Fiction: Dolls

By Chris Blexrud

“Ur still my doll, u know.” Veronica stared at the space between the letters of the push notification on her phone. The direct message, which she absolutely refused to open in Instagram, giving the illusion of not having seen it, made her feel crazy. She hadn’t spoken to her ex in over a year, and this was the first thing he was saying. 

That he felt comfortable saying anything at all was already too much, but this was a pale beyond the pale. Was he really that entitled? Or was he just stupid and horny? It annoyed her to even consider it, so she tossed the phone face down beside her on the bed and went back to her laptop, resuming a video essay on the Mayerling Incident, in which the presumptive heir to the Austro-Hungarian throne committed a murder-suicide with his teenage lover. 

The essayist, a quirky, vaguely European woman with large teeth, droned on about the failures and inadequacies of the Habsburg line in the 19th century. It comforted Veronica to know that even a fabled family of aristocrats could produce such fail children, but her focus was flawed. The essay, while well-written, was no feast for the eyes, and it quickly got tiresome to watch static shots of mustachioed men in full military regalia drift slowly across her screen. So, Veronica closed her laptop and flopped onto her bed. 

Lying on her back, her phone buzzed again. Automatically her hand reached for it, but this time she chucked it across the room before she could see any other notifications. It smacked against the far wall and fell to the floor with a thud. 

“What was that? Is everything okay, sweetie?” The voice came loud and immediate from downstairs. Veronica kept quiet.

“Sweetie? I thought I heard a crash.” Her father’s voice grew louder as it approached. Veronica listened, hoping that he would just give it up, but then came the soft knock at her door. 

“It’s fine, Dad. Just leave it alone.” 

“Okay, well don’t stay up too late. You’ve got work in the morning.” It was only 9:00 P.M. as her father descended back down the stairs. Veronica rolled over in bed and stared at the wall. The sand-colored paint had been applied a few years ago when she was away at college, which was part of a larger project by her parents to turn her childhood bedroom into a beach-themed AirBnB. The concept was brought home by a few seashell throw pillows, which Veronica had long since scattered to the floor, and a kind of mock-impressionist painting of a crowded beach, which hung on the wall across from her bed.

Despite her protestations, her parents categorically refused to let her redecorate. They wanted her to know that his arrangement was temporary, and that they had every intention of renting out the room again. They weren’t going to let their daughter’s financial insolvency get in the way of their vacation fund. So, for the past eight months, Veronica was made subject to these sandy walls and other beach motifs. If she were ever gone for longer than a few hours, she would come home to find the seashell pillows stacked in the exact same configuration at the head of her bed. 

It felt like a betrayal. Her parents were more concerned with money than her own mental wellbeing, which was only partly true. They were letting her stay for free, and they did cover the costs of a therapy visit twice a month. But everything else was hers to pay for, which felt unfair and unnecessary. As her mother explained, they had the money to support her; they just didn’t want to.

Their posture of begrudging aid only made Veronica feel worse and brought tension to the aging household. It seemed better to her that they would just kick her out or give her everything she needed. As things stood now, she was almost trapped. A prisoner of circumstance and indifference and her own failure. 

But even this attempt at histrionics was failing. She couldn’t really blame her parents. No, what was wrong with her was deeper, but the exact source of all this trouble remained elusive. Veronica had some understanding that it did not arise from any single trauma, but rather from the totality of her low-grade misfortunes and cheap experiences. There were a couple of inflection points, for sure. Opportunities were missed, and moments for spiritual growth were deftly evaded, which her therapist had pointed out to her on several occasions. Whatever the reasons, it had all culminated in the anticlimax of working part-time at a daycare and living in her childhood bedroom. 

Still, she was vaguely certain all this would change with time. She was only 27, and hope still found its way into her life with some regularity. The potentiality of the future was not entirely closed off, and in the right mood she could sit by the pool on a blisteringly hot afternoon, read Eve Babitz, and pretend that people were clamoring for her attention. In such moments, the fates seemed not entirely unresponsive to her desires. 

And if nothing else, should not the world be credited for returning her childhood bestie, Haley, to her? Ever since the fourth grade when they had met stealing shade under the bleachers during gym class, Haley had been ballast to Veronica. That small moment of shared reprieve had been the basis of an enduring friendship that survived the tumults of high school and the long separation of college, and then kismet had brought them together again in their hometown of Orlando. Veronica attributed at least half of her mental wellbeing to Haley and perhaps more when things were going well between them. 

