As our breath blended, I felt it in the heart. Heavy pains, stung in the chest like by a bony spine, ruptured and spreading fast.

I pushed back, looked in her eyes, saw the loving warmth. But I scrambled away and back. The sting started to burn and rush all through me, like I’m on fire. I felt ashamed. I darted to the bathroom, closed the door. The world shook a bit then went still. My skin’s alive with information. My eyes are wide; I can see so in the mirror. I’m staring through myself with no direction.

The knock makes me jump.

“Are you okay?” she asked.

“I’m …” not, I thought, but stopped myself. I don’t want her to know. Not to see me like this. “Fine,” I said. “I’m fine.”

I can’t put names to the fingers on me. In me. I can’t find the source of this burning. It’s under my skin not on it, but it’s cooking me from the inside out.

“Um, okay. You want somethin’ to drink?”

“Sure.”

“Okay. What would ya like?”

“Anything’s fine.”

“Okay.”

I listen without moving, my breaths very shallow, tight.

I hear her feet skid away on the dirty hardwood floors. A scratching sound, then a sigh.

After I’m certain she’s gone, I inhale, hold it, look at myself, like a puffer fish, then let it go. I sit on the toilet and pee. I can smell her on me and it burns. The burning is worse.

She has a shower but if I take one, she’ll think …

I don’t care. I do it anyway.

The water’s cold but I can’t get it cold enough. The soap is over-drying but I can’t feel clean enough. I can see their faces even though I don’t know their names. I can smell their beer breath even though I wasn’t with them. The scruff on the back of my neck, the hardness in my ass …

I throw the curtain open and hop out, and shake. I try to shake it off, shake it out. But it doesn’t come off, and it won’t get out. I scratch at my skin, but that just leaves welts. I’m panicking. It’s like a friend to me because I know panic. Know how to work with it. Like driving a car backward, like looking in the rear view. So I do.

I lean into the panic and the anxiety and I feel my breath again. I think I might pee, but I know that’s part of it. I know I just peed, so it’s part of it. I touch myself, first on the bush then lower, start rubbing. I feel hot and horny and excited, then burning again, so I stop.

“Fuck,” I say. “What …”

I lean on the sink, collect my breaths, one at a time, examine them, release them. Just like I would before chem tests. I count them. One. Two. Three. Up to ten. Then I start over.

The knock makes me jump, panic swells again. I think I might pee.

“Darlin’?”

“Yuh …” another breath, then another, and another, then, “Yeah? What’s up, babe?”

“You for sure you’re okay?”

No. Of course I’m not okay. “Yeah. I’m okay, baby. Sorry, I’m just … constipated.”

“Oh! Well you want some laxatives? I got some. They’re under the sink.”

“Thanks, babe.”

“Yeah, no problem! I got a margarita out here with your name on it when you’re done, girl.”

I hadn’t heard the blender.

“I, uh, I didn’t hear the blender.” Don’t know why I cared. But I cared. A lot.

“Oh, I made ‘em this mornin’ when I heard you was comin’ tonight.”

“Oh. Cool. ‘Kay.”

“Imma leave you alone now. Take your time, sugar.”

“‘Kay, thanks.”

I hear her feet again on the dirty hardwood.

I go down on my knees, search the cabinet under the sink for the laxatives. She’s got a shitload. I take one, throw it in the toilet. Just in case she counts. Just in case. Wait, but why? What did I care? What do I have to hide? What am I hiding? Why am I hiding?

I put the lid down quietly and sat on it, hands on my thighs. My thighs bounce. I scratch ‘em, but not hard enough to break the skin.

I start to relax. Can feel the rush that comes with it. I lean back. My hand just goes there again, and I start rubbing. It feels good. I can smell her on my fingers, taste her there too.

Then I hear him in my ear, feel his hot breath there, moaning.

I jump up and grab my chest. It’s like there’s something in there crawling around, trying to get out. But I won’t let it out won’t let it go.

More breaths. More counting.

Okay. Okay. I’m together. I can do this.

I flush.

Then I take another breath. Two. Three. Then I open the door, go back into the bedroom.

