Only in Fiction
by Jeremiah Hawkins

My body betrays me. My heart defies my every command for calmness. It’s happening again. Fucking anxiety attack—in Walmart of all places. 
Anxiety—the severing of mind and body—pinned against each other in battle. The body’s fight-or-flight mechanism running amok—hypersensitive to fear—like peanuts to an allergy. Okay, just be calm. I know what’s happening. I can get through this. 
Fuck.
Why did I have to come inside this Walmart? A chaos of feet, phosphorescence, and grocery carts rampaging atop the slippery tile. Or so it seems. Everything’s a blur. Bright chatty people swarm around me. I try not to look at them. My heartbeat is speeding up. 
Breathe, just breathe.
It’s all because of Jenny. Not really. It’s not her fault. Maybe she—dammit, my heart’s beating fast. It’s broken but galloping uncontrolled within my chest. I realize this and this scares me. I’m scared. Adrenalized fuel into the fire of fight-or-flight. My heart beats faster. I become more frightened. Adrenaline. My heart beats even faster. 
A cascade. A relentless feedback loop.  
	A random girl—a shopper—holding a pair of jeans sees me. She stares at me. No, not just staring, but studying. Not just studying, but undressing. Not my clothes, but my skin. I look away, staring at nothing, maybe the ground. Concentrating, calming, breathing. People everywhere. I’m blowing up. She’s still staring. She’s small but has big eyes and big feet with big flip-flops. She looks like a fucking hobbit. She knows. She sees through my façade of normalcy. She sees the panic. Men aren’t supposed to be weak and afraid. Aren’t supposed to panic. 
The shame. 
	I walk fast away in the wrong direction. I don’t realize this at first. The door to fresh air and wide openness is the other way. The other way! I can’t turn around—must look normal—like I know what I’m doing. My movements are probably twitchy and uncertain. I’m lost amongst a blur of people, amongst all the colors of clothing blending together. I stop walking. Desperate. I concentrate on something outside of myself. I reach out to make connection with something tangible, something to tether me, to anchor me. 
Save me, I request of it, save me. 
	She comes to me—the short shopper—she grabs my arm. She grabs my arm, the one that’s grabbing the strap of a red bra hanging near the aisle. I realize I’m freakishly focused on a bra in Walmart. 
	Fuck! 
I can’t do this. I’m exposed and going to explode. 
	“This way,” she says. Her voice is soothing and her mere there-ness draws out my first strained whimper of pain. I don’t argue. I let her lead me through the crowd of consumers—out of the Walmart. 
The big sliding doors open unto the dark, muggy Waco night.  
I look up at the moon. Humiliated. An ember of anger heats my gut. I’m angry with the Walmart, the people, the moon, this awful city I traveled into for escape, for unfamiliarity, for a clear mind. The city failed me. 
Of course. 
I stare at the back of her head as she pulls me and I speak to her within my mind before I speak to her with my mouth—
I’m also angry with you, strange lady, because you looked upon my weakness with the most discernment. “Where are we going?” I say aloud. My voice sounds strange to me.
Without turning to face me she says, “Does it matter?” 
No, it really doesn’t. All that matters is that you’re saving me. “No,” I say. 
The moon is full and bright, hanging inches above the horizon, about four finger widths. I like staring at it as she pulls me along. Her grip is the lifeline saving me. She speaks but I’m not listening. I don’t feel like I’m really here. I don’t feel like I exist here in this parking lot in front of this Walmart in this city. I’m a ghost. I’m a puppet and she, my rescuer, holds the strings. I hope she doesn’t let go.
The moon is bright and I focus on its many blurry replicates dimly reflecting off hoods and trunks and the tops of cars and trucks. I stare at the source—the leader of a lunar army marching past me. Wait. They don’t march. I march. But I have forgotten my legs and my direction. I’m floating. Passive. The hobbit has control. 
I hear grocery carts and footsteps, and I feel my body calming, my heart slowing. I try to stop thinking about how I’m getting better already—how the fight-or-flight mechanism is tiring of its crazed spray of adrenaline. I fear rousing the dozing beast. I must remain in this passivity—unthinking and calm. I must be led and I must fix my eyes on the moon four fingers above the horizon. My heart now beats fast not because I’m frightened, but because the strange lady walks fast. 