Though she had to admit, their friendship was not quite the same as it had been. Age and success had changed Haley. She was more in demand these days, pulled in so many directions by things and people clamoring for her attention. And all that fell below her dedication to her work as an artist. These days Veronica was of third importance at best, and she felt like she was sinking lower in this hierarchy. Her texts were sometimes ignored, phone calls interrupted, and plans were canceled at the last minute, which was seemingly in service to Haley’s burgeoning fame. 

Her unique printmaking style, a kind of surrealistic cyanotype usually depicting melting Americana, had caught fire on Instagram and resulted in a niche internet following. Attention followed attention, and she soon caught the eye of several art world people in New York, which in turn led to her first gallery show in the big city. 

Veronica had wanted to go, but couldn’t get time away from her job at the daycare. She had heard, however, that it went spectacularly, and the photos she saw from Instagram made it seem like some kind of dream. A tinge of jealousy mixed with pride as Veronica lay on her bed and stared at the same popcorn ceiling she and Haley had stared at together as stoned teenagers. The warmth, laughter, and privacy of those nights reminded her of some kind of ritual, and her reminiscences concretized into a desire for that feeling once more. 

Up from the bed for the first time in nearly four hours, Veronica went for her stash and brought it with her into the bathroom. She crept in, turned off the lights, and laid a towel at the threshold of the door before locking it and crawling into the tub. The huge bath, which her parents had also installed during her college years, felt secure, and Veronica sprawled her legs out fully and rested her back against the curvature of the tub. 

Craning her neck backward over the lip, she brought her chintzy glass pipe to her mouth, which left a bit of resin on her lips as she inhaled, and when she pulled it away, the bitter taste of tar remained. Exhaling the smoke into the darkness, she closed her eyes as she felt an electric needle of anxiety coming into her. At a singular point around her temple, it pushed through the meninges into her brain.

A white-hot burning sensation bored into the space directly behind her eyes, and Veronica clutched her arms to her chest in a state of dreadful tension. The feeling was of generational panic and discomfort and overwhelming shame. The world was choosing to die rather than accepting her. Veronica wanted to scream. She may have actually screamed. She didn’t know. She couldn’t tell, so she sat listening for any sign of her parents, but the house was silent. 

And then she was through it. Exhaling and relaxing her body, she sank deeper into the tub. As if the deathly anxiety of the previous moments had lobotomized her, she felt almost nothing and stared into the perfect darkness of the bathroom. Thoughts both horrible and fanciful flitted about at the very edge of her mind, but nothing came into focus. There was a kind of pleasure to this insensate flow of sub-cognition, to be free of the weight of ideas and her own history. Wanting more to feel less, she smoked again and pursued the sensation deeper. 

She might have stayed that way forever, were it not for the maid. Only now did Veronica remember her charge here with her in the dark, and she was grateful for the girl’s loyalty and attentiveness. Dangling her arm outside the tub, the chambermaid took up Veronica’s limp hand. Despite the girl’s young age and naivety, she was a good servant. Somehow, she always knew just what her mistress needed. Veronica felt the familiar and comforting touch of the peasant girl as she massaged her palm. 

The succor of the maid was not just physical, though. In the dark bathroom, she spoke of the beautiful things to come. The war would end soon. The young soldiers would return and with them their opulent dances and spectacular parties. And her mistress must also not forget the Italian villa her family had rented for the winter. She need not fear the snow and dreary gray of the Austrian mountains. Everything would be provided for. 

With the help of the maid, Veronica rose from the tub and was ushered to bed. 

*****

By the time Saturday came, Haley’s party had been thoroughly laden with expectation. On the good press of her recent gallery showing, what had originally been planned as an intimate dinner party had since ballooned into a kind of celebration-cum-networking shindig. It promised to be a true event, a who’s who of the Orlando intelligentsia rubbing elbows with the elite of the New York art scene. Artists, critics, and internet personalities of every stripe were promised to be there, including the micro-celebrity PuppyBoyo, an Irishman who dressed as a dog and interviewed people while making them hold his leash. His connection to the art world was tenuous at best, but no one could deny his follower count. 

Veronica arrived early to help with the decorations and food. Haley embraced her at the door, and the two exchanged the customary compliments about their outfits. Haley looked stunning and sultry in an uncharacteristically tight black dress, but also had cropped her own bangs a bit short. They sat high on her forehead and bowed out awkwardly, which Veronica elected not to convey to her friend. After a brief chat, they set to work. It was hours still before the party, and though there was much to do, Veronica had hoped to use the time to really reconnect with Haley. 

