Silver Meadow's Stories

A short story by Silver Meadow

(explicit language warning)

“She could neither resolve nor dismiss. There were these scraps of baffled hate in her, hate with no eyes, no smile and—this she especially regretted, called her hungriest lack—not much voice.”

-Gwendolyn Brooks

No, no.

Although her sentiments held so much weight each layer of Earth split, Melanie must chill with the brimstone. This splinter in our dirt unified as her neck veins bulged and jaw clenched, dissociating in pleasantries. The ostensibly polite phrase “excuse me” was equivalent to three hundred balers sounding off at once but Fleece Levine’s supermarket called her work and flawless attendance honest. This vibrant grocery store praised their best team member and lended her a 10 cent raise after four years of employment. 

And this team, you know this was a team after all? A band who collectively earned two hours of slumber: Melanie was their captain, cheerleader, therapist, janitor, trauma dumping grounds—dang, there were synchronous sighs from hiring managers once she accepted a new job for some influencer’s lifestyle and beauty podcast. Michelle Parker, a dazzling sweetheart with copious brand deals pushing false narratives like a $70 “ultimate hair growth” shampoo (contents: apple juice mixed with chemicals Melanie can’t pronounce).

But her team members gathered around the breakroom and ate cupcakes past the sell by date. Her manager said it was better for them to be consumed than made fresh. They applauded Melanie’s time wasted here and sell by freebies were a common grocery store occurrence, especially for ones placed in suburban nightmares with outrageous demands like, “treat customers as family,” and “answer every question with a smile, even if it’s ‘do you work here?’And you can’t respond ‘no, this is a humiliation ritual’ because that contradicts FL’s core values.”  None of which contributed to brain rot.

Those days where she scanned items, stocked shelves, counted change, mopped floors, and adjusted prices were over. Sadly, none of her team members would ever know how she truly felt, at least in this moment. Melanie was a rockstar, “I’ll make an exception,” “have a great day,” “I’m so sorry about that,” blurting empathy as she was grossly empowered to run around this store responding to calls: trapped in some hamster wheel.

 While sprinting on that infinite contraption, she suffered four hours past her overnight shift to unload a food truck. Too many call-offs; not enough victims—the exact time was recorded because she closed her Apple Watch rings on that sad sad no good terrible day. Her silver lining was LA’s tangerine sunrise that illuminated FL’s shelves with glistening packages, and for a moment, Melanie felt a pulse. A smile erupted and tears almost fell because this was a land of opportunity after all! Then a customer scolded her for unlocking the door a minute late.

In the longterm, Melanie had no complaints, just bite marks on her tongue; steam rising from her thick coils, perhaps irreparable damage to her nervous system. All that void with those smiles, what beautiful happy faces? Everyone just loved Melanie! Her dedication brushed up against management roles (so they said) because she was always there. Always cleaning up after others in the breakroom. Always helpful.

Always?

So Melanie clocked out and ran from Fleece Levine’s Supermarket forever. She followed co-workers on Instagram, shared some jokes here and there, celebrated their victories: graduations, marriages, all of that, but her mask slipped and cracked when customers snatched items out of her hands, yelled about prices, or took her kindness as an unlimited weakness pass. A gradient of monotony poured over her with the weight of a cart pusher. Despite the store being flooded with L.E.D light and sparkly floors, it was soulless. Melanie was tortured by these walls and valued daydreams of FL crumbling into fine powder.

But that’s okay.

Melanie’s fine.

Melanie’s happy.

Yay!

Cars missed her front bumper by dangerous margins on the way home, but her headlights were on. What happened to yielding? But understandable, they had places to be too. The mailman crammed overdue bills in Apt 367’s mailslot and her cat gashed the couch until the thread dangled. She sighed, but was still okay! Besides, she ate a freezer-burnt microwave dinner and enjoyed silence’s thrum. Quietness truly had noise. When someone worked retail for the past four years they could identify it like those videos playing different frequencies to test how old your hearing is. Some hear it, and those who don’t gaslight those who do.

Her roommate/best friend Grace unlocked the door, on the phone like any sales representative. She was a novice but closed deals like she didn’t dream of being a full blown entrepreneur. Her fantasy disrupted by Melanie and her supermarket check, pleading for a piggyback ride. At least, that’s how Melanie saw it. Maybe she should’ve accepted an entry-level position in a career she had zero interest in, too. She’d still be miserable, but richer.

Grace ended her call and rummaged through the pile of mail on the kitchen table. Their vase of plastic tulips rooted in credit card offers and accumulated co-pays.

“Who’s Dawn McNeil, and why can’t she update her address?”

She stood over her friend who desired silence. Grace knew Melanie didn’t open mail let alone check who it was addressed to, but that’s how everything worked. This explained why Grace’s side of their dorm was cleaner in college. Why, despite making a hundred cold calls every day, she found an inkling to create and sell candy on the side. Never obeyed circumstances. She made life give her lemons after putting it in a chokehold. Grace settled next to Melanie and took that claw-clip out her locs. No flinching as they crashed down onto her smooth skin because the yawn stretched across her face required pain to be secondary. Grace barely kept those dark eyes open because she wanted to enjoy silence too. 

“So,” Grace said, “we ain’t getting discounted groceries no more…”

Melanie laughed, “I’m sorry, sis. I can’t believe I’m done with that place. No more being at the mercy of whoever opens them automatic doors. Also, I have two strands of gray hair now so it aged me.”

Grace squinted, “Bye, you look 14. That’s why everyone gives us dirty looks at the club.”

True. FL’s customers were weary of her checking ids and questioned if her employment was in adherence to child labor laws. Some even offended because they were eligible homeowners the year she was born. It was store policy. Even for prehistoric individuals, and this she was truly sorry about (not really).

But she had better things to do. Tomorrow was her first day working for Michelle Parker, brand ambassador, makeup tutorials, Black Girl luxury, all of that. Sweet to look Melanie’s way when her LinkedIn profile was incomplete, however, she studied marketing at Uni and forgot almost everything, but that’s what the internet was for. That’s what she told herself when she laid down to sleep. 

Some rude things customers said rolled in, the lady who held up the line at Jack in a box this morning, that guy who crossed the street in front of oncoming traffic, how her team members celebrated her departure with stale cupcakes: these were thoughts. Her usual rundown. One more thing that kept her from sleep at times. That was perfectly okay!

Is it okay?

Is it truly honestly okay?

That small voice drummed like thunder before lightning clashes symbols. Muffled but earth-shaking. So quiet, so whispered. So insignificant as Melanie drifted to sleep and let those thoughts pile up and mute the preexisting voice that fuelled her existential crisis. Simple. Effective!

At her new place of employment, Melanie’s day would start and end in Michelle Parker’s mansion. One of marble flooring, windows wide and inviting to robbers, and appliances that did superfluous tricks. Her poodle, Kai, was indifferent towards chew toys. She preferred organic dog treats and kept freshly trimmed ears. Kai ran about this Beverly Hills mansion and Melanie wouldn’t know this if her job strictly consisted of marketing. Not dog walking or taking Kai to the groomer, but at least she was gentle and kind, resting her long face on Melanie’s cramped leg as she typed away. She didn’t bark much.

Somehow Kai was the tip of the iceberg. Michelle Parker —when she wasn’t speaking at Beautycon or filming cosmetic reviews— tacked her laundry list onto Melanie’s back. She went from grocery store runs to car washes then, “can you vacuum my closet?” and “order my freeze dried candy.” But she offered Melanie to pick up things she needed too, and she got to drive Michelle’s Porsche. And wandered around her walk-in closets: sniffed perfumes she couldn’t afford to look at, browsed purses stamped with expensive logos, caressed silks and cashmeres, to dream. Maybe one day she’ll live like that too. But until then:

It was all fine.

Michelle Parker’s follower count ticked upward as her podcast brewed with heart-warming clips, like her gifting a young black fan a makeover after she sent a message about being bullied by her peers. Michelle’s videos were a beacon in the sea of junior high and what 6th grader do you know rocking an LV bag and expensive apple juice shampoo for wash day? Good luck to her scalp. This was her most popular episode, “Healing inner childhood wounds.” It seemed premature since the guest was a literal child, but perhaps this was a preventative measure on Michelle’s end. Nonetheless, Melanie gathered every ounce of marketing strategies her brain and chatGPT could garner. She wielded the strength of hashtags and time zones to manufacture the perfect storm for viewership and engagement. 