Now that the panic behind my eyes relents, I focus on her, on her speedy heels and calves. And then the rest of her. She wears khaki shorts and a green t-shirt. Very plain. Her right lower leg bears a large bruise that curls around from the front. In the hand that doesn’t carry me, she holds a medium sized purple notebook with a colorful pen slid into the spiral. Her hair is dark brown and shoulder length. Her figure is also very plain. A bit round. Nothing to draw the eye. 
You don’t have to pull me anymore—I forget to say this aloud—I try again. “You can let go now.” 
She looks back at me and lets go. But, it doesn’t feel like she let go. She holds me in another way. Her hand no longer grips my wrist, but I still feel like she’s carrying me.
She moves the hand—the hand that carried me—to her waist. Her eyes look left—then right—then up, maybe looking for something to say. “When did you eat last?” she asks. 
Eat? Not sure. “This morning,” I say. 
Her eyes squint and focus in on me with analytic precision. “What have you been drinking?”
“A couple cans of Satan Spit,” I say. 
“Huh?”
“The energy drink.”
“Ah, caffeine and tons of sugar?”
“Yes.”
She stops at the rear of a parked car in what appears to be the most distant parking spot. She nods her head in understanding and then says, “You’re dehydrated.”
“Yes, I think so.”
“And over energized.”
“Probably.”
She shrugs. “Yep, that’ll do it. Those energy drinks can take you way beyond the jitters. I bet you felt like you were going to have a heart attack. I could see it in your face.” 
I don’t respond. I’d rather her think it was all caused by the drink. Less complicated that way. 
She turns and walks to the driver side door and I stand there watching. I don’t want her to leave me. 
“You getting in?”
“Yes,” I say as relief cools my body. I walk to the passenger side as various thoughts race through my mind. This is strange. What girl does this? Is she not concerned I might be crazy? If she’s not, does that mean she’s crazy? Maybe I should be worried.
I’m thinking too much.
I climb in and shut the door. She doesn’t start the car right away but sits there staring at the steering wheel. She places her hands in her lap—then on the steering wheel—then in her lap again—then grabs her notebook and repositions it pointlessly. 
“Okay, listen.” She looks over at me, looks me up and down. “You look like a nice guy—a nice guy who’s having a bad night. And I’m just a girl looking for something interesting. I, I’m sort of a writer. Hence, the notebook.” She holds up her notebook. Her head shadows a distant Walmart parking lot light shining bright atop its pole. Shading my eyes, the light deflects in angelic rays around her head. She pauses, uncertain what to say, and then continues awkwardly. But I don’t mind. “Look, you needed help. And—I need something to write about. I’m not from here, you know. I drove here from Dallas trying to break myself out of this—I don’t know—this aridity, or funk I seem to be stuck in. Honestly, I don’t know what the hell I’m doing. But, um—So, are you from around here?”
She looks cute right now, nervous and frazzled. “No. Austin.”
“Wow, okay” she said, nodding her head and looking forward through the windshield into the night, “so two strangers meet fortuitously, maybe serendipitously, in a faraway city. Interesting.” She looks back at me and reaches out her hand. “My name’s Jersey.” 
She has two fairly fresh cuts on her arm. I say, “My name’s Kayden.” My hand’s shaking as I clasp hers. She notices. Of course.
“You need food. How about Chinese?” 
“Um—”
“Yeah, Chinese and some good conversation. It’ll be good for you, sort of let it all out in front of a stranger you’ll never see again.”
“Let it out?”
“Yeah, you know, kind of therapeutic. Oh, but don’t worry,” she says, waving her hand through the air in a nervous, exaggerated fashion, “if I write about anything tonight, I’ll cloak it. You’ll be short instead of tall, brown hair instead of red hair. Stuff like that. What do you say? Food, some good conversation? It’ll be good for you.”
Oh, you have no idea. Anything to get Jenny off my mind. Plus, I don’t think I could leave you even if I wanted—you hold the strings. “Yeah, I think that sounds good to me. I like Chinese food.”
“Good,” she says and turns the key. “Yes, it’s a good beginning, I think. I’m feeling good about this.”
Me too—my heartbeat is normal—the adrenaline is going away. “You’ll bring me back to my car?”
