Two or Three Things I Forgot to Tell You by Joyce Carol Oates Page A

strangers’ eyes, lying in bathwater—and the bathwater discolored by her own blood!—this was ugly.
    This did not appeal to her, for Merissa was a fastidious girl and could not bear the thought of being such a spectacle.
    Maybe better to lie in her bed, as Tink had done. But Tink had swallowed her mother’s barbiturates—or so it was said.
    Merissa was sitting on the edge of her bed, partly dressed. She was feeling faint—light-headed—and her heart was beating strangely.
    She wanted to hurt herself—as she deserved to be hurt.
    She wanted to punish herself—as she deserved to be punished.
    She wanted to die—as she deserved to die.
    Gripping the little knife more tightly, and bringing the tip of the blade against her forearm again, which was now bleeding, slippery with blood, she swallowed hard, and there came a sound of something scratching—angrily?—at a nearby window, and Merissa turned to stare at—what was it?—at the windowpane beyond her bed in which, since the room was lighted, there was nothing to discern except the blurred reflection of the room, and Merissa’s blurry figure within it.
    No one, nothing there—of course.
    Dry-mouthed, Merissa directed the knife blade another time, and another time there came the sharp, angry scratching sound at the window. Hairs stirred on the nape of Merissa’s neck.
    â€œT-Tink? Are you here?”
    It seemed that Tink was near—a hot, furious presence—for Tink’s skin often felt hot, and her carroty-red hair looked as if it had been singed with fire—and her green-glassy laser eyes that were capable of exuding such contempt.
    Merissa stared toward the window but saw nothing except the reflection. She felt someone touch her—tug lightly at her hair—but when she turned, there was no one there—of course. . . .
    â€œTink? Tink? Where are you?”
    It was the first time that Tink had appeared to Merissa since the week of Good News, which had to be almost two months ago. So long Merissa had been lonely, yearning for Tink, and so long Tink had kept her distance, and Merissa wondered now if Tink had been disgusted with her, and no longer loved her as a friend; and that was why Tink had not spoken to her in so long.
    â€œTink? I—I’m not sure what to do. I think that I—should—should do this—but—” Merissa’s voice faltered, like a child’s voice. She was so ashamed that Tink should see her like this, lacking Tink’s courage.
    Another time Merissa felt someone touch her, now on the right shoulder; and when she turned, there came a touch—playful, teasing—on Merissa’s left shoulder.
    â€œT-Tink? I wish you could h-help me. . . .”
    Merissa’s eyes were widened, but her vision seemed to be narrowing, like a tunnel. Her teeth were chattering, though her skin was scalding to the touch. The little paring knife was gripped between her fingers so hard, the flesh of her fingers had begun to turn white, but suddenly, to Merissa’s astonishment, the little knife was pried out of her fingers and fell clattering to the floor. And she felt a warm breath against the nape of her neck, and heard soft laughter.
    â€œTink! Don’t t-tease. . . .”
    Now Merissa could smell her friend’s singed-orange-peel smell, which was unmistakable. And a scent of cloves and cinnamon.
    She would have snatched up the knife—(which was stained and ugly-looking)—except there came a sharp little nudge in her ribs like a painful tickle, and she gave a cry of astonishment, glancing everywhere around her—but Tink, though obviously present, was not visible .
    And as Mr. Kessler frequently said, so much of the universe was present but not visible to ordinary human eyes, from the smallest molecules and unicellular creatures to the vast emptiness of space, a no-color that defied human perception.
    And