Her hard work paid off all those bills caking her kitchen table. Melanie’s hopes and wishes for adequate employment blossomed before her red eyes. Michelle threw in bonuses too when she invited her as a guest to pilates and elite spas. Sure, the grip socks gave Melanie the heebie jeebies and the “edible” flowers she consumed at the spa made her throat tingle. But luxury massaged her shoulders through proximity alone. All she had to do was keep her boss happy, market her glamorous podcast, and rock Kai to sleep!

But like everything good in Melanie’s life, it ended. 

Michelle Parker demanded Melanie to script-write and leave marketing to her. Melanie’s captions were too good so she must’ve had a knack for writing with all those comments with heart and laughter emojis. She took one introductory creative writing course in college, submitting stories she wrote in middle school, so Michelle tore into Melanie’s scripts. Michelle would sit across from her, in the writer’s room she provided, and thumb through the manuscripts that were too “boring,” “factual,” or “flavorless.” She rolled her eyes at Melanie’s puns and weak interview questions for guests. Michelle tucked a deep body wave strand behind her ear and sighed. 

“Melanie, you good?”

Melanie drummed her fingers on this round table (Michelle promised to get her a desk soon), and she shrugged, “I’m aight, my neighbors didn’t stomp too loud this morning.”

Michelle blinked coldy, as though Melanie wasn’t supposed to say anything but yes. “This script is giving drunk AI…”

Her glossy lips pulled upward and she rested her hand on Melanie’s, eyes narrowed like her concern was unadulterated. Maybe her critiques were valid. This was the seventh time she requested Melanie do a rewrite; the words blurred as Melanie stared at the same text until the moon and stars asked, ‘girl, why are you still here?” In this mansion with granite counters, studios, a movie room, game room, and horizon long pool. Where Michelle would invite her carbon copy friends over. They had the same laugh, style, and triple the income most young adults made. All influencers. Beauty, vlogs, and vanity, their relational glue.

Nonetheless, Melanie endured. Creating, drafting, revising, and deleting scripts. Her dreams (nightmares) consisted of Michelle Parker and her furry sea urchin-looking house shoes. Spent nights monitoring logistics and engagement on each insufferable episode where she threw half of what Melanie wrote out the window anyway, so why torture her to produce perfect outlines and scripts?

Besides, AI can’t get drunk: they just compute. FL’s consumers were downtrodden by self-checkout machines that truly accepted cash as their squeaky carts rolled past Melanie. They would look at her and claim “They’re stealing your job…”pointing at these evil machines that stun if you scan items twice. Melanie would shrug because they could have it. She couldn’t stand in the frontlines of the battle against AI unless Michelle Parker was their commander. So with this being said, she should’ve hired AI to generate endlessly with no need to sleep at night, but as always, it was fine. Melanie rested her hand on Michelle’s and said, “I’ll do better…”

Then one night occurred. Thoughts rolled in like usual: one of Michelle’s friends sharing a picture of her and Beyoncé, Michelle refilming her Tik tok 80 times (Melanie counted), Kai ignoring her sit commands, the shredder Michelle placed in Melanie’s office to run “the bad ones” through, and that mailman still jamming overdue bills in Apt’s 367’s mailbox. But it was okay.

Is it okay?

What?

Everything that happened to you, you’re okay with?

Leave me alone.

Stop ignoring me.

I’m going to bed now.

You’ll regret this.

Goodnight.

I’ve surfaced.

Whatever that meant haunted Melanie. That voice of drumming thunder, dark, grand, and ominous, nagged her in Dunkin’ Donuts as she awaited a dozen glazed for Michelle’s cheat day. If only this guy in front of her arrived earlier, Caramel Frosted sold out the moment they opened, and he wagged his finger in the cashier’s face.

“You guys never have them in stock!”

“I apologize, sir,” the cashier said, “is there another flavor we can offer you? Our Boston Kreme is popular, and if you’re in the taste for caramel, we have caramel flavored coffee…”

“No. This store is pathetically weak.”

He threw his crackly hands in the air as if this cashier was responsible for which donut sold out first. Or she had a personal vendetta and pushed every Caramel Frosted out before some guy in a wilted UCLA sweatshirt came in to bicker and fuss as this ever growing line stretched. Melanie found her jaw clenching like old times. Then that text from Michelle Parker chimed:

Are u on the way with my donuts, sis? Pls hurry.

Melanie’s eyes went from her phone screen to this guy ranting and raving. The cashier stared into his eyes with a look too familiar; one her mother would give angry guests at Solara Eclipse hotel. She would bring Melanie to work with her after school and play Dora the Explorer on the breakroom T.V….simpler times. Still, she would overhear guests scream at her mother over card declines, not having enough towels, room service being too slow, and scarce TV channels ‘til the wee hours of the night.

Through every encounter, she would say, “I’m sorry to hear about this, we’ll do what we can to alleviate your concerns…” At least 80 times a shift. This phrase was etched into her mother’s tongue and tattooed Melanie’s subconscious. Diffused some incandescent guests. This was white noise. Somehow her mom would drive home in utter silence, but Melanie made it her mission to dutifully curse out any evil customer on her drive back from FL’s. 

One night, while her mom restocked the hotel’s snack nook, a question bloomed in little Melanie’s head. “Mom, why are they so mean to you?”

Her mother paused stocking, drooped her shoulders, and sighed, “They’re just frustrated sweetheart, it’s not personal, “ she said, “I like to think they’re good people having a bad moment.”

She patted Melanie’s head then handed her Twizzlers, which attributed to her myriad of cavities. Her mother smiled, however, dark circles were under her eyes like a mask revealed hints of what was deteriorating underneath: inverted solar eclipse. The sun wedged between the darkness of Earth and the moon.

She kneeled and pecked Melanie’s cheek, “What do we do to meanies?”

“Show them kindness!” Melanie leaped.

This her mother applauded; taught her. But mom’s golden philosophy had Melanie fall victim to emotionally manipulative snares her peers set. Whimsical colors of the world blurred into a thrum of gray while she was cut and entangled in their sharp nets. But, mother said be kind. Melanie appeased whoever hurt her and apologized to those who would step over her corpse if she dropped dead.

Through grade school, college, and young adulthood, Melanie bit her tongue. Those around her pondered why and seldom returned her favors because this behavior was a transactional trap: she went the extra mile, they ought to as well. But Melanie gave them remnants of her strength and they granted a perceived admiration for her moral compass in return. One thing was tangible, the other inferred. Even Grace wondered why she refused to flick people off in traffic or confront those who cut her in line. Melanie never did or said something. Always sweet. Always hitting the mute button. Lava bubbled, cooled, then hardened into a mass of jet black for people to chip away.

A mask for what raged underneath.

So, flash forward to present day: a Dunkin‘ Donuts in LA County. The guy who peaked in college slammed his fist on the counter, demanding a manager. But the cashier was the manager (he reached the boss battle prematurely.)  Then his irate behavior only inflated as the line snaked out Dunkin’s front door. He refused deafeat and demanded corporate’s number. Oblivious to the match he threw into the mouth of a volcano.

“Sir, you and your caramel frosted can go to hell forever! Can’t you see this line out the door?”

The man stared at Melanie, and so did the cashier, and everyone else in Dunkin’s morning rush. Her mouth bypassing her brain, undermining the intricate web of filters that usually kept her quiet for 24 years of life. This mismatch, the eyes, yes all the eyes saw it too. The brush of fire that heated the orange and magenta interior and gave every donut reheating. Melanie ran out. 

She planned to lie and say she dropped them on the way to Michelle’s gated mansion. Maybe she’d take it as a sign from God to never cheat her diet. Anything, Melanie wanted the blame. She was used to that. When co-workers made messes she cleaned it. When someone got angry or hurt she’d ignore wounds of her own to salve theirs.

Get it? Pushover.

“Hey!” The man emerged from Dunkin’s entrance.