“I’ll walk you back to your car. Look, the Delta Motel is right there. Fifty yards, maybe. We’ll head there first to drop my car off. And you see the red sign over there? Wong’s Wok? That’s where we’re eating. Walking distance. You don’t mind walking, do you? I just thought it’d be good for you, work through that caffeine and all.”
I nod and she starts the car. Within a couple minutes we pull into a crater-filled parking lot in front of the Delta Motel. We bounce and jerk within the car. 
“Okay, home sweet home,” she says, as we come to a stop. She turns the car off and pulls the key out of the ignition. 
It’s silent and she stares through the windshield at the motel. She says, “It’s not the nicest place. But, hey, I’m a writer, not an engineer. Maybe someday I’ll be able to afford more luxuries… Though, I’m not sure I’d ever want to. I mean, good art often grows organically out of pain and conflict. Afford yourself too much comfort and you may suck all the inspiration out of your life, your creative powers buried in humdrum. I pray it never happens to me. You know, you might think I’m stupid, but it’s kind of one of my greatest fears.”
	Try almost exploding in a Walmart sometime. “You fear it that much?”
	“Oh yeah,” she says and turns and looks at me for the first time since we parked. “Let me tell you. I’m twenty-eight years old, and in all my days I’ve learned one true thing about myself.” She pauses, maybe for effect or maybe waiting for me to say something, but I don’t. Then she says, “My life becomes fucking chaotic when I’m not writing—excuse the language. I can become pretty depressed. When my mind doesn’t have a story to slip into…it’s not good. But, anyways—”
	She opens her door and gets out. I do likewise and we walk away from the motel and toward Wong’s Wok. I keep my gaze low, as does she—the ground being too jagged and the night too dark to do more than take a quick glance at anything else.
	“So, are you prone to anxiety attacks or is there a story there?”
	“Both.”
	“Watch your step,” she says. She jumps over a pothole and onto stable ground, and then turns to watch me. To help me, maybe. Once I’m also on stable ground, she says, “What do you mean by both?”
	With it no longer necessary to stare down, I lift my gaze to see the moon directly in front of us. It’s large and bears an orange glow. I stare at it and it seems to relax me and stimulate me at the same time.  
	“I can sometimes get a bit edgy when I’m in crowded places,” I say. “But if I’m stressed about something beforehand, it’s more likely I’ll get pushed over the edge. Plus, I feel weird being here in Waco.”
	“And don’t forget about all that sugar and caffeine. It’s not healthy. Turn here,” she says, placing her hand on my shoulder as we come to a street corner. “So, what are you stressed about?”
	“Just some drama with my girlfriend. I mean ex-girlfriend. Maybe.”
“Go on,” she says.
Shit, I really don’t want to talk about this. My heartbeat quickens and I try to say it in the fastest way possible. “She got pissed at me because I’m not sharing enough, or open enough, or emotional enough, or something. I get upset because she’s upset. Blah, blah, blah—such a fucking cliché.”
	“So, what happened?” 
	What do you think happened? “We broke up,” I say.
	“Who broke up with whom?”
	“Not sure. We fought and then I walked out and I haven’t called her since. But, she hasn’t called me either. So, who knows.”
“Okay, so why go into a crowded Walmart knowing you’re in this state?”
	I don’t fucking know, probably because I was in this state. But I say, “I wasn’t thinking. Or I was thinking, but just about her. She’s all I—” I shake my head. “Look, it’s stupid. ” 
My heart is beating fast right now. We arrive at Wong’s Wok and I’m grateful.  
	“No, wait,” she says. “Stay out here with me for a sec.” she pulls my hand from the door. We lean against the front window of the restaurant and she takes longer than expected to let go of my hand. “You know, might sound crazy but I think our paths converged tonight for a purpose. We both drove here from distant cities. I came from the north, you from the south. I came to find something and you came to escape something. I think our situations complement each other. You know? You might not believe me, but I also just got out of a relationship.”
	“What happened?” 
 	She looks away. In a quieter, lower voice she says, “He left me.” 
	“I’m sorry.”
“But hey,” she slaps my shoulder, “only in fiction, my friend. You and I. It’s meant to be, huh?”
	“I guess.”
	“No really. That should give you hope,” she says, positioning herself in front of me and looking directly into my eyes. “There are forces involved. Good forces. What are the odds our paths would converge? And the timing! That should give you hope.”
