being invisible. It’s not normal to feel like you died a million years ago, to the point humanity forgot your existence, when you’re alive and breathing.
It made me wonder about prisoners who go insane when they are locked and forgotten in solitary confinement.
Because she erodes their brains. She parades mortal projections on their walls. She sings auditory hallucinations like a true siren. She is a master of the dark, a painter composing a masterpiece of pure nothingness. She enhances every nerve in your body through her touches, that her mere presence is addictive.
She did that to me.
She didn’t happen to wander in my room during our first encounter.
No.
Just as I naively assumed she is nothing but a visitor, I sheltered myself from the truth.
I invited this beautiful demon in my life.
And just as I opened the door to her, I started to devise a plan to lock her away.
So, one day, as I was preparing to have a day out with my sisters for the first time in a long time, I turned to her, as she was nestled in her usual corner, and mustered enough courage to declare, “I don’t want you anymore.”
Her head moved downward slowly as she observed me more intently. “Is that so?” she asked.
“…Yes.”
“I see,” she said.
For a brief moment, the silence was stifling. I frowned at her vague answer, as well as her continuous presence.
“Well, get out of here then!” I exclaimed.
She began to walk towards me with long strides. Her skin no longer glowing with life, nor discolored, but rather pungent and decomposed.
“That’s the issue, now, isn’t it, my girl? I don’t want to leave,” she announced all too happily.
“I don’t care what you want. This is my life.”
She moved behind me, wrapping her long fingers around my upper arm. Her nails carving red crescent moons on my skin. Her cold breath brushed the back of my ear as she leaned down closer to my face.
She whispered with a low saccharine tone, “How can I leave, when you know our little secret. Don’t you?”
I pulled my arm from her grasp but did little to diminish how tight her hold was. She didn’t relinquish and instead pressed further.
“You know no one is ever going to know you as extensively as I do. No one is ever going to care for you as deeply as I do.”
Her hand moved from my jaw to my cheeks, pressing them with her fingers, grasping my face and turning my head violently towards her.
The seemingly softness she demonstrated a couple of seconds ago long gone, for her whisper was now guttural, “No one is going to love you as devotedly as I do.”
I inhaled a shaky breath as fear suffused my body. “I don’t want you to be the only one to witness my existence. I don’t want you to be a part of me.”
She pushed me towards the corner, her corner. Her hands wrapped around my neck, and she instilled the same forceful hold she had on my arm, impeding any air from reaching my lungs.
“Oh, but at this point, you can’t live without me.” Her veil barely parted, revealing nothing but a small glimpse of her eyes. But that was all I needed, for I stared at two terrifying voids. “I’m in your bones.”
| | | | | | | | | | | | | | |
The last time I talked to her was early this year.
I fell into a great depressive state as I pondered whether I am truly ready to fully integrate into society again. I wondered if I am truly cursed to live a life of eternal solitude. If I peaked at what it means to have people who care for you when I was younger. Too young to understand how precious connecting with others is.
The demon never acquired her beauty again. Nor did she instill the room with an ethereal atmosphere. Rather, she showed her true nature.
“You really think you are not to blame for your loneliness? You’re like a vampire, sucking other people’s lives. Dealing with your persistent pessimism can only last so long, my darling.”
Perhaps she is right. Perhaps I am nothing but a leech on other people’s lives. Sucking the energetic sense of belonging that runs through their veins. Drinking in the genuine smiles at each other’s antics. Swallowing the subtle manner which they lean on one another just for the sake of touching, of feeling each other’s warm skin.
Perhaps in my desperate pursuit of feeling as though I am part of something other than the desolate confines of my own making, I can be nothing but a passenger. Nothing but some nameless creature standing at the back of the room, a blurred smudge sitting on the backseat of the bus, a faceless stranger walking through the same hallways.
“Then I will be content with simply watching,” I responded.
Her long limbs shook as she released a boisterous laugh. “Whatever you say.”
I smiled, feeling strangely at peace.
“Truly. I don’t need you anymore because I know, now. I know how to fill the hole you carved in my heart and mind. I may not have a foundation dedicated to how I’ll rebuild myself without your seductive hell, but I searched deep enough to find a piece of heaven within my heart. One that swells with hope whenever I witness life around me. And maybe that is enough…
“Yes. Maybe that is enough, for now.”
The Plight of Stars
“One day, you’ll fall so far down from the clouds of your imagination. I know how you are. You won’t even see it coming.”