 Melanie fumbled her keys like in horror films. When the killer chases. And surely this man was going to do just that. He jogged over and leaned on her car. Good thing Melanie found herself inside. She been through too much for everything to end there, and by the ashy hands of some guy who’s grip on reality was not even supported by a hooked pinky. Her keys cranked the ignition. But the man smiled at her, tooth plaque, twice her age and all, “Wow, can I have your number?”

Melanie cracked her window to ensure she heard him correctly.

“Are you single?”

He reinforced his interest in the woman who condemned him to hell. 

She shook her head and told him she had a boyfriend, not before apologizing. He asked for a photo. She showed him a candid of J-Hope from Pinterest. He believed her.

Now another day, trapped in her “office” with Michelle, she jotted down her boss’ critiques because this episode had to be flawless. She had to promote that cheap hair care line selling for 4x its price and get at least 1,000 people to use her code when buying.

“Sis, if I don’t reach their quota they won’t promote me to brand ambassador…”

So Melanie worked extra hours, read the script to herself, cat, and Grace until she memorized it. Not that it was required. Not that Melanie had time to get her nails and hair done. It was time for her braids to come out; Michelle examined her new growth and asked if she needed a braider rec. But Melanie handed over the most perfect script on the planet instead.

Michelle ripped it.

She wore a white Gucci dress. 

Melanie wore sweatpants she had on since yesterday.

Michelle tossed her script. “Do it over again.” 

But entry-level was in the job description, and so was marketing. Michelle encouraged newcomers, especially young black women who needed the magic of an anomaly as such. All thanks to social media she’ll never need a degree. Why when you can have a mansion in your early twenties? Not work retail or for influencers who should be canceled for fraud and taken to court. Out of touch with reality because you have enough money to create your own.

But you want her life?

Melanie slammed her hands on the table, “I’m not rewriting that damn script. Am I your assistant? You got me walking and feeding that dog, doing your grocery runs, serving your rich friends, and you want perfection?”

Michelle’s jaw slacked a little, “Excuse me?”

“Girl, you have 1.2 million followers who don’t know you’re a demanding bitch!”

Melanie’s words poured as smooth as tea kettles. The electrical fence in her throat was destabilized too. Then her brain lagged two seconds behind the cloud of dust her mouth left. This disconnect, this raging fire, couldn’t be put out for some reason. Usually, she contained those outbursts that were combustible, yet suppressed. An expanding balloon that stretched thin but never popped.

Until then.

Only the hum of Michelle Parker’s Roomba filled that toxic air as Melanie awaited regret to press its foot on her neck—It didn’t. Her chest burned with hot coals and heart pounded through her shirt. You could hear the diamonds in Michelle’s chandelier clinking, nothing but her boss’ face melding into dullness. Her eyes expanded, “This bitch wants you out in 15…”

Melanie cut through traffic on the way home; laid her horn for those who turned in front of her, left an insulting note for the mailman doing his job, and stared at the surface of her kitchen table, finally, the tulips were uprooted from those bills. They dwindled thanks to Michelle Parker and would accumulate again thanks to her now former boss. Melanie huffed and puffed in the shadows of Apt. 367, watched her microwave dinner spin, then plunged into her bed. Her mind was blank that night (finally.) No thoughts. Just fury.

She woke up parched at 3 am and as she reached for her lamp, that pile of clothes on her chair shifted. But her eyes could’ve played tricks, everything looked like monsters at night. 

“Ew, we look like that while sleeping?”

Grace was returning from her business trip. Her flight wouldn’t arrive until 7am, so who was this? Melanie yanked her lamp and stared into the face of her own. She rubbed her eyes, closed them, and somehow she was still in the matrix. A long-lost twin watched Melanie drool on pillows, sitting crossed leg atop dirty laundry. The familiar stranger rolled her eyes and got up.

“Why we so clueless?”

She introduced herself as Melanie but preferred the name Mal. She uncapped all of Melanie’s perfumes and tested them, but they were hers as well because she was Melanie: a byproduct of muted rage, suppressed reactions, unmet needs, the type of responses one fantasizes about like a good comeback after the argument. When someone silences human nature or restricts true feelings, they split in two.

“This happens to people-pleasers, and this is my final form of warning.” Mal said.

“But aren’t you a people-pleaser if you’re me?”

“No, I’m better than that. I’m everything you wished you said since age 5.”

Her presence was a rarity. Most never reach the maximum level of pleasing people. They obeyed stomach aches, headaches, and unexplainable back pain. They listened to their inner voice and yielded to burnout. Finally dissolved the insatiable need to be helpful, convenient, and courteous —not Melanie—her antics stretched infinitely. 

Mal copied Melanie’s long lashes, moles, and hairstyle. Except her braids were fresher and slicked with gelled-down baby hairs. The ruler was straight along her back and a superior air brushed her broad shoulders. As though Mal waved from the blue ceiling and hid a ladder while Melanie was stuck in a ditch. She was the storm piercing the horizon.

“You’re that voice.”

“You’re that voice,” Mal mocked, “duh, I told you not to ignore me. Now look at you: rock bottom and jobless. Studied hard for that useless degree.”

“Just because it isn’t in use doesn’t mean it’s-“

“Then what does it mean, Melooney? I think FL’s could provide a better answer for their team member whose perfect attendance was rewarded with a blurry Polaroid tacked on the breakroom bulletin board,” Mal said “someone doodled an eye patch on it, think you covered their break?”

They spent an hour arguing and staring at each other. Mal believed she could live life better than Melanie. What did people-pleasing ever get her? Mistreated? Abused? Ignored? Nothing but this life of being trampled all because her mom believed kindness was letting these people on this sphere of despair bend her out of shape; to let them pile on every burden, project every insecure thought, and defile this empty canvas.

They argued for the rest of the night: who was the better half?

Seven knocks interrupted. 

Grace gave Melanie a caffeinated greeting then settled down on their couch. Matcha tea latte for her bestie and once-over for her carbon copy. “Did the barista spike my iced coffee cause why is there two of y’all?” 

Mal caught her up to speed; Melanie was too busy downing her drink, and of course Mal presented herself as the side that had a chance in this fallen world. Give her a day to prove it.

“Also,” Mal said, “mad respect for you, Grace.”

Grace nodded slowly at this information. Melanie could tell Grace she made contact with aliens and Grace would ask them to teach her curse words in their language. But something just as absurd but more applicable was wondering if they split rent three ways. Then Grace crept into the kitchen to fry some eggs. She just knew Melanie left the refrigerator empty; definitely not their apartment unit, a new roommate rolled in. One would think they had everything in common but not if they’re “a byproduct of muted rage,” It sounded like more discrepancies than spending nights sharing secrets they already knew about each other since they were each other (sort of). 

“You know what,” Grace said, scratching up Melanie’s favorite pan, “this remind me of that one Spongebob episode, where he got an abrasive side…”

“Mom didn’t let me watch Spongebob. She said his laugh induced psychopathic tendencies.”

“Girl that’s chaos theory,” Mal chimed in, “retail team member.”

They watched that episode anyway. All three of them squished on their clawed-up couch, eating fried eggs. What was left off it after Mal called first dibs. She laughed excessively at the abrasive side’s jabs, maybe saw an image of herself: Mal’s eyes filled with the wonders of Bikini Bottom and woe to that poor sponge with a callous enemy glued to him.

The episode concluded and Melanie understood why her mom kept her from that show. 

“So, that’s us?” 

“Sadly,” Mal said, “but I have my own body and I’m hotter…”

She stretched her limbs and cut a deal: give her one day to get Melanie’s life back on track and then some. Everything. Her job, finances, hobbies, relationships, LinkedIn profile, need that future Forbes 100 say more? And she reached for Grace’s problems too, had her list one: that failing candy company startup. Not enough orders, support, or staff, just her parents and bestie cheering her along. What a plain life? That’s what living paycheck to paycheck meant. Grace and Melanie looked at each other. Grace’s eyes were tinged red and puffy like she was crying last night, and Melanie, oh Melanie, she always looked tired. The concealer smudge under her eyes dared say she was.

They burrowed into the couch, did they have anything to lose?

“Deal.” 