	“Maybe.” I run my hand through my hair. “Look, all I know is that I feel this constant churning in my stomach. I think about Jenny all the time. I travel a hundred miles and I still can’t stop thinking about her. I hate this shit. I really do.”
	“I know the feeling. You want to know how I deal with that?” She reaches into her left pocket. “Here, hold out your hand.”
	“My hand?”
	“Yeah, just trust me. What I’m about to do may seem crazy, but it’ll help.”
	I hold out my hand, palm up. She turns it over with one hand and lights a lighter with the other. She carefully places it under my hand and slowly raises the flame close to the stretched skin of my palm. We stare into each other’s eyes. I don’t move—I can’t—she’s my anchor. 
	The flame touches me and the pain increases rapidly. 
“Ouch! Shit!” I pull away. “What was that all about?”
	She looks at me with wide, excited eyes. “Do you feel that?”
	“Yeah, it burnt.” I shake my hand. “Damn.”
	“No, not that. What do you feel now?”
	“My hand still burns.”
	“No, your heart. And your head.”
	I don’t answer.
	“It’s better, isn’t it?” she says. “You forgot about her. Surface pain always overpowers inner pain.” 
We stand there looking at each for a few seconds. She looks like she is going to say something, or do something.
She then extends her right arm with calmness and control. She still stares into my eyes. The flame flickers to life beneath the palm of her right hand. She then closes her eyes, and burns herself. A couple seconds pass. She’s still burning herself. I’m uncomfortable. I grab her hand and remove it from the swaying flame. Like waking from a dream, her eyelids slide open and a small smile forms beneath reddened eyes. She looks at me as my hand holds hers. A few awkward seconds pass, but I can’t let go. 
She gently pulls her hand from mine and her expression lightens as quickly as the flame from the spark of the flint. “I’m hungry. Come on, let’s get some food. You like spicy?”
I walk in behind her and my hand still stings. I think about the sting more than I think about Jenny. 
Once inside I look around. I begin to wonder why all small strip mall Chinese restaurants look the same, the same block menu pictures posted above the same counter with the same archaic cash register. I then wonder if I’m being racist.    
	Damn, my hand stings.
“Can I help you?” a gray haired, short Chinese man says with a kind looking grin.
	“You sure can,” Jersey says and then orders Kung Pao Chicken.  
	Following the normal sequence of questions—For here or to go? Drink? Egg roll?—he rings us up. He glances from the register to Jersey, as well as to something above and behind me, but never directly at me. I turn around to see the moon glowing through the tall front window. He says, “It’s not good for a pretty lady to be out late alone.”
	Jersey turns around and looks at me and then back at him. She shrugs and says, “You watch too much news, Mister.”
	He smiles and I wonder why he said that and why he never once looked at me. 
	We walk over to a table near the tall windows and sit on hard wooden chairs and wait for our food. We’re alone in the restaurant. It’s quiet. The round moon hangs over Jersey’s left shoulder with its tilted, sad expression. Jersey runs her fingers along her two cuts on her right arm while clenching and unclenching her right hand. 
“So, you have a picture of this Jenny?” she asks.
	“Yeah.” 
“Well, may I see it?”
I pull out my wallet. I look inside and see the burnt picture, and then say, “No. I thought I had one, but I don’t.” 
	“Oh come on,” she says, “I’m quite observant. I’m a writer, remember? Hey, I don’t care if it’s not the best picture of her. Or you.”
	“It’s not that.”
 	“Come on—who cares?—you’ll never see me again. Tonight’s the night you can let loose. Let it all out. Only in fiction do people get opportunities like this.” 
	I reluctantly pull out the picture and hand it to her. It’s of Jenny at a lake. She’s alone in the picture smiling, surrounded by thick forest. 
	“Did you do this?” she asks.
	“Yes,” I say. A crescent shaped burn traces the missing top right corner, and black burn lining covers a portion of her forehead. “It’s the only one that survived the fire.”
	“The fire?”
	“Yeah, the fire I set in the fireplace specifically to burn her out of my life.”
	She places the picture on the table and says, “How did this one survive?”
	“I reached in and snatched it, and then patted out the flame. I don’t know why.”
	The Chinese man approaches. He places a plate in front of Jersey and says, “Kung Pao Chicken. Enjoy.” Jersey thanks him and he walks away.
