them as much as he cared to.
Ah, God. So much misery, so much abandonment, so much pain.
My mind drifted into sleep for a while.
Sometime in the middle of the night I woke, or thought that I did. I wasn’t sure. There was a character in my mind. A story, something I’d not conjured up in a long time. It shone clearly before me, suddenly and inexplicably. Two people. A room. An atmosphere of sadness, defeat.
Maybe tomorrow, I thought. Maybe I’ll think about it tomorrow. I turned over in the bed, drifted toward sleep again.
And then later, possibly much later, I felt the presence of someone with me. I could hear breathing. Soft. Slow.
I felt a pencil being slipped between my fingers. Then a pad of paper was placed into my hand.
“Write it,” she said quietly. “Write what you couldn’t say to me.”
I didn’t need to open my eyes. I knew whose voice it was.
6
“The Girl That Nobody Liked”
by Benjamin Fall
“I think I died,” she said.
He opened his eyes blearily. Gray sleet speckled the windows.
“What?”
“Last night.”
He closed his eyes again and rubbed them, sighing. His head throbbed.
“You think you what?”
“Died.” Her voice was small, distant.
“Hey…” He was about to say her name, then realized he couldn’t remember it. He turned over in the bed to face her. She was sitting up. He placed his arm across her pelvis, pushed his face against her skin. “Lie down,” he said softly. “Relax.” It did not concern him too much that he couldn’t recall her name. Just another girl. They rarely left much impression, coming and going as easily as dreams. Where had he met this one? Her smell was drab, vaguely unpleasant, and didn’t seem familiar. Her shape was all right, if a trifle thin. Her skin was pale. But he could see no more of her from where he lay and wasn’t all that inclined to try.
“I’m serious, Mitchell. I think I’m dead.”
Her voice was whispery, high-pitched and a little annoying, with a slight whine in its tone.
“Shh.”
Eyes closed, face burrowed against her, he felt her take his hand and place his fingers around her wrist.
“Feel,” she said.
“C’mon…”
“Feel.”
Still without looking, he pressed his fingers gently into the softness of her wrist. After a moment he moved his fingers slightly, pressed more firmly. He scowled then, raised his head.
She said, “I don’t have a pulse.”
He remembered her face now. White, anemic, with big dark hollows around her eyes. Nondescript black hair, disarranged from sleep. Thin colorless lips. She wasn’t bad-looking; she wasn’t good-looking. She was the kind of person that, if he hadn’t been half-drunk and horny last night, he would have passed by without even noticing.
“What are you talking about? Everybody has a pulse.”
She held out the other arm to him. “Try this one.”
He sat up in bed, curled his fingers around her other wrist.
“This is crazy,” he said. “We’re not doing it right.”
He felt again. He could see the blue veins at the end of her wrist, pushed his fingers around them, pressed. Finally he chuckled.
“Yep, I guess you’re dead, all right.” He smiled at her. “How do you do it? I mean, do you have, like, an abnormally weak heartbeat or something?”
She only looked at him. Finally she held her fingers to her neck, near her jaw.
“Try this,” she said, taking his hand and placing it just where her own had been.
Nothing.
He shook his head, puzzled but not terribly interested. He needed to bring this to a close quickly, gently encourage her to go.
“Look,” he said, “I work at Sears, all right? I don’t really know anything about pulses—”
“I do. I have Red Cross training. When I was in high school I worked as a lifeguard.”
“Well, I didn’t. You want some coffee? Then maybe you…”
“Put your head here.”
He glanced at her. Her hand was over her heart, like a little girl taking the Pledge of Allegiance. Her breasts
Ah, God. So much misery, so much abandonment, so much pain.
My mind drifted into sleep for a while.
Sometime in the middle of the night I woke, or thought that I did. I wasn’t sure. There was a character in my mind. A story, something I’d not conjured up in a long time. It shone clearly before me, suddenly and inexplicably. Two people. A room. An atmosphere of sadness, defeat.
Maybe tomorrow, I thought. Maybe I’ll think about it tomorrow. I turned over in the bed, drifted toward sleep again.
And then later, possibly much later, I felt the presence of someone with me. I could hear breathing. Soft. Slow.
I felt a pencil being slipped between my fingers. Then a pad of paper was placed into my hand.
“Write it,” she said quietly. “Write what you couldn’t say to me.”
I didn’t need to open my eyes. I knew whose voice it was.
6
“The Girl That Nobody Liked”
by Benjamin Fall
“I think I died,” she said.
He opened his eyes blearily. Gray sleet speckled the windows.
“What?”
“Last night.”
He closed his eyes again and rubbed them, sighing. His head throbbed.
“You think you what?”
“Died.” Her voice was small, distant.
“Hey…” He was about to say her name, then realized he couldn’t remember it. He turned over in the bed to face her. She was sitting up. He placed his arm across her pelvis, pushed his face against her skin. “Lie down,” he said softly. “Relax.” It did not concern him too much that he couldn’t recall her name. Just another girl. They rarely left much impression, coming and going as easily as dreams. Where had he met this one? Her smell was drab, vaguely unpleasant, and didn’t seem familiar. Her shape was all right, if a trifle thin. Her skin was pale. But he could see no more of her from where he lay and wasn’t all that inclined to try.
“I’m serious, Mitchell. I think I’m dead.”
Her voice was whispery, high-pitched and a little annoying, with a slight whine in its tone.
“Shh.”
Eyes closed, face burrowed against her, he felt her take his hand and place his fingers around her wrist.
“Feel,” she said.
“C’mon…”
“Feel.”
Still without looking, he pressed his fingers gently into the softness of her wrist. After a moment he moved his fingers slightly, pressed more firmly. He scowled then, raised his head.
She said, “I don’t have a pulse.”
He remembered her face now. White, anemic, with big dark hollows around her eyes. Nondescript black hair, disarranged from sleep. Thin colorless lips. She wasn’t bad-looking; she wasn’t good-looking. She was the kind of person that, if he hadn’t been half-drunk and horny last night, he would have passed by without even noticing.
“What are you talking about? Everybody has a pulse.”
She held out the other arm to him. “Try this one.”
He sat up in bed, curled his fingers around her other wrist.
“This is crazy,” he said. “We’re not doing it right.”
He felt again. He could see the blue veins at the end of her wrist, pushed his fingers around them, pressed. Finally he chuckled.
“Yep, I guess you’re dead, all right.” He smiled at her. “How do you do it? I mean, do you have, like, an abnormally weak heartbeat or something?”
She only looked at him. Finally she held her fingers to her neck, near her jaw.
“Try this,” she said, taking his hand and placing it just where her own had been.
Nothing.
He shook his head, puzzled but not terribly interested. He needed to bring this to a close quickly, gently encourage her to go.
“Look,” he said, “I work at Sears, all right? I don’t really know anything about pulses—”
“I do. I have Red Cross training. When I was in high school I worked as a lifeguard.”
“Well, I didn’t. You want some coffee? Then maybe you…”
“Put your head here.”
He glanced at her. Her hand was over her heart, like a little girl taking the Pledge of Allegiance. Her breasts
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