It started with a text from Michelle Parker:

Hey Melanie,

I want to apologize, you were right, I need to chill. We’re young so we don’t know what we’re doing lol. This world doesn’t give us, especially,  grace or even a second chance but I hope I can be that for you. Pull up this afternoon so we can discuss your ideas for my next episode!

Melanie squealed and a ton weight dropped from her grasp from reassurance! She thought Michelle would blackmail her into oblivion.

It’s okay, Michelle. Can I actually swing by this evening? I’m super busy applying for other positions but this is great news!

What was hers, was Mal’s. Even her phone. Then that turned into her job scriptwriting for Michelle Parker. Engagement took off and had viewers begging to let Mal on an episode. Then the viewers wanted more and more until Michelle Parker was secondary to her scriptwriter. Only allowing a few lines to exit her pearly teeth. No matter how Michelle sliced and diced Mal’s words in edits, their cravings augmented.

And Melanie watched from her living room. Sure she had a life of her own: exercising, grocery shopping, arguing with herself when she took too long in the bathroom, watching Mal post updates about snobby events on her accounts, and, she would’ve included hanging out with Grace, but Mal slid her money to open a shop— tagged her company in some spend-a-day-with-me-vlog which called in a swarm.  No time. Just selling teeth-rotting candy. Melanie’s phone chimed all day with texts from Mal’s rich friends. Her keyboard froze and all she could do was watch.

We should meet in New York!

Join my girls trip to Paris!

Let’s shop at Rodeo sometime…

She had what Melanie did except her own apartment. So she purchased the land Michelle Parker’s mansion rested on and pushed her elsewhere, but she had money, she’d figure it out. Mal stayed in Michelle’s home to spite her and took the influencer to court for custody of Kai. She walked her most of the time and trimmed her nails anyway.

Mal slipped through Melanie’s fingers.

Melanie had parking citations, curses from unknown numbers, and her phone heated up from notifications. Days, weeks, months zoomed past like bullet trains, Melanie was on the tracks. Grace’s laptop was open on the coffee table one day: Infinite tabs of luxury apartments Melanie couldn’t be lugged to spanned across the screen. She bit her nails and braced for her crash landing. 

One pink sky evening, Mal picked Melanie up in her Corvette. She would buy her better half one if she did something rebellious like throw that gum she chewed out the window. Mal promised. It was awhile since they’ve seen each other. The wind blew through their scalps and Mal gripped the wheel until her knuckles bulged. She was always disgruntled about something. How seriously could she be taken in a ‘#1 Goofy Goober’ cap?

“So, what you been up to besides not paying rent?”

“You’re destroying my life.”

“Nah, you beat me to that.”

Melanie balled her first, Mal was always a million steps ahead.

“Crappy person equals success, yay. Does my revelation inspire you to leave?”

“You can’t get rid of me…”

Melanie gnawed the inside of her cheek. Who knew she would drive herself around in a Corvette? Her sanity was depleted for $14 an hour just a few months ago, so what happened? Mal wore luxury brands and took pictures with “fans.” Melanie’s TikTok followers soared to 900k and kept trending upward. She could stand right next to Mal in public and people didn’t notice her. Couldn’t see their identical appearance, but surely they knew. Melanie was a ghost. The one overlooked.

Mal slammed her brakes, “April 8th, 2007, what happened during recess?”

“Why?”

“You got something better to do?”

Melanie massaged her dewy forehead. Did whatever necessary to suffocate grade school memories and emotionally charged past experiences. Where people pretended, smiled as their knives drove into her stomach, forget her back. She thought if she displayed mercy and kindness. If she bought their snack bar requests and gave generously her target would shrink—her bullseye enlarged. She was weak enough to trample; dumb enough to point this stampede to the next watering hole.

Melanie scratched the crevices of her memory and couldn’t make out the figures in the haze.

“Hint: Eric Walker.”

One of the many who deflated her self-esteem.

“Oh…I got cut up by wood chips, I think?”

“How.”

“Because… he pushed us off the slide.”

“And what did mom tell us?”

“To forgive and ask him to play with us next time…”

“And how did we really feel?”

Melanie bit her tongue and found city traffic more interesting. There was no need to rehash what happened years ago, even when it haunted her. These occurrences were more terrifying than glowing eyes under the bed. Than being awoken by dehydration in the middle of the night to find out you split in two. But tears swelled on Mal’s waterline, “Say it! Say how we felt!”

“We wanted to break his neck,” Melanie mumbled.

“Huh!”

“We wanted to push Eric off a 10,000 foot slide!”

A smile erupted from teary-eyed Mal. Laughter too.

Their journey ended in a suburban nightmare: Fleece Levine’s Supermarket. The disarrayed shopping carts, speed bumps, and consumer zombies dragging their limbs to its doors were all too familiar. Melanie believed this place was in her rearview, never to be visited again, but Mal had other plans.

“Wait here,” Mal told herself.

“Why are we at Levine’s?”

Mal shut and locked the doors, took car keys with her too, so if Melanie tried to escape her Corvette would sound off. And Melanie waited, waited, and waited while the sun furthered its descent to the other side of Earth. This planet where 7 people have her face: doppelgangers. She wanted to meet one but after dealing with her evil clone she rathered not.

An engine rattled next to her and down came a window. Some guy hollered and waved at Melanie, “that whip clean!” Of course she had to smile back because it was a pleasant thing to do. Unfortunately, many take that as an invitation to converse. But a one-sided conversation where they dump information into your ear canal while you nod and say, “oh really?” “wow…” “That’s amazing!” This guy had a lot to say about cars; all Melanie knew was to place the key in the ignition, crank it, shift the gear, and hope there’s enough gas. Also to knock on the hood in case creatures nestled during cooler months.

“Is this your man’s car?”

At this point, Melanie believed he was going to rob her. A picture of J-Hope wouldn’t suffice, and who knew if this guy was crazy enough to wait and see who was rich enough to drive this car? 

“It’s mine, loser.” Mal returned with bags spilling over her cart. Now where could all that go in a Corvette? Its compact trunks. That guy flew out of his car and offered to help Mal with her mountain of groceries, which she obliged and made him lift every bag. Mal let the cart run free. Melanie would shoot invisible lasers at those who haphazardly blocked the exit with carts, or worse, sent them rolling all over this cursed parking lot.

“Oh, y’all twins?” He leaned on Mal’s car and asked, “are you single? I like mean women…”

His assistance came with a price.

 Mal glared under her sunglasses, “How much you make?”

“Six figures.”

“That your car?”

“Which one?”

“The rusty one next to us…”

He looked at the car with chipped paint and dangling side views. Chewed up rear bumper. But he shooed that away, “oh nah, I run a scrapyard business, I was just driving that to the lot.”

But Mal rolled her window up and drove over this man’s foot. Twice. He rolled around in their rearview in need of an ambulance since the bones in his feet shattered, and Mal didn’t bat an eye when the tires rotated and flattened them. That guy’s advances were off-putting but they shouldn’t have left him. Some customers ran over and took pictures of Mal’s license plate but she turned her music up: “Drama” by aespa. As they zoomed on, Melanie’s eyes were glued to the spec of a man.

“Is he okay?”

“Who cares? Aye, guess what?”

Mal knew better than to play the guessing game. 

This man could sue her and take this luxury car.

“…I bought everything from Fleece Levine’s. They had to close for the day and they’ll send truckloads to your apartment tomorrow.”

And this is how Melanie got her lease terminated. But Mal had more than enough room for her in Michelle’s ex-mansion. She doubled down by purchasing the supermarket that was run dry to convert into a 24/7 spa. Then even more money would flood her bank account. Melanie had full access to it but would never touch for the sake of morality because Mal schemed her way to the top: stole, cheated, and stepped on anyone.

Her ex-boss from Fleece Levine’s sent a text:

Melanie, I don’t know what happened to you but what you’re doing is deranged. As a former FL’s employee, we hoped you had more integrity than this. You know the various stories of your ex-team members, many of them have kids, tuition, and bills to pay, and now they must train to become a spa specialist or find a new job. For no reason. Even our customers who relied on us for convenience were let down. We’re beyond disappointed.

But Mal said:

Girl idc.