 “You know,” she says to me, filling her mouth with rice and Kung Pao, “you ought to write your feelings down. It’s actually very therapeutic.”
	“I draw and paint,” I say. “I’m not much for writing. Never have been.”
	“My ex-boyfriend paints. What do you paint? Landscapes? Abstract?”
	I shift in my chair, and then say, “Sure, all the above. But my best work is of sleeping women. I don’t know why. Something beautiful about it.”
	“Sleeping women, huh? Shit, I haven’t slept more than a few lousy hours in three days. But, you know,” she says and pauses to swallow, “I have a thing, too. In every one of my stories, the male character at some point says, her eyes are spellbinding. I work it in somehow. It’s sort of my staple.”
	I peer into her dark brown, unremarkable eyes. “That’s interesting,” I say. 
	“No, actually it’s funny. You paint women with their eyes closed and I write about men who are spellbound by eyes.”
	“That’s interesting,” I say again, staring down, thinking about her eyes. At first they seemed so full of life. But now, without my panic or her enthusiasm, I see they’re not. Reddened by their restlessness, they blink often to moisten the sting of aridity. They’re desperate and tired. 
	Talking with a near-full mouth and looking down at her food, mixing the rice and sauce with her plastic fork, she says, “You want to know the best thing to do when you’re at your lowest point?” She looks up at me and then says, “Work. Engulf yourself in your work. Not to take your mind off things, which is why most people do it, but instead to marinate in the pain and create something out of that rich soil. You know, for artist types like us, our best stuff grows from shit. The more pungent, the better.”
“I can see that,” I say.
 “You may have already noticed,” she says, looking back down at her food, “but I’m in one of those states now. That’s why I’m here staying at the motel. I really need to find a story.”
	“You’ll find it.” 
	 She stops fiddling with her food and says, “Kayden, you know? Shit, I don’t know. It’s just—”
	She pauses and I say, “Go on.”
“Maybe some pain is just too damn consuming. We all have our limits, right? I don’t know about you, but for me, there’s no pain worse than heartbreak. Maybe it’s just the girl in me. It deflates everything—make things seem so hopeless, like the world just stopped spinning and life will never be the same. It’s irrational, I know. It flattens my spirit and makes me feel so damn worthless. Unlovable, even. It’s the worst.”
	“When did you guys break up?” 
	“Three days ago.”
	“Me too.”
	“Really,” she says, staring back at me with those sad, tired eyes. She slightly smiles and I smile back. Her posture relaxes, and she says, “Only in fiction, huh?”
	We both look down at the same time. Then, I raise my gaze, and say, “What a duo we are.” She meets my gaze, and at that moment, reminds me strongly of Jenny. 
	We leave the restaurant and return to the moon-filled night. Clouds now streak across the blackness and surround the moon in their edgy way, a jagged fluffiness illuminated by gray light. Jersey and I walk and speak about many things. We walk without caring where. She tells me about her stories and what writing means to her. I describe some of my paintings. I tell her that when I see a sleeping woman, I’m compelled to sketch her. There is something oddly intimate about it, as if I can understand her in a deep way as I sketch. She tells me she once wanted to be a dancer. And then she dances to nothing beneath the moonlight. Her body lacks graceful curves and so do her dance moves, but I delight in her steps and spins. I ask her if she wants me to run into a store and buy her something to help her sleep. She says only a new story can help her.
A pleasant breeze bustles our hair, as well as the leaves of the trees lining the shops and streets. We listen to them along with the air gently swirling around and within our ears. We walk and I still feel like I’m floating—like I’m not really here—a nightmare turned dream. She still holds the strings and I’m glad she does.
We approach the Delta Motel and she says, “Hey, check this out.” She runs to the base of the stairwell that leads to the second floor. She looks back at me. “Come on.”
	I walk faster and she begins to ascend the stairwell. I follow. Reaching the top I find her leaning against the railing, peering out at the Waco horizon. I join her.
	“Look,” she says.
	“Look at what?”
	“Just look.” She begins speaking slowly and rhythmically. “Don’t try to look at just one thing, but try to see it all. Try to see as far as you can—where the night meets the Earth in a dark fusion. Now look up at the sky. The moon—just sitting up there watching it all. All the wars, death, and heartbreaks—it just sits up there calmly floating, observing the Earth like a reader holding a book. All the shit we do down here might as well be fiction. I envy it—so safe above it all.”