But it was clear from the start that Haley was elsewhere. As they worked side by side in the kitchen, Haley was consistently distracted by her phone, which buzzed nearly every minute and seemed to necessitate her full attention. Veronica tried to slip in some conversation between these interruptions, but Haley was too scattered and on occasion failed to respond to her at all. And even when she had an answer or a comment, it did not inspire discussion. Veronica felt herself overthinking her next words, and Haley invariably had some flat or deadened response to her friend. 

Hastened by the strange tension between them, they worked quickly and finished up over an hour before the guests were to arrive. Haley poured them both a glass of wine, and Veronica offered up an Adderall, which they split and gulped down with a splash of Riesling. Then they went out back and sat in beach chairs in front of a small pool before a large lake. 

The expansive property belonged to Haley’s father, a well-respected heart surgeon, who now spent half the year in Colorado, away from the Florida heat. As kids, Veronica remembered coming to this little lakeside villa and racing Haley down the sloping lawn to the old dock, a contest which her friend almost always triumphed at. How many times had she seen Haley’s white skin refracted through the rippling water below her? There were so many memories here. 

Her father, David, loomed large as well, imagined once by Veronica as a kind of household servant tasked with entertaining the greater dignitaries of herself and Haley. She recalled him driving them both around in an Escalade while telling bawdy or gruesome hospital stories totally inappropriate for their ten-year-old ears. She shared the memory with Haley who snorted laughing over her glass of wine. 

But even this well soon began to run dry up, and the two friends settled into silence while drinking and watching the darkening sky. A string of ivory clouds floated above them, and to Veronica they looked like a lost regiment of soldiers, marching toward some doomed objective. Thoughts of the Great War, of military bureaucracy, and faulty orders stirred in her, but she kept these anecdotes to herself. Then the wind kicked up, a direction to the orchestra of cicadas and other night insects whose song swelled in the setting sun. From one point on the far shore of the lake, a single tree, the buzzing noise began and spread around the water until it enveloped them. 

“Did you hear that?” Haley asked. Veronica shook her head, but Haley jumped up from her pool chair. “I think someone’s out front.” She rushed inside, leaving her wine glass sitting on the ground beside Veronica, who did the friendly work of polishing it off for her. Through the large sliding glass doors, she watched Haley open the front door to no one. 

But the first guest did eventually arrive shortly thereafter, and the remainder of the guests started trickling in only a bit after that. Veronica recognized less of them than she expected. Either the scene had been changing, or she was never as tapped in as the thought. Regardless, these new people seemed to know each other. They appeared as an in-group of sorts, greeting and hugging one another before breaking off into their own small conversations. They were half-interested with Haley and not at all interested in Veronica, who made herself look busy.

Haley once or twice tried to introduce Veronica to this growing number of people. But being described as a “childhood friend” did not mark her as a person of interest or social value, and it quickly became clear to Veronica that many of these people were of the detested class of too-cool social climbers. Still, she held out hope for interesting conversations and maybe a few cute boys. To that end, she had another drink. 

She was already getting a bit tipsy by the time the New York cohort arrived. Several carriage loads of glammed up urbanites descended upon Haley’s villa all at once. Together, they represented the minor nobility of the New York art scene, and they largely conformed to Veronica’s preconceived notions of them. They were posh, as expected, and a bit overdressed and haughty. The men were generally gay, the women were beautiful, and PuppyBoyo was basically unrecognizable out of costume. 

Veronica stood smiling by Haley’s side as they greeted her with all too much familiarity. The gay men hugged her and kissed her cheeks, and the women gushed about her art. Only one of them, a young woman called Anika, asked for her name and seemed genuinely interested in Veronica, but then quickly broke off their introduction by asking for the bathroom. 

The party was in full swing after that. People danced or milled about in small groups while eating and drinking. A long battle played out over control of the music, and a separatist group of partiers claimed the pool and back patio for themselves. Veronica struggled to find her place among these people. She tried sticking close to Haley, but she was in great social demand, and her one attempt at asserting herself went terribly. Waiting nervously at the edge of a conversation circle, she blurted out, “What’s the historical difference between a scandal, an incident, and an affair?” The comment drew puzzled looks and was otherwise entirely ignored.