The girl huffed at her father’s intrusive voice still ringing in her ears. The arguments were getting worse and louder as time progressed, but she didn’t want to have them echoing in her brain when she could finally seek reprieve.
She continued her way up the hill, despite how her knees trembled something awful and her mouth felt like the Sahara Desert. Days like this made her wish summer wasn’t perpetual in her hometown. Her hands clung tightly to a small container filled with today’s lunch, keeping it close to her stomach. She didn’t think someone would steal it, given how deserted the streets were during the afternoon, but it had happened before.
The concrete ended, giving way for patches of murky brown dirt and eventually grass. There were various equipment and materials of construction scattered throughout the land. She continued her way towards the enormous tree close to the edge of the hill, rushing her steps when she caught a glimpse of him.
“You’re early,” he said as she sat down next to him, relishing the coolness of the huge shadow the tree provided.
She was about to retort his observation with a joke but paused as she took in the state of his face.
“Where did you get that bruise?”
As if on automatic, he raised his hand towards his swollen cheekbone, the redness giving way to an ugly dark purple. The boy smirked at his friend’s furrowed brows and widened eyes.
“Calm down, will you? I got it at soccer practice today. You know I’m the goalie, we get more bruises than most players.”
She raised an eyebrow, grabbing his wrist gently, though he flinched at her touch as though it was sudden, and pointed towards the red palm print surrounding his forearm.
“And this?”
His nostrils flared as he inhaled sharply, slapping her hand away and pushing her by the shoulder for good measure. She glowered at him, allowing her narrowed eyes to linger a bit longer on his face. She still couldn’t decipher the turbulent anger in his green eyes and didn’t have time to even try.
“Did you just push—”
“What did you bring this time?”
Usually, she complied with his need to change the subject.
Despite only knowing each other for a handful of months since she transferred schools for their first middle school year, he figured her out like an open book in no time.
Either he resorted to interrupting her interrogations, knowing she was terrified of confrontation and conflict enough that she’d overlook his rudeness. Or he’d resort to a cunning strategy, perfecting his profession in identifying her weakness and making it flourish by asking a simple question:
“Tell me a story.”
She’d perk up and ask, “About what?”
And that’s when he had her in the palm of his hand.
“About anything, as long as it’s not real.”
She lost count of how many she told him. Of how many adventures they reenacted in the abandoned construction site. How the big pile of bricks would turn into a ship, their Bic pens were powerful wands, and their rulers would become sharp ancient swords. The many days they’d spent at sea, slaying monsters, investigating haunted tombs, and discovering exotic islands together.
And yet…
Every inquiry she had about his skin painted with sickly purple, red, and yellow, were either met with defiance or went ignored. The way his reaction was shifting from quiet diversion to bursts of violence made it hard to keep her concern locked away in the back of her mind.
It was evident wrath was filling his veins. He’d stomp the ground as he walked faster through the hallways, shouldering anybody that dared to step on his way. And when someone mustered enough courage to call him out on his unfairness, he’d start a fight—a poor orchestrated mess of punches and kicks.
His demeanor turned to that of a caged animal. He’d bark, growl, and bite any opponent his size. But turned into a trembling mess with his tail between his legs whenever he faced someone out of his league.
Particularly if that someone was their math teacher, Ms. Alvez, doing the simple act of leaning over his shoulder to check on his equations. Even though math is a subject both hate with a passion, the teacher was probably the kindest member of the school’s staff.
★★★
The sound of rapid scraping drove her to wake from her musings. Watching as he held the small container under his nose—barely chewing the spoonful of rice, beans, and potatoes, indifferent to the bits of rice that stuck to the corner of his lips—she thought, “Jesus, he even eats like an animal.”
She wrung her hands, taking advantage of the silence by preparing an entire monologue in her head to confront him. Only to lose her carefully planned words by mumbling, “Why are you so afraid of Ms. Alvez?”
She covered her mouth, cursing herself for blurting it out. Sometimes her thoughts were miles ahead and her body barely had time to catch up.
He paused mid chew, gripping the small spoon rigidly while maintaining his eyes on the expanse of scattered trees and small houses in front of them. She waited for him to curse at her, even a punch in the face for her lack of decorum, but he kept quiet.
“I mean, we used to talk about how she’s super nice. Now you can barely look at her face without…”
He continued to stare forward, though his eyes acquired a glazed look. As though he was so far deep into his mind, he forgot about her presence.
His unwillingness to answer her questions didn’t deter her. She knew what it was like. To have thoughts as heavy as the ocean, as chaotic as the waves during a storm. How overwhelming it was to drown in every single undercurrent.