	I nod and stare at the night. We remain silent for a minute or so. 
	Then she says, “It’s funny.”
	“What’s funny?” 
	“This huge world—all these people—so much life. I don’t know, Kayden… It’s just…” She pauses and drops her gaze and looks at the railing upon which our hands rest. “How can one person have that much power over me? I don’t understand. How can he make me feel this horrible? Just one person in this huge world filled with billions of people. …He left me. He just left. It was that easy to do. It seemed so easy for him. We weren’t together long, but still…Seemed so easy—”
	“Jersey, he’s not worth it.” 
“Yeah. But, it still hurts. You know?”
	“I do.” 
	I look over at her. She now stares straight out onto the horizon—a dead stare—the kind where one sees nothing except the scenes within one’s own head. Her eyes begin to water and her lip quivers. 
Then, with disturbing speed, she raises her right hand and—with knuckles facing down—hammers it against the rail. I hear the bones of her knuckles contact the metal with a ringing thud. I feel the vibration in the rail. I flinch and slightly gasp.
	“Whoa, hey,” I say, halfway reaching out my hand to her. 
She raises her hurt hand in front of her face, cradling it, and breathes smoothly with her eyes closed.
	I watch her for a couple seconds, and then say, “Why did you do that?”
	“Huh?” 
	“Why did you slam your hand down like that?”
	As she turns and walks away, her back to me, one hand holding the other, she whispers, “This pain is better.” 
She descends the stairwell and I follow. 
We approach the door to her motel room and she pulls out a card and unlocks it.
The motel room smells of mildew and contains one large bed with a couple nightstands. She pulls a chair out from a small, circular table next to the wall A.C. unit and sits. She still holds her reddened hand. I sit facing her on the corner of the bed.  
“Please don’t hurt yourself again,” I say. 
After a short pause—a pause split in half by a painful sounding sigh and a slight shake of her head—she says, “I’m tired, Kayden.”
“I should leave and let you sleep.”
“I won’t be able to sleep. If I could, you wouldn’t be here right now.” Her gaze is still lowered, as if deeply defeated.
I feel her pain and I don’t like it. “Look,” I say and rise to my feet. I reach over to the nightstand where I see her purple notebook. I grab it, pull the pen from the spiral, and slap the pen and paper down on the table in front of her. “Write.”
“It’s not that easy.”
“Sure it is. Just write.”
“I can’t. I have nothing to write about. I need a story.”
“Tonight you don’t. Tonight you just begin, and the story will come as you write. Jersey, this is ridiculous. If all you need is a story, then just write one. And, if it sucks—fuck it—write another. You have all this emotion boiling up inside you and tearing you apart. Just let it out.” I pause waiting for her to look up at me, but she doesn’t. “Hey, look at me.” She then looks up at me with those sad, tired eyes, and I softly, slowly say again, “Let—it—out.”
After a moment of frozen eye contact, she shrugs and then lethargically stands up. “Alright. Fine. I’ll tell you what.” She walks over to her bag next to the T.V. on the dresser and pulls out another notebook and a pencil. “You draw and I’ll write. Deal?”
“Sure. What should I draw?”
“Draw your pain.”
“Okay.” 
“Here, sit here,” she says and gives me her chair with the table as she sits on the bed, her back to the headboard. 
 With the notebook on her legs, and with the surprising nonchalance of a child with a crayon, she begins writing. Just writing, as if she knew what she wanted to say all along. Her frenzied pen glides with girly loops across the page. She writes with her left hand while her right hand rests limply on the bed beside her. After a minute or so, she looks up at me. With raised eyebrows, she says, “Well?”
“What. I’m thinking.” 
“Come on, hypocrite, let it out,” she says, and winks.
I smile and look down at the blank paper. I squint my eyes at the blankness. 
I need to draw—she’s writing—she’s waiting for me to draw. 
And so, just for her, I decide to pull out the burnt picture of Jenny and use it to bait my pain. Just for Jersey. Because she’s writing—because she winked—I will let it out. 