 Everything that didn’t expire was either salvaged, re-sold, or collected dust. What expired was tossed despite Melanie’s pleas to donate the products beforehand. Wasteful as FL’s. Inconsiderate as those who rummaged through aisles and displays then complained about a messy store. Someone suffered when no one had to, if only.

Mal was anger never faced, but her cruelty was immeasurable.

Mal’s lease-breaking ordeal was Grace’s impetus to go for the luxury apartment. A downtown L.A. three bedroom high above the ground. Your reflection was apparent in the glossy floor. Mal was in NYC for some influencer panel thing—at least that’s how Mal described it. But the nicer side stayed behind and unboxed Grace’s stuff, finally, all of Grace’s hard work paid off. No more eye-strain or phones pressed against her ear. Now here was views of city life and an in-building trash chute. Goodbye dumpsters.

Grace handed Melanie some water, “I think you’ve done enough, sis…”

But Melanie owed Grace everything. She had listened to Melanie’s absurd L.A. dreams and moved out here with her, burdened by her lack of determination. Melanie was intelligent, charismatic, and empathetic. But no voice. She shied away from interviews and closed tabs when jobs required too much. Melanie wasn’t good enough.

“Well,” Melanie said, “now I don’t have to leech of you anymore.”

Her laugh echoed in vastness and bounced off that high ceiling. Grace didn’t even chuckle softly, she squinted and sat on the sparkly new couch she ordered from IKEA. Nothing more awkward than laughing alone.

“Leech? Why you think that?”

“You did everything for us while I was behind on all the bills. I’m so sorry for putting you through that. You deserve this apartment more than anyone.”

Grace nodded, eyes still tense and face pensive like she didn’t believe Melanie. She got up and motioned Melanie to look out those long windows with her. A view for the accomplished; someone who believed in themselves. The buildings dazzled and shimmered in light, above silent traffic. Melanie stood beside her believing the apology was much needed.

“Melanie, you’re never a burden. I’m shocked you think that actually…”

But her supermarket check was incomparable. They battled to keep the lights on in a shady neighborhood when they could’ve stayed at home in the financial blanket of their parents. In Indiana or at least the midwest. When Melanie felt the weight of four years wasted, Grace would send her job listings all day, but Melanie remained tied to FL’s instead. Only good for being in service to someone else. Only good if someone else smiled.

Melanie slouched, “You had to be a little annoyed. Don’t lie, sis.”

Grace smiled, “You know, the Bronco tailgating me on the way here, or the woman who dramatically sighed because I wouldn’t move until she said excuse me don’t matter to me. They’re not more important, and I hope to never see them again. I probably wont…” she wrapped her arm around Melanie’s shoulder, “once I realized everyone is as trapped on Earth as me, I started looking at people differently, Mel, you deserve what you want too and don’t be sorry for that.”

Melanie pondered. Seldom did she put herself before others, especially complete strangers. Grace didn’t feel unequally yoked, Melanie did. All these years of friendship were plagued by a slippery slope, but who stood on it? Everyday, Melanie braced herself because Grace might’ve kicked her out. She awaited her to reach a breaking point and abandoned her bestfriend. Still did. But Grace caught her people-pleasing. What Melanie did best, and yet she never used that as leverage. Refused to let Melanie overextend her aching arms. 

So Melanie drove home in Mal’s corvette and thought of a plan to delete miss muted rage from existence. Maybe they could negotiate? Was there anything Melanie did to summon Mal? Was it her childhood? Retail? Michelle Parker? What if she was stuck like that forever? Thoughts rolled in the nightly breeze. Peaceful. Melanie reached for her keys but found the door wide open, the window shattered too. The glass pebbles crunched under her feet as a warning.

But how come their security system wasn’t blaring?

The robber was a guest who watched the alarm code because there couldn’t be another way. Unless this criminal was tech-savvy. Melanie would let them steal anything, just don’t hurt her, her cat, or Kai. Mal deserved every overpriced object ripped from her hands because she had the entire world hating Melanie. At least that’s what it felt like, but, if the world chided her, would she be so successful? Rich? Swarming with friends? 

Melanie crept into this dark mansion with expired gel mace in hand. Her mission was to help them load their getaway. But she froze at Michelle Parker descending the steps with Kai instead. She wore a Velour jumpsuit and black N95 mask, but still, Melanie clocked her strongest feature. Her hair. It was always laid and slayed. That and her voice, “You’re supposed to be in New York…” 

“Girl, what are you—”

“You can have this house but you can’t have my angel!”

She retrieved a metal bat and swung at Melanie. Her ex-scriptwriter found it strange to live in her mansion let alone be assaulted by The Michelle Parker: good vibes, makeup tutorials, spend a day with me, promoting positivity, and travel vlogs. A lie. She ran after Melanie like in horror films. Ones where you steal everything your ex-boss had so they scream and chase you with a metal bat. Melanie tripped (classic move). Some chew toys Kai never used. That was Michelle’s leverage and she pinned her to this marble flooring.

“You took everything! What happened to sisters supporting sisters?”

Michelle emphasized Black women sticking together in the Linkedin message she sent. And upon Melanie’s hiring, they needed to build each other up, not assault each other in Velour jumpsuits. These sentiments held weight. But she failed to notice her anger burning the wrong Melanie. This one failed life; the other knew how to live successfully. Michelle’s rattling stopped. She squinted hard at Melanie, “What happened to you? Your skin was glowing at that stupid panel you…like an hour before this. You can’t go from one coast to another…”

Michelle, Melanie, and Kai went for a late night stroll. She couldn’t imagine doing that in her old neighborhood, but this gated monstrosity provided safety (not including Michelles’ breaking and entering, attempted dog-napping too.) No wounds. Michelle missed every swing but she was a beauty influencer, not a softball player. And of course, Melanie caught her up to speed since Mal ruined her life too. The fact Mal posted a video at a fancy rooftop restaurant during this conversation reinforced her absurd story. But to Michelle, nothing was surprising.

“Hey,” she said, “the same thing happened to me when I was a teenager.”

“Really?”

“A few years ago In high school.”

So Michelle Parker stared into the moon and shared this experience. In grade school she didn’t have many problems. People liked her, boys would chase, and every teacher applauded. Her life was a teenage movie about the popular crowd. The only one that mattered. Michelle went to parties, studied hard, and stayed on top of her empire. Though for her parents, this was not enough. She made A’s but that one B+ tainted those report cards. Followed every rule but returned home five minutes after that 11:30 curfew. Shared successes to ears that would not open unless it earned money, academic opportunities, or made them look good so they  ignored her art projects and awards. Especially her silly little YouTube videos.

Then that voice.

It whispered from her subconscious and stunted her sleep. Rolled nightmares where Michelle ran from herself in some desert: she would run from the moon and stars, right into that sunset. Her stomach burned to reach it before it melted into the horizon—or worse—before this shadow caught up.

One night she did.

The silhouette stood on her terrace and squinted at the moon. Michelle traced her through bedroom drapes and stepped into the nightly breeze. She cowered in her own presence, and locked eyes with some familiar stranger. Underneath the night sky, they discussed who she was and how it was a lie. This sweet, kind, and pleasant girl did not exist; not in this form. Everything was more complicated with that mask: thorns of insecurity, rage, envy, and greed shrieked. And they fought. Eventually cut a deal: let this true Michelle out into this world for one day. She’ll go to school, practices, eat at the dinner table, and all the “gentle” Michelle had to do was never be seen.

Her parents jumped off her back, staying on top of the social pyramid was as easy as blinking, no more pressure to do everything right. She did what she wanted instead. With this formula, people finally truly wholeheartedly listened because threats yielded results—but this Michelle eclipsed the one who was here first. A day turned into weeks, then months, then she had to end this. She had to erase her. She couldn’t go back.

Melanie interrupted, “How did she vanish?” 

“I pushed her off my terrace…”

Melanie’s doe-eyes grew wider, and a choir of crickets vibrated.

Michelle yawned, “Don’t worry when I looked over the ledge no one was there. She disappeared. I ain’t have to deal with her again.”

“I have to um, kill Mal?”

Michelle winked and cupped the moon in one hand. Perspective. “I guess so…and before you ask, no I can’t get rid of her for you. And this plan isn’t foolproof, but it worked for me.”

“So, you won’t intervene because this is my battle. Only I can get rid of Mal?”