Not wanting to be perceived as either a clinger-on or a loner, she did the hostesses' work of tidying up and topping off people’s drinks. It wasn’t especially dignified, but it was less anxiety inducing than hovering around the snack table. Spinning between tasks and conversations where she was unwanted, she bumped into Anika again, who seemed to be having a similar kind of night, and the two young women fell quickly into conversation. 

Veronica was grateful for the company and somewhat enjoyed answering Anika’s breezy questions about Florida. She had never been before, but appeared genuinely interested in the cultural landscape her peers had talked so much shit about. For her part, Veronica was more than happy to talk about manatees and teenagers doing stupid things. It wasn’t especially deep or fulfilling, but it sufficed for the moment. As Veronica spoke to her, she noted Anika’s big, pressing eyes that were partly shaded by choppy bangs. She was beautiful, unquestionably Slavic, possibly trans, and seemed a bit solemn.

But as the night wore on their conversation dimmed. Anika’s semi-tenuous grasp of the English language was born out over several faltering responses, and Veronica struggled to find the level without dumbing things down too much. It was becoming apparent that any understanding between them was mostly feigned. Anika nodded and smiled the same way no matter what Veronica said and then would take a sip of her drink. But just as she was preparing to excuse herself from Anika’s company, the girl leaned in and whispered to her. 

“I feel like I can talk to you.” The words came out as her slender fingers entwined Veronica’s, and, before she could say anything else, Anika was dragging her through the party by the hand. Together they weaved between small pods of people and passed by Haley, who was too absorbed in conversation to notice her friend’s distress. With Veronica in tow, Anika opened the master bathroom and pulled them both inside.

Immediately locking the door behind her, Anika moved to the counter and posed in the large, gold-framed mirror that hung above the sink. Veronica watched the young woman’s reflection, which occasionally returned coy looks between pushing up her breasts and fixing her hair. After this short touch up, she set her purse down on the counter and began to rummage through it, quickly producing a small baggie of white powder, which she pinched between her manicured nails. Tipping the contents of the bag onto the counter, Anika set about turning the small mound of powder into a series of short lines and handed Veronica a rolled up bill by way of an invitation. 

But Veronica just smiled and shook her head. She thanked her, but tactfully declined by saying she had already had some Adderall. She didn’t want to be “too up,” she said. A smirk slid across Anika’s face as she bent over to snort her first line. She stuck out her ass a bit and made a cute, affectedly feminine cough as she inhaled the powder. 

Veronica backed up to give her some space and bumped into the large, jacuzzi-like tub that took up much of the bathroom. It had a large lip, so she was able to sit down comfortably on the edge while Anika continued to blow lines. The coke had an immediate effect on her and turbo-charged chattiness. Now, they were both in a pure world of gossip. Speaking to her through the mirror still, she accused seemingly important people of acts both horrible and mundane. 

In an effort to be gracious, Veronica gasped at the parts which were supposed to be the most scandalous, which only delighted Anika more. She wiped her nose clean and then joined Veronica at the edge of the tub, hugging her once quickly around the shoulders before launching into another lurid story. Veronica smiled and listened intently, but was beginning to wish she were somewhere else. 

“You’re very pretty. You have boyfriend?” Anika suddenly asked, playing up her accent. 

“No, I’ve been single for almost a year.”

“Single okay. But you still have man?” Veronica shook her head. “I knew I like you. You’re smart,” she said, giving her another quick hug. Then she got up and poured more coke on the counter. 

Veronica was already cycling through the ways she might extricate herself from the situation. She did not want her night to be defined by being tethered to some lonely girl, but she also did not want to hurt her feelings. She thought about asking for some privacy to pee, but she feared Anika would tell her not to worry. In Eastern Europe peeing among friends was considered dignified. 

Meanwhile Anika continued to work through her stash. She did one line quickly, came up for a breath, and bent down again for another round. The unmistakable sound of a suppressed retch followed as Anika gripped the sides of the sink and folded over, choking down the chemicals in her throat. Bouncing up from the tub, Veronica filled a glass that was sitting by the sink and gave it to Anika, who took it with a shaky hand. She could only manage a tiny sip, but even that was enough to steady her somewhat. Her expression of wide-eyed shock slowly relaxed into a calmer but darker aspect. She was staring at Veronica in the mirror again, her mascara starting to run around the edges of her done-up eyes. 

“Some of these people are not good people, you know?”

“What do you mean?” Veronica asked, genuinely confused by the abruptness and gloomy tenor of the statement. 

“They watch me. They tell me, ‘Wear this. Wear that.’” 