She resorted to his trademark move…
“Did you know that there’s a diamond in space?”
…Deflecting.
“What are you on about now?” though he asked with a tone tinged in annoyance, he still looked up to the stars. She counted that as a win.
“It’s a gigantic diamond in the constellation Centaurus.”
He turned his head towards her while frowning, but his lips twitched into a small smile. “You’re fucking with me. Is this another story?”
“I’m serious!” She placed her hand under his chin and pushed his face towards the stars again. “And get this, the way they found it was through sound, which means the diamond has its own melody.”
“That makes no sense.”
“From what I remember, I guess it’s the heart of a star. Apparently, every star emits a sound through vibrations, but it’s too low, so we can’t hear it.”
“Where’s this enthusiasm for what we need to learn for school?” he teased, punching her shoulder.
She huffed a laugh before lightly slapping the back of his head. “I didn’t come here to get attacked, excuse you.”
The atmosphere was no longer suffocating, but the tenseness of his shoulders remained.
She picked on her nails, eventually joining him in observing the sky.
“I mean, just think about it. Billions of stars whispering their endless symphony. But we continue about our lives, unable to hear it.” She hugged her legs close to her chest, propping her chin on top of her knees. A soft smile adorned her lips. “I’d give anything to hear one. Just one.”
At first, his head dropped down, to the point his chin met the tip of his sternum. She noticed him biting his lower lip fiercely. Then he slowly lolled his head to the side, the long black strands of his hair following suit. He glared at her hard before he scoffed, getting up from the cluttered bricks and patting the back of his pants. A cloud of dust formed around him given how rapid and forceful his hands were hitting his legs.
“What?” she asked, genuinely confused.
“That stunt is not going to work on me, so get it out of your head,” he said with a clipped tone.
She shook her head and insisted, “What is it?”
He slapped his hand on his chest. “You think I’m stupid? Is that it?”
“Of course not.”
“Then what gives? Why do you keep insisting?”
“Because you’re my friend and I love y—”
He stepped in front of her and leaned down, the action was so sudden, his forehead almost knocked on hers.
“Don’t say that.” He spit out.
The moonlight made the whites of his eyes shine bright, highlighting the seemingly manic expression on his face.
She frowned at him, also rising to her feet. In an act of throwing caution to the wind, her hand shot forward and pushed him back.
She raised her voice, “I’m trying to care about you!”
“You have no idea what the fuck you’re going on about!”
He began to pace haphazardly, forcibly running his trembling hands through his hair to the point it looked painful.
She retorted, “Then by all means, enlighten me!”
The boy paused his movements with his back to her. His shoulders started shaking and for a brief moment she assumed he was crying. Moving forward, she reached to him cautiously, like he was a wounded animal. However, the sound of a guttural laughter shocked her enough to stop her in her tracks. He carefully released the abused strands of hair and turned to her with a bitter smirk. His bright green eyes taking on a dark brown hue. Suddenly, he moved like a predator ready to pounce.
One day, you’ll fall so far down from the clouds of your imagination.
“Alright, since you want to hear a story about a little star so badly. Here it goes.” He sneered with a cynical tone.
“A flickering star amidst billions of its own kind,
has a mom and dad much like us, humans, since the beginning of time.
Little flickering star upon its birth,
emitted rainbow-like waves, that drove galaxies to rage and burn.
Is it a curse?
Mom reaches deep into the light,
groping his very soul, desperate to put an end to her plight.
Little flickering star screams into the night,
wrangling with an evil meteorite, only to meet Dad’s indifferent sight.”
The boy tilted his head and raised an eyebrow. “Get it?”
I know how you are.
“You’re so far in your head, all the time.”
You won’t even see it coming.
“The melody you’re so enamored with might as well be their last words before they died.”
After his outburst, the boy’s strangled breath hit her tear-soaked cheeks. He was panting like he ran a marathon.
He sighed and looked up at the sky.
“Tell me a story.”
She swallowed her sobs and croaked, “About what?”
“About anything…But make it real this time.”
Victoria Freitas is a young Brazilian artist currently studying Graphic Design and Communication and Media at Assumption University in Massachusetts. She thoroughly enjoys exploring numerous subjects, such as history, philosophy, astronomy, and mythology. She abides by the wise words of the Roman poet, Ovid: “Be patient and tough; someday this pain will be useful to you.” In an effort to combine her two passions (art and writing), Victoria hopes to transform her stories into graphic novels and animation series.