Michelle planted her feet, and stood under a streetlight. Looked this way and that way. Was the coast clear? She leaned in and blinked those 3D lashes that probably costs more than Melanie’s phone bill. “Don’t tell anyone this, I know where you live, okay?”

Melanie thought Michelle would confess to another homicide.

“…I’m scared of Mal.”

Melanie repressed her laughter.

Speaking of Mal, she infected everything. Even local news station discussed outrage from local grocery store turned spa. This place was to have 8 saunas, 5 juice bars, and enough staff to keep the lights on all day every day. Many lamented the loss of this family owned business which began with nothing but a dream and a net worth of 20 million dollars. Truly, the night would be eternal for them. The fences, hard hats, protesters, Channel 22 news asked Mal for a statement, and they quoted, “Don’t nobody want no wack a** grocery store. I hate whoever shopped there.”

Melanie’s conversation with Michelle haunted her. What she did to her anti-self was heinous although her plan worked. At what cost? Was murder really the solution? Melanie stood in Dairy Queen with Mal who couldn’t get enough sugar it was strange. But much needed after she dragged Melanie through the construction site of what was Fleece Levine’s. 

Melanie rolled her eyes the whole time.

“You’re a hater,” Mal whispered, “don’t act like you cared about Levine’s.”

She didn’t miss an onslaught of entitled customers, but even this didn’t signal a desire to repurpose it into some luxury day and night spa. As Melanie stood so close, guilt injected her veins. She was plotting against Mal, she wanted her gone, and she had to be the one to end her.

They waited behind a party of two, mom and daughter, placing their order. The little girl was only tall enough to rest her chin on the counter and cheered “sprinkles” as two ice cream cones dazzled. She bounced off this tile floor. Melanie couldn’t recall the last time she was that happy, but she was probably the same age as her. She smiled and Mal grinned too. But that dropped as their card reader made strange noises then the cashier mumbled something to the mom. And the little girl let go of the counter. 

She gazed at her mom with perplexity, one that Melanie wore as a child. Because something was consistently within reach, but some bills, loans, or whatever her mom tried to hide placed landmines between her and something desired. The smirk Mal wore often was replaced with fear. She couldn’t tear her gaze from this mother and child.

“June 16th, 2011…” 

“My 12th birthday?”

“What happened.”

Melanie dug through her inky swamp of childhood and adolescence, she eventually found what ensued. Outside was muggy like most summer days. Her mother promised to leave work early to buy that ice cream cake Melanie raved about. She wanted to taste each layer and blow out the candles. Yeah, inviting friends to the trampoline park sounded nice too, but their party package cost too much. It was fine. Melanie got to spend time with her mother instead.

They looked into misty coolers and grabbed the best cake in the world. Those sprinkles shimmered and made way for her name, “Happy 12th, Melanie!” to be written in green frosting. That’s what she envisioned with closed eyes. However, she remembered the cashier went from singing Happy Birthday to whispering something to her mother. His eyes were averted, as though embarrassment drove its sword into his stomach, too. Melanie’s mom looked at her, “we don’t have enough Mel…I’m so sorry.”

Melanie could faintly sense the heat of fear, silly vulnerability, and distrust she felt that day. That no matter how badly you wanted something, it had to choose you back and if it didn’t, keep that to yourself because misery craves company but needs comfort. Something Melanie didn’t receive.This one measly birthday wish evaporated in wispy smoke. Melanie took a final look at her cake as some mom and daughter who were patiently waiting finally stepped forward.

“Ooo, don’t put that back, can we have that cake? Wadda you think Krissy?”

Krissy marveled at the pastel sprinkles and fluffy white frosting. Melanie should’ve been skipping out the door with it cradled in her arms. Not fighting tears. Not departing from ice cream cake-filled dreams. Krissy hugged her mom, “It’s so pretty!”

And Melanie had to turn away or else tears would surely fall. 

“We can get frosties from Wendey’s! That sounds good.” Her mom had a lightbulb moment. They drove into the evening sky, and Melanie squinted at stars’ premature appearances. She didn’t want that. She wanted her multilayer round cake and for her mom to halt promises. They never came true. But that was okay. The frosties were sweet and fresh. Her vocal chords strained as they sang along to Carly Rae Jepsen’s “Call Me Maybe,” dissolving Melanie’s birthday blues in this fond memory.

Mal folded her arms, “How did you feel about the people who stole our cake?”

“They didn’t have to pay for our order…”

“You wanted them to get into a car accident.”

“What, I never—”

“you said that, up here.” Mal drew a heart on Melanie’s forehead.

She never untied the knot in her throat, how she remembered that girl’s name, Krissy, and they couldn’t wait for Melanie and her Mom to leave before ordering the cake her card declined. Twice. Maybe she did have dark fantasies that melted into the evening sky. Maybe she wanted it to slip out their hands and splatter on cement or cause 3 am bathroom runs. To suffer for cheering in the face of her suffering, but Melanie dropped an ice cap on a volcano. She ate her chocolate frosty and wondered: where do all those feelings go?

Mal not only bought their ice cream but tripled their order; threw in a $200 gift card and gave the little girl a high five. No way they would eat all that ice cream in time but Mal knew that. She had to. It wasn’t like her to give generously because she told an unhoused person to apply for her spa when asked for a few dollars once, so who was this?

She glanced at Melanie, “You finna order or are you stupid?”

Melanie burdened her tab with a caramel sundae. Mal bought an ice cream cake, too.

Just cause.

So when Michelle sat across from Melanie and sketched out a plan, dissociation’s tuning fork clogged her ears. It wasn’t that Mal was a good person, no, she was unresolved anger configured as evil twin. But what she did for that mother and daughter; how she brought light back to their eyes, it was sweet. Almost like Mal was the person Melanie wished stood behind them all those years ago. Gifting that girl and her mom ice cream was her way of closing the circuit Melanie forgot was opened.

“I can’t do it,” Melanie blurted out.

Michelle froze with only her eyes drawing circles. That’s what Melanie imagined since the influence wore reflective sunglasse, a baseball cap, and a jumpsuit. Incognito or else. She believed she was a bigger influencer than Mal who not only eclipsed her podcast but stole her house (and dog).

Michelle ate chocolate-covered marshmallows from this candy business with a pastel interior and chocolate fountain. Kind of like a restaurant with only dessert. One Melanie’s best friend ran. Of course Michelle didn’t know this because she would’ve burned it down. Anything attached to Mal was putrid. 

“Why not?” Michelle said, “you’re better than her. You deserve to live.”

But Mal was always here. No place to hide this fiery core that threw curses at Levine’s consumers, burned a hole in scornful faces, and clawed up her throat. Slowly her world of sunsets, butterflies, and indefinite patience sank into the foundation. The muffled warnings weren’t sewn to her, they were the fabric of her existence.

Michelle Parker pushed Michelle Parker off their terrace. How she calmly explained that. No thread of remorse or shame, just a weight off her burdened shoulders. She stole micro-influencers’ ideas, cyber-stalked her “friends,” warmed the seat for whoever had something for her. What was in it for Michelle Parker? She’d get her life back if Mal were destroyed; it was rightfully hers. But luxury laughed in the face of people-pleasing.

“That night on your terrace,” Melanie said, “was it really Michelle 2.0 who was pushed?”

Michelle lowered her glasses, “To win, you fall with this fallen world…metaphorically. But others must fall outside of the abstract. Melanie, she was the evil one, not me. She thought kindness was a depletion of every cell in your body or how much cement you could pour over anger,” she chuckled, “I didn’t kill her if she was already dead.”

She couldn’t take Michelle seriously with that Starface Pimple patch on her chin. Melanie remembered her commands; how taxing they were. People-pleasers fall apart if they inconvenience another, yet Michelle made her dust off lego sets and Funko pops.

“If you erased your people-pleasing side, why you helping me?”

 “Girl I was beyond a people-pleaser, she had to go. But you’re something special, Melanie; you’re sweet, kind, and pleasant.”

Evil Michelle Prevailed.