“That’s not very cool,” Veronica said, deepening her tone sympathetically. Anika shook her head and broke her stare through the mirror. Her head sank, and she looked down into the sink. 

CRACK! Suddenly a powerful knock shook the door, and the two women both whipped their heads in the direction of the sound. 

“No more coke, Anika.” The voice came stern and paternal from beyond the door. Anika and Veronica both went silent for a breathless beat, which ended with one last violent and agitated bang against the door. With all her focus on the voice, it took Veronica a few moments to realize that Anika moved behind her and was clutching her arm. 

The footsteps stomped away from the bathroom, but Anika still clung to Veronica fiercely. She petted her arm and told her it was going to be okay, which elicited a disdainful guffaw from Anika. 

“No, it isn’t,” she said matter-of-factly. Then her phone buzzed, and she pulled herself off of Veronica. Quickly she cleaned up the last of the cocaine and rummaged around in her purse for her phone. After a short glance at the glowing screen, she announced that she needed to go. As Veronica was just beginning to formulate an excuse or an apology, she wasn’t sure which, Anika opened the door and exited. 

Veronica lingered a moment unsure of what to make of everything that had just happened. She might have stayed a while longer to compose herself, but someone poked their head in. “Is the restroom occupied?” The person asked somewhat nervously. Veronica shook her head and left.  

Outside, almost nothing had changed. Veronica had not been missed, and all the same people were having similar conversations as before. But now she felt even more intimidated at the prospect of socializing. She didn’t want to go anywhere near Anika, who had returned to her New York pod, embraced as their little Slavic toy, and Haley was nowhere in sight. 

Not knowing what else to do, Veronica went out back. It was still muggy, still Florida, but a light breeze had kicked up, and the horizon had cleared of clouds. A few distant stars hung apart in the sky like they were unmoored from any constellation, and Veronica felt a lonely kinship with them.

It was enough to take her away from the acute anxiety of the party, which made space for all the alcohol she had been drinking. Slightly warmer and clearer, she no longer contested her every thought or movement and stepped over to the pool. She looked down into the water and then lowered herself to the edge. Taking off her shoes, she dipped her feet in, and imagined the chlorine purifying her, stripping her of all the free radicals that were holding her down and diverting her from her purpose. It was not exactly certain what this purpose was, but she felt the moment was clarifying. She would regain her station. She would find a way out of this. She would leave her parents’ home and maybe even Florida. She would have an elegant social life, returning from better parties than this to a sumptuous home of intimate rooms filled with beautiful objects. 

“Can I join you?” The voice came soft from somewhere behind her, and as she craned her neck backwards she saw a young man. He was unknown to her, but something about the quiet confidence of his lonely approach disarmed her. She was not spooked in the slightest, which was uncommon for her interactions with men. She assented to his request with a nod and a smile, and the young man lowered himself down beside her and dunked his feet into the water too. 

He said his name was Max, that he was visiting from New York, and that he never wore shorts, so he might as well get his money’s worth. Veronica looked at his shins warped by the pool water and followed them up to his muscular thighs. They were large and hairy, and she quickly suppressed an erotic flash of being intertwined with them. Instead, she looked at his face, a bit soft and unassuming, innocent maybe, but cute after a fashion. 

Max spoke for a while about his own upbringing. He was from Indiana, then went to grad school at NYU for visual art. Now he was working at some convoluted startup while making art on the side. He admitted his existence was ridiculous, but at least there was some power to be had in letting go in that way. Veronica laughed and agreed. She found herself smiling and inclining toward the man, who was smiling back. 

Charming and good-mannered, he turned the conversation to Veronica and asked her about herself, and she realized there was more to him than Midwestern simplicity. He had a certain nobility of movement that could not be imparted by learning alone. Maybe he too was a lost aristocrat? But she couldn’t come out and just ask him that. She would need to be certain and wait for the right time. 

Until then, she stalled, revealing only the barest portion of her life and past. Allusions were made to an occluded bloodline, and Veronica was unsure whether she was coming off as mysterious or wilfully obtuse. Either way Max seemed interested. He listened and smiled and laughed not out of politeness but of apparently genuine amusement, and his knees drifted closer to hers in the water. She was working herself up to asking about his dowry when a horrible scream echoed from inside the house. 

The shriek snuffed out the last of their conversation, and they both snapped their heads in the direction of the sound. Another scream followed, and Max jumped up out of the pool, racing to the sliding glass doors. Veronica came tentatively after him, and standing on the other side of the glass they watched as the partiers inside reoriented around the source of the commotion. Pushing within, a woman’s screeching voice cracked through the heavy bass of dance music. 