I stare at the burnt photo. I stare into the eyes in the picture. I reminisce in vivid feeling and detail staring into those eyes before and after kissing those lips. I remember those lips stretching into a loving smile set to soothe me. Feelings within me arise—
How could I leave her? Why did I? Was it really that bad? Could I not talk about my day more? Could I not share more? Could I not let it out more? I can’t believe I burnt the picture. I can’t believe I wanted to burn her out of my life. 
With my fingernail, I scrape the crescent-shaped black burn lining. 
And then, I begin to draw. I forget about Jersey and just draw. I let it out. I’m lost in it. My pencil scurries across the page and time scampers past until I finish. Felt like minutes—but knowing the speed of my pencil and having been in this state before—it must have been close to an hour. 
I set the notebook on the table. I stretch my fingers and shake my cramping hand. I look up. Jersey is asleep. She’s asleep. I get up and walk over to her. She’s on her side cradling her notebook, but I dislodge it. 
I read—
Write Write Write Write Write Write Write Write Write Write Write What’s he doing I wonder what he’s thinking right now does he miss me why did I drive to Waco I fucking hate Waco I should have driven to his apartment I’m so alone here shit my hand hurts both sides still hurt pain I’m not writing I’m spelling I can’t write because I’m too broken I’m too fragmented I’m too overwhelmed I had an anxiety attack in a fucking Walmart tonight he left me what we had was good the fight was just a hiccup just a hiccup maybe he’s one of those guys who don’t like to be tied down maybe he wanted less strings attached he didn’t seem like one of those did I do something wrong I don’t understand I really don’t get it this motel room fucking stinks what if he was here in Waco in this room right now he would have rescued me from the Walmart what if he was what if

That’s it! I will write of him. No! Yes! I will write of him suffering like me. Over me. He’ll have the attack in the Walmart—not me. He’ll travel here to escape his pain from being without me. Like me! He will meet me, but not know it’s me. Instead of tall and skinny, I’ll be short and round. Hobbit-like. Instead of Austin, I’ll be from Dallas. My name is not Jenny, but Jersey. His will be Kayden. It’s a good name. Jersey hurts, too—she hurts, too—my hurt will be in the story. I have to let it out. Just let it out. She rescues him in the Walmart. He finds security in her. In the strings! In the strings attached! Like lifelines anchoring him. He needs her. She’s looking for a story. She can’t sleep. I wish I could sleep. I wish I could write. Please write this story. Just write. Write Write Write Write Write 
Fuck!

My body betrays me. My heart defies my every command for calmness. It’s happening again. Fucking anxiety attack—in a…
 
I hear a snort come from Jersey. I’m confused for a second. 
I look down at her. Her closed eyes and slow breathing captivate me. She shifts her body, bringing her face into full view, but remains asleep. She looks so peaceful. She makes me forget all that I just read. I’m no longer interested in it. 
I must sketch her. 
I place her notebook on the nightstand and walk over and grab the chair with one hand, and my notepad and pencil in the other. I place the chair close to the bed and sit. I look down at the notepad to flip the page. 
But before I do—my sketch—I’m struck by it. Stunned. It’s a sketch of the burnt picture, but restored, repaired, made complete again. The right portion of her forehead that was burnt away is restored.  
But the eyes. 
The eyes are what stun me. It’s not her, but Jersey. I drew Jersey, and her eyes are open, staring at me, not sad, not tired. I remain still and stare. Stare into Jersey’s eyes. 
Her eyes are spellbinding.
	 I set my notepad on top of hers on the nightstand. I feel strange. I feel light. I feel like taking a walk. A small stroll. 
I stand up, go to the door, and quietly open it. I slip out.
	The moon is now high up in the night sky. The clouds have dispersed and the stars shine and don’t seem as ordinary as they normally do. Something’s different. They’re colorful, like Christmas lights. 
I walk around the Delta Motel. I’m floating four finger widths above the rocky parking lot. My body is relaxed, calm, floating. I happen to see a shooting star, then another, and then another. I don’t feel like I’m here right now. The wind hums a melody and the trees sway to the rhythm. I smile. The stars begin to dance around the moon like thousands of colorful fireflies streaking a dark canvas. 
And then I hear Jersey’s voice. But I can’t make it out. I look all around and see no one. 
Then, I look up at the moon, and at that moment, I hear the words clearly—  
“Only in fiction, Kayden. Only in fiction.”