She knew sweet and kind Michelle would destroy her—so she got her first. Somehow she was running towards the sunset. She was not darkness. She was interrupted by Grace smothering Melanie with hugs. Grace’s eyes were bright and without veins. You know everything was on the house for her bestie and Michelle Parker. Everyone saw through her disguise. Everyone. But the plastic glow from Grace’s Invisalign screeched financial freedom and she begged Michelle to make a mini-vlog to promote them. Maybe her followers would’ve stayed. They flocked to Mal’s/Melanie’s page at that point.

A few days later, Mal sat in their movie room with Melanie. She insisted on watching The Spongebob Squarepants Movie for the 10th time that month. No matter what, tears welled. Melanie would never be moved to tears by anthropomorphic sea creatures, but Mal’s waterline swelled with emotion. Stuck in surface tension: Mal’s tears never rolled down her cheeks; they only pooled then faded.

“I checked on Grace the other day, she was excited Michelle stupid face visited. She told me y’all were hanging out, you plottin’?”

Now Grace wasn’t a firestarter, although she couldn’t stay away from reality T.V. Melanie knew no ill-fated intentions were behind this. 

“She was just venting about losing everything. You know she lost a lot of followers.”

The credits rolled in Mal’s eyes and this dark room carved distorted shadows, “Oh? I thought y’all wanted to get rid of me…”

Whatever step Melanie took, Mal had a million more.

“Well, why’d you steal from Michelle Parker, Levine’s, even me?”

“I am you, loser. You wanted a life like Michelle’s, I’m just your thoughts to fruition so stop drawing a line between us.”

Mal declared she was “hotter,” “better,” “richer,” so she drew a line and threw a wrench in Melanie’s muddled life when things were looking up. But Melanie wasted her time with the blue canvas, she should’ve looked inward. So Melanie got out of her seat and left that movie room; Mal followed her into the hallway. They played “Ocean Man” by Ween during car rides, at least their music taste was similar, and it was a great song. Not suitable background noise when arguing with yourself, though.

Mal sighed, “here you go running away…”

“Be your own person.”

“I can’t. I’m you, you’re me, we’re—”

“So you’ll never leave?”

Mal made her point: the eviler you are the more worldly success you wield. Money, cars, fancy trips, and leading those who believe they have a chance off cliffs; whether that be a life of harsh labor and dreams filled with luxury or sinking into society’s fault lines, never to be seen again. She just stood there, scanning items. Melanie envisioned herself working in some large corporation’s office to spearhead marketing strategies and create cheesy infographics. She would stay in a nice apartment with views of skyscrapers. She wouldn’t come home to a microwave dinner.

She would finally feel alive.

“February 17th, 2024.” Mal’s eyes were still red from crying (even through the goofy goober outro). 

“My last day at Levine’s?”

“Yes, and what happened?”

“Expired cupcakes…”

“What happened!”

The ceiling lights flickered and if Mal went an octave higher, they would’ve shattered.

“Anyone who worked retail knows the moment they clocked out most offenses evaporated.” 

“This isn’t about Levine’s, damn, it’s not even about how mom raised us! What happened!”

Melanie shrugged and went to their kitchen for sour grapes. Mal stormed after her like kids when their parents said no to a toy. Her outbursts were childlike and diluted her sinister nature like some big artful baby.

“That night, what happened?”

Melanie chewed on her answer, “uh, I ate a microwave dinner then went to bed? By the way, Michelle finna take us to court.”

“You’re missing something…”

Mal took a handful of grapes out of the bowl and mushed them. They stood in this kitchen, in this unstable home. Not because it was their former boss’ but because of this war of oil and water. Where Melanie had to live with her anger. Tolerate all her remarks. Truly walls closed in for mansions, too. This kitchen of granite counters, steel appliances, table large enough for a family reunion, low hanging lights, and a forgotten picture of Michelle and Kai hiking some Hollywood trail were littered with grape juice. Melanie clutched her eye from sour grape juice bullets.

“Girl, can you stop? You’re getting on my—”

“You ignored me!”

“What?”

”I whispered to you that night then you suffocated me!” 

The veins in Mal’s face contorted as the other part of her decided to onlook silently; confusion still pinched her. This inspired Mal to achieve maximum level rage, screaming so close their eyes might’ve rubbed together.

“You did this Melanie! You created me!”

 Mal shouted so loudly that Kai barked upstairs and their cat poked her head into the kitchen. Melanie ate the only grape that wasn’t obliterated. She took the blame for everything in life and told herself that the bullies weren’t bad, she wasn’t good enough. That life was, in some limited regard, fair, it’s just her skills weren’t enough. People called her too sensitive, feeling glaciers crumble in the arctic while in some west coast mansion with her evil twin. But whatever stirred Mal up wasn’t her fault, that’s how Melanie saw it.

She shouted back, “I didn’t do anything!”

“Yes sweetheart, and that’s the problem. You never do anything! That’s why I’m here…” 

That line thwarted another thought; was the only one available. She pondered on that night when Mal’s voice was the loudest. The most intrusive, always the voice shooed away because mom said no bad thoughts. Retail said conceal. And Melanie yielded. In the end, her internal monologue belonged to another’s insults, opinions, kind of like that one Spongebob episode when Plankton controlled Spongebob’s mind for the krabby patty formula.

Melanie distanced herself from herself.

She spent time in her room, thinking. Dissecting each word Mal said. That she never “did anything.” From Melanie’s view, she walked away blameless, but for Mal, her lack of volition to speak up or slam down boundaries created her. It was true that she “never did anything” but smiled and remained calm. Her mother would too. She never saw her cry. 

Have mercy on your fellow humans. 

Have mercy on every square inch.

Mal clawed under those sentiments for years. What Melanie thought was the right thing was inherently wrong. Maybe her mother was angry, but her mother’s mother taught her how to extinguish the flame, and this knowledge was passed down. Her mother never split in two, nor her grandmother, nor great-grandmother, so why her? Why did Melanie have to feel everything? Why? She tried to be numb like them.

Michelle sued Melanie/Mal for emotional distress.

That’s when Melanie understood what Mal meant.

She wasn’t an amalgamation of feelings turned rage.

Mal was hurt.

They drove to Pink Diamond Spa’s grand opening. Melanie wore a hoodie and dark shades and planned to hide in the crowd (in anticipation this sad event would even draw one.) Most community members felt let down or enraged they couldn’t buy overpriced produce or harass cashiers. Sadly, their days of taste testing the hot foods section were over, too. What a shame!

But that day, a month later, Melanie finally said, “ I know who we are now…”

The first verse of “Armageddon” by aespa blasted the speakers. Mal mumbled her speech under her breath. Something about hot stone massages curing acid reflux and the “health benefits” of that juice bar’s sugary drinks. It sounded like another reason to be taken to court. Michelle’s hearing was approaching. Somehow.

“I’m sorry, what? Too busy.”

“I’m non-confrontational so you sued me for emotional distress.”

By “suing” she meant manifested and chastised, and “distress’ more like neglect.

Mal slammed the breaks, good thing no one was tailgating, “no you’re not,” she said “you’re fine the way you are…”

Maybe her evil twin was buzzing from this grand opening day. Maybe it was the sun rays and vivid blue sky, something was harmonious. Because most days Mal wouldn’t let Melanie leave the house with a single positive thought in mind.

She shrugged, “The problem is, you didn’t do anything for me. You just left me here.”

Melanie had to search her heart, her mind, and found every ounce of anger never voided, only repurposed and wedged into remote spaces of her brain. It slowly dissolved whatever cheerful soil she placed atop for years. Through all those moments: woodchip wounds, stolen ice cream cake, degree resting in some bin in her closet, Levine’s, Michelle Parker, a constant ringing was present. One Melanie heard loud and clear; louder than the thrum of silence.

Pain.

“I’m sorry I ignored you. I’m sorry no one was there when we got hurt. I’m ready to take full responsibility for my actions and inaction…also, I lied about Michelle Parker, she encouraged me to end you. Actually, she split in two before and decided to push the people pleaser off her terrace.”

“Hmm, I’ll see her in the abstract.”

Mal drove down the road, palm tree-lined and crowded, L.A.; the quietest she’s ever been. Of course Pink Diamond’s grand opening already began half an hour ago. Mal wanted to show up late to her own event. She drove 15 miles over the speed limit and weaved through traffic. Melanie couldn’t read her. Was she mad? Bored? Introspective? 