“Don’t fucking touch me!”

“Please! We’re trying to help.”

“Stop! Just fucking stop!”

Someone suddenly cut the music, which only made the cries sharper. Max dithered at the far edge of the crowd, attempting to peer over all the gathered heads. Veronica stood by him a moment, but, seeing his indecision, quickly left him behind, going deeper into the fray. Forcing her way through, she saw Anika at the center of it all. A large gash ran down the length of her forearm, from which blood welled up and dripped to the floor, and her wine-stained mouth contorted into accusatory shapes as she screamed at the party guests. Not wanting to be recognized, Veronica made herself small, taking in the scene from behind the shoulders of a stocky onlooker. 

Several people were holding out bandages, but Anika was frantic and pacing. She would not let herself be touched, and it was not helping that everyone was talking all at once, attempting to pacify her. 

“Give her some space!” Someone shouted from the crowd. Most everyone took a step back, but it just gave her more room to lash out and kick broken glass. As the crowd watched in a state of total shock, Anika hurled recriminations. At first, they seemed random, the kind of standard fare for any psychotic episode. She was screaming about liars and police and people following her. But between these stock lines was a darkly coherent thread, which she slipped into and out of. 

From what Veronica could put together, the New York people that had brought her here had also betrayed her somehow. A few lines seemed operative to that effect. Scattered amongst the ravings were words like “pimp” and “sleeping pills.” It didn’t take much for Veronica to put together, if her words could be trusted. 

But the frantic exertion was clearly taking its toll. Her hair mussed, her mascara running like the blood from her arm, Anika looked more exhausted and desperate by the second, and her cadence evolved into a kind of hyperventilated muttering that was capped off with the occasional scream. The crowd around her remained paralyzed by the display. She seemed incoherent yet was apparently lucid and in obvious distress, which evoked a kind of appalled sympathy. 

One of her New York friends stepped up to her and tried to calm her down while very clumsily disguising his intention to grab her. Immediately, Anika grabbed a shard of glass from the floor and leveled it at him. 

“Stay the fuck away from me! Педик!” She yelled and spat at his feet. The guy backed off immediately, and Anika swung the shard in sweeping arcs at the crowd, which gasped and retreated from her flailing. Held at bay, Veronica looked across the on-lookers and saw Haley, who was buried in the chest of some guy and apparently crying. Worse, Max was nowhere to be seen. It occurred to Veronica that she might be the person to help Anika. Her earlier connection, that brief tethering in the bathroom, made her feel responsible for Anika, and her heart did hurt for her. 

All it might take is coming forward with a few kind words. But she didn’t. Instead she watched this beautiful young woman succumb to madness and blood loss. After a final few desperate shouts, the shard of glass slipped from Anika’s hand, and her knees gave out. Spinning as she fell, she tried to grab onto the near wall, but her bloodstained hands had no strength. She sank to the floor and was immediately swarmed by people.

Veronica watched as several men picked her up and carried her off into a neighboring bedroom. The crowd opened up before them, and reformed around the collective desire to gossip. 

“Should we call an ambulance?” 

“What’s wrong with her?”

“Is she alright?”

“What about the cops?”

“Who is she anyway?

Meanwhile, Haley was still in the arms of some strange man, who was stroking her hair and trying to comfort her, and Max was apparently gone. Veronica turned around looking as if there would be some place else for her now at the party, but the damage had been done. A few helpful souls started cleaning up the mess Anika had left, and everyone else began to quietly disperse. 

The only people who looked like they knew what they were doing were several of the New York folks. A few of these men stood outside the bedroom door where Anika had been taken. Veronica was unsure if they were trying to keep people out or Anika in, but they held a menacing watch regardless. Veronica meekly approached them, but before she got near the door one of them held out his hand in a halting gesture and shook his head. 

“I just want to make sure she’s okay.” 

“Go home,” one of the men said without looking up from his phone. His tone scared her, but she did not leave. She just moved to the side and waited for something to happen. 

A few minutes later, one of the New Yorkers came out with his phone to his ear, talking under his breath as he made for the back patio. Maybe he was calling an ambulance, or maybe he was contacting some kind of fixer. She didn’t know. Regardless, in the brief moment the door was open, she caught a glimpse of Anika. The girl was resting perfectly still on top of the sheets with a damp rag over her forehead. Veronica could have sworn she saw her eyes fluttering before someone sealed the door again from the inside. 

