Page 1 of Haven't Killed in Years
Part
One
One
On the day mymother was released from prison I stubbed my toe four times. Same toe. Four times. It was a statistical anomaly and, in hindsight, a warning that bad things were coming my way.
—
The first stubbing happened before I even left the apartment. I had eaten three caramel candies the night before and had to get aggressive with a bit of floss, disastrously so. I inspected my bloody gums in the mirror, looking like a total cannibal.
As I grabbed a square of toilet paper to wipe my mouth with, I kicked my toe into the base of the toilet head-on. It was only the beginning.
—
Two hours later it happened again. I was at Painting Pots, a place where I spent too much of my free time. It was primarily a do-it-yourself ceramics store where customers, mostly kids, painted already-sculpted pieces, but I hung in the back with the actual pottery wheels. It was an obsessive hobby that required the focus Icraved. Long ago I’d accepted that I had enough bowls and vases, so now most sessions ended with a dramatic flattening of my creation, reclaiming all the clay I could.
I had a comfortable rapport with one of the employees, a guy named Porter who was only a few years out of high school. Nothing in life brought him more joy than calling me Thirsty Thirty anytime I interacted with a man, and that day was no exception.
I was standing over the sink, scrubbing between my fingers, running late for a meeting, when I sensed Porter entering my space.
“There you go, Gwen.” He appeared over my shoulder, his bleach-blond coif grazing my temple and causing me to look up.
A frazzled man gripping the hands of two identical preschoolers stood at the front counter, the twins tugging his arms in opposing directions as he struggled to maintain his footing.
“Single dad,” Porter whispered into my ear as I tore off a paper towel. I swatted him away in a continuous motion. “Thirtyandthirsty,” he said, countering my dismissal right on cue.
I smirked as I walked away, taking four steps before a graceless boy wielding a dripping paintbrush darted in front of me. I swerved out of the way and into the leg of one of the tables. Same toe.
“Fuck,” I shouted, and the world froze. It wasn’t a great place to swear. “Sorry,” I said to the first mother I made eye contact with, and the earth started spinning again.
—
I managed to survive the next eleven hours at work without stubbing my toe. My feet were hurting, but that was from standing for hours, in heels, at an undergraduate career fair. Making small talk with college juniors worried about summer internships was, at times, even more painful.
After the event wrapped up, since I was still downtown, I agreed to meet Brian for a nightcap. Brian was a guy I had been on twoprevious dates with. On our second date, I had gotten my period unexpectedly, which announced itself with instant debilitating cramps that sent me to the bathroom a suspicious number of times before I was finally able to go home. I assumed this date would be an improvement.
Brian was all right. He was polite and clean-cut and I let him tell me things about his day. He was attractive enough, even if I was bored by the majority of our conversations. He was a safe choice.
We each had two drinks and then, even though it was Friday night, I pretended I had to be up early the next morning. I slipped my phone into my purse, hopped off my seat, and swung my foot directly into the vacant stool between us. Same toe.
I gripped the bar table, shifting my weight onto it. Brian slid off his stool to help me. One or both of our unplanned yet synchronized movements knocked over the glass holding the last half of his third dark beer—the third drink I had hinted was not necessary.
The brown liquid seeped into the sleeve of my cream sweater. Brian pawed a clump of cocktail napkins and patted at my sleeve while I bent over, clenching my body to stop the blood from flowing to my toe. Once he had successfully set the stain into the fibers under the guise of helping, he went in for a kiss.
“I just stubbed my toe,” I reminded him, halting his advance.
—
The fourth and final assault was the most significant.
I lived on the second floor of a three-story house that had been renovated by Dr. Frankenstein. At one point, someone had converted the top two floors into one unit, then someone else had needed more income and chopped a third unit into the building. It was small and a real structural misstep, but the finishings looked high quality and the commute into Boston was manageable. Plus, the rent was low for a one-bedroom, and having a roommate wasn’t really an option for someone like me.
A two-hundred-year-old woman, Mrs. Magnus, lived below me and a burned-out musician lived on top. They were great at staying out of my business and I was usually able to relax once I was locked tight inside. That feeling was more valuable to me than things like space for a queen mattress or an actual bedroom closet.
I got home from my date and pushed open the building’s front door, kicking it over the thick carpet runner that always bunched in places, preventing the door from opening or closing properly. Then I traipsed up the flight of stairs, exhausted from having to take two trains to get back to my car, hunched over like the universe was forcing me to climb Mount Everest.
A small brown box awaited me on the landing outside my apartment. I slid my key into the lock and swung the door open before picking it up. There was no label. It wasn’t even properly sealed; the flaps were folded into each other without any adhesive. Through the cracks, I could make out one of those Trader Joe’s newspapers. I undid a flap and the rest fell open.