She’s on the bed, one leg propped up a bit, the other flat on the bed, my flannel shirt on, wide open. She’s smoking a cig and sippin’ a margarita.

“Hey you,” she says. “Yours is on the dresser.”

I get it, then sit down on the bed.

She looks me over, says, “You’re all wet.” Then licks the salt on her glass.

I force a smile. “Yeah. I like to shower after a big one.” I dunno why I put it like that.

She laughs. “Messy, huh?”

“Sure.”

I gulp some margarita, as much as I can take in my throat.

“Whoa, okay! Okay!” she says smiling. “Go girl!”

I keep going, hoping to feel something soon. Feel nothing soon.

“You want some music?” she asks.

I stop to take a breath and say, “Sure.” Then I’m right back to drinking. My head hurts. An ice cream headache from all the slush.

“Whatcha wanna hear?”

Another break to say, “Anything’s fine.”

She puts on Baduism, and I resume drinking.

“Kill it, girl!”

I do, then take a few deep breaths.

“Well, I guess you like my margaritas then.”

I nod. “Yeah.”

“I ain got no more, but I can make some in a bit.”

“That’s fine,” I say.

“How ‘bout a beer till then?”

“Anything’s fine,” I say.

I watched her as she slinks up and out of the bed. She looks damn good, but I’m not into it. I’m into the numb lips and the headache subsiding, and the taste of lime and tequila. I’m into the soft feeling spreading over me.

I watch her shake her ass out of the room, feign a laugh. I’m watching to see her, what she’s doing.

When she’s gone, I get up and pace, look at the bed, the pillows. They’re threadbare. The blanket too. Moth eaten in places. The floor is so dirty. How had I not noticed it before? It looked fine earlier.

On the dresser, she’s got photos in old style frames. They look like friends. Family. One picture catches my eye and my breath goes tight again. He’s older but it’s him. I know it was him. It was always him. Every night.

I jump when I feel the cold on my breastbone.

“Heineken, baby.”

I laugh it off. “Thanks, bae.”

I take the bottle, sip it. Hate Heineken.

“You like my sittin’ table? It was muh grandma’s.”

“Oh yeah?”

“Yup. Her momma’s too.”

I point at the picture next to the one I actually wanna know about. “Who’s this?”

“That’s my momma. Her momma. My Aint Kellen. She was a mean ole bitch till the diabetes took her.”

“Uh huh.” I try to stay cool. “And this fella?”

She sneers. “That’s muh grandiddy. He’s a real sonofabitch.”

“Oh yeah?”

She laughs. “Yeah. Fucked me up good and proper.”

I feign tenderness. “Really? How?”

“Well, my diddy used to work for the railroad, and he’d be out for weeks at a time. Momma worked laundry in the city then, so she’d haffa get a room with some other girls who worked there. I stayed with my grandmomma and that old bastard there.”

I nodded, sipped the beer. Hated Heineken.

“I was about … four. I used to get this pain in muh chest and I wouldn’t know why.”

“Uh huh.”

“Doctor said it was nerves. And my cooch would itch like a sonofabitch. Well, turns out I had crabs. Genital lice, they called it. And the nerves was from knowing something ain right but not knowing what. I can still smell that motherfucker’s beer breath on me.”

I looked at the beer in my hand, then at her.

She saw, laughed. “Don’t sweat it, gurl. This shit’s ancient history. He’s been dead for years. Can’t touch me now.”

T Van Santana splits their time between the 21st Century and the 32nd Century, so here’s what that looks like where:

Tracy Van Santana is an indie novelist living in Richmond, Virginia, in what is currently 2016, working to help folks, raise a family, and tend to three cats. T spends lotsa time on Ello, an obscure social network for artists: http://ello.co/tvansantana.

Teresa Van Santana is a Master Secretist and novelist living in the City of Rivers on the Galactic Homeworld in what is currently 3103, trying to solve impossible human problems, raise a family (sorta), and manage too many romantic relationships. T spends lotsa time hopping planets, fucking around with magic, and getting into knife fights.