*****

Veronica woke up in her bed the next morning to a headache and a blank phone. No one had reached out or said anything. Even her ex was silent. It felt both relieving and dreadful; like the party had been a dream. 

She went downstairs for an Advil, and her mother casually interrogated her about the prior evening. Veronica was curt, but that did not stop her mom from inquiring. She asked about Haley and if Veronica had met any boys at the party. Her mom’s powers of annoyance were still unmatched, and she did her best to reveal as little as possible to her before leaving her company as soon as possible. 

Returning to her room and bed, she texted Haley, asking how she was and what had happened after she left. She made no mention of Anika, but no response came. It was not unlike her to take some time to reply, but her silence now was especially distressing. Scrolling through her phone, bridling guilt and anxiety by way of constant stimulation, Veronica sought to elide both emotion and time. If she could distract herself long enough then she could make it through. 

After losing herself to hours of uneasy scrolling, Haley finally got back to her. She asked when Veronica had left the party, but said that she had seen the worst of it. Things wrapped up pretty quickly after the whole Anika affair, and several people stuck around to help her clean things up. The New York crew had left and were already on their way to Miami for some ersatz Art Basel type event. Anika seemed to have recovered just fine and had left with them.

Veronica was relieved, and, without admitting to anything, apologized to Haley for the events of the previous evening. Always gracious, Haley declined even the attempt at an apology and thanked Veronica for coming and helping. In a few months, they would probably be laughing about the whole situation, and Haley promised to meet up soon. She just had a few projects to wrap up, but then she’d have all the time in the world for Veronica. At this news, she flopped back in her bed and fell asleep as the sun climbed into the afternoon sky. 

*****

The following week, Veronica met Haley for some drinks at some new fancy cocktail bar. Within dark velvet couches absorbed the last bit of the already dim mood lighting, which made the menu practically illegible. Veronica squinted at it inches from her face, and ordered something called a “a double double eagle.” When the waitress returned, she set down a murky drink garnished with a maraschino cherry. 

As expected, the drink was fine but overpriced; sultry old-world flavors danced with a slightly alarming chemical tang on her tongue, which she conquered by drinking faster than she normally would. Haley teased her as she downed her stupid drink order, and Veronica had to choke down her own laughter as she polished off the last of it. 

For the first time in a very long while, their conversation flowed like it used to when they were younger. They laughed their heads off and talked of gossip and the past. Veronica felt the warmth of this friendship like a kind of birthright, affirming everything in her life, even her manifold failures. 

But as the night wore on, their conversation grew more halting. Haley lapsed into a kind of distracted quiet, sneaking glances at her phone or spinning the flared base of her martini glass on the low table in front of them as she half-listened to Veronica. A waitress came by, asking if they needed another drink, and Haley quickly waved her off. 

“It’s okay if you need to leave. I know you’ve got a lot going on,” Veronica offered. 

“Not yet. I’m just thinking.”

“What about?” she said, bright and probing. Haley smiled slightly and sighed with a downward look, avoiding her friend's gaze. She picked up her glass and tried to drink from the empty vessel. A small droplet of condensation mixing with the last spume of liquor glided down the slope of the glass and fell onto her tongue. Then Haley finally revealed what she had been dissembling the whole evening. She said she had been accepted into an artist residency, and at the end of the month she would be moving to a commune in rural Michigan. 

The news struck Veronica like a truck. Although she did her best to play the proud and happy friend, there was no way around the despair stirring inside her. Haley must have sensed the feeling in her friend because she immediately started in on the consolations. It would only be a year, and then she would be back in Orlando. Plus, she would be returning for Christmas, and maybe even another time during the long Michigan winter. 

Veronica hugged and congratulated Haley while gulping down the loneliness she knew she would soon be facing. She was hurt and disappointed in herself that she could not be a better friend in the moment, which only made her feel worse. Sensing coming tears, she hugged Haley one more time and quickly excused herself to the bathroom.

Fleeing from the bitter pain of her weakness, she pushed inside the restroom and barred the door with her back as if someone was after her. Only after a few calming breaths did she let go. The tears burned in her eyes as she walked to the large bathroom mirror and stared at herself in the reflection. She felt faint and hideous. She would never be as beautiful as Haley, never so deserving of love and success as she. The liquor was churning in her stomach, and a sudden spell of nausea forced her to the toilet. 

