Conversation Six

This time, it is I who seeks her, tracks her down, grabs her by the arm and pins her to the wall of the room in my mind. Her skin is smooth and paper-white; her face is a mannequin’s. Her lips do not move when she speaks.

“Angry, are we?”

The room is pristine at first glance, but I can see the dust on the floor, the husks of dead flies shriveling inside the wide florescent lights. The smudged fingerprints on the glass of the clock in the far corner. The second hands spins smoothly across the numbers, shearing off moments that die too quickly to be mourned.

Her voice adopts an edge of mocking grief. “Anger decreases efficiency. You’re wasting time here, listening to me.”

“Shut up, bitch.”

She laughs with the sound of splintering wood, of metal grating against metal. “But I won’t shut up. Whatever I say, you’ll listen.” Her arm twists in my grip. “You’ll stop. You’ll doubt.” I hold tighter. “You’ll know I’m right.”

“Right about what?” I know the answer but it’s not a question; it’s a challenge.

“That no matter what people say—” Her arm begins to crack, jagged faults running across its flawless surface. “—no matter how much praise you get, how many report cards run A all the way down—” Knife-edged shards bite at my palms, drawing blood as they fall to the gritty floor. “—they’re wrong. You and I, we know the truth.”

“And what’s that?” I whisper, as blood spatters the dust and the room begins to spin.

“The truth?” She smiles then, her vacant face contorting into a grimace mapped with hairline cracks. “That you’ll never succeed. Never be good enough. There’s always more to do and you’ll never do it all, lazy girl.”

My red-streaked fist hits her hard across the cheek and she raises a jagged hand to her face, eyes wide, mouth open, ready to speak as she shatters, shards tumbling to hit the floor and smash into dust. I can still hear her singsong whisper, “…Lazy girl…”