by Jada Bethea Steaming hot coffee pours into my mug from the Keurig. I watch it form craters in the sugar without enthusiasm, without impatience. Just my eyes soaking up colors, my nose allowing the aroma of carmel to enter but never processing the sensation into emotions. Tia looks up at me from the copier machine, gifting me a shy smile. I grant her one in return, merely common courtesy, of course. She clears her throat, “Slow day, huh?” I glance at the rainy window. Personally, I don't believe a thunderstorm is any more or less depressing than a summer barbeque. She would know this if it weren’t her first day, but interns are clueless. They couldn’t tell you the difference between Customer Service and Human Resources. No matter, this conversation has gone on long enough anyways. I face her once more, staring at her as I let my spoon slip through my fingers and fall to the counter with an obnoxious clank. “I’m done stirring my coffee.” I start to walk out of the room but pause upon seeing colored paper in the printer tray. “And we only use black and white for evaluations.” With that, I leave. The sounds of stressed muttering and paper shuffling growing fainter behind me. I imagine I would have smiled if I could have. *** “Mama guess what?” “I’m all ears Cecilia…” She leans in, hands gripping the edge of the dinner table, “I got an A on my history paper.” “Did you really?” “Yes Ma’am, sure did.” “Yes Ma’am, yourself. It’s not better than what I did.” Garrett turns his attention to me eagerly, awaiting the motherly interest that never arrives. “Honey, pass the butter will you?” I nod in my husband’s direction. He looks on at me incredulously. “Diana, your son has something to say to you. The food couldn’t wait?” I look from my kids to my husband and back. All of whom are staring back at me and none of whom I could honestly say I give a damn about. It’s getting harder and harder to fight my nature and I’m starting to wonder if upholding this facade is worth it. But the thing about not caring is that you eliminate indecisiveness. Difficult decisions become simple. First thoughts are your final thoughts. And the thing is, I don’t care. “Ralph… Prime rib gets cold, news doesn’t. Not at least for a couple of days.” I saw off another slice and chew on it savagely, wiping my mouth with his napkin only to give it back. I stand up from the table and adjust my dress. “Oh! Where are my manners? Dessert?” *** The house is settling. I lie on my bed facing the ceiling. It’s the first time I’ve notice the nails popping through the drywall as if to say “hello.” I exhale a smoke cloud and close my eyes, a Pall Mall between my fingers. My suitcase is packed and waiting patiently beside the nightstand - so what the hell am I waiting for? Perhaps I do have emotions if something is keeping me from leaving. Not the whole range of feelings but some. What an unfortunate reality that would be. The ability to connect and empathize somehow evades me yet I’m held back by… what? Fear? Guilt? Jesus Christ, love? Now that’s a stretch. Truth be told I’ve grown quite accustomed to my circumstances. I’m not even sure I would want to feel if I could. I sit up in bed and smush the cigarette into the ashtray. Ralph rolls over in his sleep and starts to snore. If only he knew. I grab my suitcase and head towards the hallway. Before I close the door I glance back at the man who I promised to spend forever with. I wonder if he’ll miss me. *** I’ve changed my mind. I want to know what it’s like. Just once. I’m not asking for euphoria, just an experience of any kind. How does it feel to lose money, to be embarrassed, to be abandoned? I look down at the red light on my dash to find the fuel gauge frantically pointing towards E. I shouldn’t be surprised though. I’ve been driving for almost 2 hours straight since I left… the house. “MPH” is the first gas station I come by. I’ve never really been out of Jersey so I don’t know how to fill the tank myself. A man steps out of a Cyan Subaru and begins to approach me. I don’t bother looking up though until he’s an arms length away. With a car that bright, the only threat he poses to me is retinal damage. “It looks like you could use some help.” he says. “Sadly, yes. Would you?” “It would be my pleasure.” He goes to work and within 2 minutes, the job is done. “Take care now.” He grins and turns to walk away but I reach out and tap his shoulder. If there was ever a more genuine interaction between another person and myself, I can’t recall. Maybe this is what a true connection feels like but I’m not sure. I have to act fast. I can’t miss my chance. Once he’s facing me again I get down on one knee and clasp my hands together. “Marry me.” “What? Is this some kind of sick joke?” He staggers back. “Did - did I not do it right? I can try again. I won’t mess it up this time.” “ I barely know you!” “Isn’t that what love at first sight is?” “No- Wha- what’s wrong with you?” I look down at my hands, still clasped together and covered in grease. Slowly, I pull them apart and glare at the lines covering my palms. I remember going to a psychic when I was young enough to ride the tea cups. My mother took me for my 9th birthday. She said it was important to celebrate the last year before double digits. Henrietta, the psychic woman, sat us both down, grabbing my hands first. As her fingertips traced over them, she told me of my promising future. How it would be a happy one, filled with accomplishments and healthy relationships. I knew she was a phony then and now I’m living proof of that. But my mother, that came as a surprise. Henrietta took one look at her palms and jumped away. Seconds later she was kicking us out of her shop and slamming the door in our faces. My mother died 6 days later. But why didn’t my prophecy come true? Why did hers have to? Everytime I look at my hands I’m reminded of all the things I was robbed of. It should have been me. A honking 18 wheeler brings me back to reality. I look up to find Subaru Man no longer in front of me but in his car. This one moves fast. I get back in my truck without thinking, jamming the keys into the ignition and twisting with a troublesome amount of force. My headlights come on, illuminating his car. And then, I floor it. The wreckage was epic. If you’ve ever witnessed someone get T-boned you know what I’m talking about. Glass flew in every direction. The crunching metal, the growl of my engine as I picked up speed, I swear it was like something out of a movie. But the look on his face of sheer terror - that was the best part. The impact of my airbag made breathing a painful ordeal but somehow, for the first time in my life, I managed to laugh. Jada aspires to be a screenwriter or work in the realm of creative writing in a different profession. She is a junior and varsity field hockey player who believes in the power of words.
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About Epiphany
Epiphany Literary Magazine is a safe space for students at Franklin High School to share their creativity. Archives '16-'20
June 2020
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