Sitting fully clothed on the porcelain seat, Veronica hunched over and clutched at her sides. Her heart was racing, and when she closed her eyes to shut out these sensations, she found only wailing darkness and horrible thoughts assaulting her at speeds beyond her comprehension. Tension twisted throughout her body, and she tried to hold onto herself even more tightly, tamping down the rising tremors, but her feet still tapped and shifted erratically on the tile floor. 

Bang! Bang! Bang!

The door shook at its hinges, and the maid shrieked. Veronica immediately stood up from her stool at the vanity and soothed her. She petted her arm, and said there was no need to be frightened. No one would want anything with a lowly servant. The young woman nodded and stifled her tears. 

BOOM! 

This time the whole room rattled from a distant explosion, and the chandelier swung wildly. Even the gigantic vanity quavered, that monolith of dark wood in the style of Louis XVI which had taken an entire team of servants to deliver and nearly crushed one of them in the process. Veronica feared that the mirror would tip and crash, but the impact was only strong enough to knock over several perfumes and poultices, which befouled the lace-covered countertop. Almost immediately her nose stung with the smell of too much perfume. Wafting away the cloying air, Veronica gathered herself and went to the door. 

“Mistress, no!” The maid cried out as Veronica opened the door, and a young officer burst inside. He looked like a cavalryman, a dragoon perhaps, but was so disheveled it was hard to be certain. The signature blue frock of his regiment was dirty and unbuttoned, and he came in panting with his helmet tucked under his arm. This dishabille instantly offended her, and the maid stood behind her trembling. The officer apologized and made himself up as best he could, brushing a bit of dust off his coat which fell to the Persian carpet below, adding to the stain already caused by his muddy boots. Catching his breath, he finally paid proper respect to the lady by bowing and then redonning his helmet. 

After a second apology, the man explained his intrusion. The army had just received orders from Vienna to evacuate. The city was half-way encircled, and the enemy was pushing in from all directions. The maid fainted immediately at the news, and the officer rushed to hold her up. 

As he tended to her, Veronica moved to the large windows of her dressing room and drew open the velvet curtains. A distant fire burned, sending blobs of red light into the smoke-filled night sky. Down in the street below, people ran about in terror, and Veronica watched as a carriage driver tried to fend off several thieves from stealing his horses. As he struggled with one man, another got the reins of a horse and rode off. The driver reached out to stop him, but was thrown down hard to the ground by the nearer assailant. He could only watch as his livelihood was taken from him. 

“Your orders, my lady?” The young officer asked while still fanning the maid and holding her up around the waist. Veronica looked at the two of them. Their behavior was immodest and indecorous, but these were exceptional circumstances. There would be time for discipline later. 

“Tell the servants to prepare the portage,” she ordered. 

“At once, my lady,” the soldier acknowledged while shaking the maid to resuscitate her. He stood her up, and once he was certain of her footing, he saluted them both and exited. The maid took a moment to recover her senses, but then she bowed and left to attend to her duties as well. 

Turning from the window, Veronica waited a few moments, listening to the bustling traffic of the hall outside, and then walked to the door and locked it behind her. From the door she returned to her spot at the vanity, making sure to crease her dress as she sat back on the stool. The large oval mirror caught the reflection of the sky still flickering with fire like a gas lamp, so Veronica repositioned herself. Hopping with the stool underneath her, she settled at such an angle that the mirror no longer returned a view of the outside world. Now she saw only herself and the trappings of her class. 

One by one she righted the little bottles that contained such wonderful scents, returning them to their former order on her vanity. The assortment of colored glass, the variety of ornamental toppers, the elegant labeling, it had all been so perfectly arranged, and she wanted nothing more than to see them as they once were. Once set upright, she twisted the bottles between her fingers, so that they were all facing outward. After a few minutes, the display looked almost as it had before, and Veronica felt relieved. 

Looking up from her collection of perfumes, the mirror returned an image of a young and beautiful woman. Her hair was neatly coiffed and her dress immaculate. She seemed to sit right on the surface of the glass, so much that she might even fall out if someone shook the mirror. Veronica wanted to catch her, to spare her the disgrace of tumbling into this world, but her dress restrained her. It was tucked so tight underneath her that she couldn’t stand up. She inclined forward on the stool, but it only cinched the garment tighter. 

Veronica rocked back and forth in her seat, but the girl in the mirror remained still. 

“Mistress, the carriage is ready...Mistress?” She did not move from her station. 

Chris Blexrud is a writer and librarian living in Albuqerque.