Mal sighed, “Michelle Farter was right, you have to kill me.”

“What?”

“I need to die and be reborn within you.”

Melanie dug up childhood memories from shows her mom actually allowed her to watch: The Legend of Korra.

“Like Raava and Vaatu…”

“Nerd.”

“I can’t, there has to be another way.”

“There has to be another way,” Mal mocked, “there isn’t, ma. How we gon’ do this? Push me off our terrace?”

In her angriest state, Melanie wanted to deliver face-shattering hooks to someone. Even trip them while they run at full speed, but murder—no. 

“Stop, I won’t.”

“I offer you this wisdom, Aang.”

Her mom allowed her to view Avatar the Last Airbender, unless it interrupted her HGTV specials. Mal pressed on the gas pedal: she wanted to be late but not that late. And this conversation obviously delayed her prompt arrival. Whenever Mal drove in sport, Melanie prayed she didn’t run anyone or thing over, “Mal, slow down…”

“I won’t disappear unless i’m unalived…”

“What if we hug?”

“This ain’t that.”

“Hold hands?”

“Maybe you not ready after all.”

That was untrue. Melanie suffered eight months of Mal living her life, freezing her phone’s keyboard, posting updates on her social media. She just watched. Especially at this moment, Melanie was just a passenger in Mal’s corvette. She was completely helpless, zooming 80mph down this city street.

“I am! I’m ready! I’m just not a killer!”

“Stop being dramatic!”

But the one who should’ve stopped was Mal, It’s courteous to let whoever yields to make a left on yellow complete their turn. Especially if one must bury the gas pedal to beat a red light. Too bad Mal didn’t care for that leeway, when it came to humans, she’d make them all suffer. She’d hurt them before they had the slightest inclination to attack first. Those choices lead you sliding across an intersection with your car condensed by some SUV’s front bumper.

Horn caught in an indefinite blare.

White light blinded Melanie as she woke to chapped lips. This wasn’t heaven because pain cramped every nerve, and she wasn’t downstairs because goosebumps littered her skin. She attempted to scan this blurred and shapeless room but found her neck propped in one direction. Was this purgatory?

“Melanie!” Someone wrapped around her.

Her mother’s eyes were jeweled with water and dampened Melanie’s gown with tears. Melanie’s reflection was in her irises: neck braced, bound to this bed, and patched up. One moment she was arguing with herself and the next she was here. A yellow light and Mal’s incitement for her demise the first thing rammed into her frontal lobe.

The nurses sat Melanie up and gave her some water while her mom watched the weather channel on their muffled T.V., it had been months since they last spoke. She believed her mom was disappointed and refused to call or text, and if she believed Mal was completely her, Melanie could see why.

“Mom,” Melanie croaked, “what happened to me?”

Her mother took a break from Top 10 Typhoons, tilting her head “A ghost drove your car.”

“Huh?”

“When you got hit, you were buckled into your passenger seat. You didn’t put a brick on your gas pedal, right?”

Melanie sunk into her pillow, as much as she could, and shut her eyes. Her twin was gone; she finally absorbed her. How didn’t concern Melanie, although this time, Melanie would search for her voice and wouldn’t wait for Mal to find her. A one and done warning (in simplest terms, Mal ain’t gotta tell her twice). But Melanie’s mother sat at the foot of that hospital bed and glared. 

“Were you thinking? I know L.A. can do things to people, but really?”

“Ma, It’s a long story…”

“Before the car crash, you blocked my number then I saw you on some lady’s podcast disowning me. You said ‘if talking to my mom would save the world, I would wonder why something so invaluable would place all odds on us.”

Mal did. But obviously, Melanie couldn’t explain that nor blame Mal for anything anymore. She was her. So all Melanie could do was puff her chest, feel those bones ache and shatter, and say, “I’m sorry Mom. I was hurt. But I can find better ways to express that i’m the #1 Goofy Goober…”

Her mom tucked her lips, “Good thing the doctor’s coming back in,” mom said, “ but I want you to talk to me, especially when you’re hurt.”

“Do you? Because I ran my pain through an emotional shredder and act like it never happened. You would tell me to just be happy and kind. Just let everyone kill me slowly.”

That was everything she wished she said since age 5. Her mom was no emotional safety net. Melanie would land however she landed and was told to brush it off then flush anguish out. She bottled her emotions and dropped them in an abyss. Thought she did. Her mother sighed and massaged her leg, gave up like the dark circles under her eyes. She lived in Indiana but found her way here and that concerned Melanie: how long was she out for?

“Mel, I know. And im sorry. I want to be there for you in that way now, I really do. Been unlearning some things even at my age…” She rested her hand on Melanie’s and grinned.

But Grace ran through the door and leaped onto the bed. She was tied up with a vending machine refusing to dispense her Cheetos. Also, Michelle Parker attacked her candy empire since anything attached to Mal would sink. But she knew this was Melanie or she wouldn’t’ve hugged her like some flying squirrel. Mutual respect between her and Mal. Nothing was like having them all in one though.

Then in came the doctor; her damage went as this: fractured cervical spine, broken ribs, and sprained knee. As bad as that sounded, good thing she was in the passenger seat, the driver’s seat would’ve been fatal. The prognosis was good and Melanie would fully heal in seven months but the neck brace would stay on for three.

But one month later, Melanie received a court summons. She managed to find a studio apartment with her cobweb-infested savings account. Even held on to some of those brand deals Mal acquired. Posted vlogs, and rants, fought for Pink Diamond’s ownership, and stood before the judge in her neck brace.

That court summons reminded her of the time a customer threatened her: It was a rainy mess outside but that didn’t stop an older woman in a soaked raincoat. She wheeled her cart swollen with produce up to Melanie’s register and didn’t even greet her back. After ringing her up, the woman fumbled for her card, Melanie, sweet, kind, and patient, awaited her methodical antics. Finally, she purchased the items and her receipt emerged from the printer. But it appeared she didn’t desire the flimsy paper as she waddled away, leaning on her cart. 

Melanie projected, “Ma’am, would you like your receipt?”

The woman continued to inch forward.

“Ma’am?”

The automatic doors yielded to her.

Melanie tossed the receipt. Why call after someone who clearly moved on? Well the woman returned three hours later, she was looking for her receipt and shame on Melanie’s forgetful cashiering mind for not handing it over.

Melanie gasped, “I’m so sorry, I threw it away…”

Regardless of the lousy cashier’s remorse, the woman leaned in like a turtle eating a grape saying, “I’ll see you in court…”

Then she slipped on a spill a caution sign guarded— that she couldn’t sue them for. They could’ve printed another receipt if she stuck around too. Oh well. Melanie knew the courts would ignore such a case as this one: discarded retail receipt, yet she eagerly waited. Just for fun. But standing next to Michelle Parker, ex-apartment’s mailman, and guy she assaulted with her corvette was far more interesting.

Michelle Parker should’ve gone the actor route. She dotted her eyes with tissue and passionately nodded as the witnesses testified, committed to her role as light, not darkness that clouded the skies with miasma. Melanie couldn’t help but wonder if she heard a voice too. If she dealt with some inverted battle. Maybe the people-pleaser lurked in Michelle’s subconscious, clinking her cup on metal bars. Would she eventually create a loud enough disturbance?

Melanie was projected to lose everything Mal “earned,” but that was fine.

Her world that revolved around others grew rust. That cheerful soil was fallow. And those volcanoes, well, they raged because they finally could—Raava and Vatuu could be friends after all (balance required.) This case garnered unwanted attention (random people at Pink Diamond’s spa in “don’t nobody want no wack a** grocery store” t-shirts with a corvette photoshopped on it, and wearing that shirt to get out of jury duty, yikes) but that was okay, too. If Melanie could end her night with a microwave dinner, help Grace with her candy business, and pray her new job as “content creator” and spa owner kept the lights on, all was well. 

So with everything said and unsaid, Black women must stick together, and every part of them, or else they’ll be tied up in a legal battle with some influencer who endorsed washing your hair with apple juice and chemicals you can’t pronounce—and her little dog too.

Dang, her little dog too? How does that make you feel?

Everything.

The End.