Anxiety

Passages

Every passage tagged with this emotion in the Vela corpus. Search the body text, narrow by source or register, click through to a book’s profile to see how the passage sits with the rest of the work.

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• From Manhunt (2022)

  She wondered idly what it would be like to sit without a constant background hum of will it hold me, will I fit, will it hold me, will I fit . It felt like that on top of Beth, sometimes. Was she hurting her? If not, how long until she did? What if she got fatter and hurt Beth then, lulled into a false sense of security by prior enthusiasm, by the other woman’s hoarsely eager panting under her, by her bright eyes and the hands that kneaded and held her overspilling flesh as though there were not enough of it? She fished a cigarette from the tarnished holder Fran had given her years ago, a yellowing picture of some white lady pasted onto its inner lid, and smoked in silence for a while. Everything is a war , she told herself. At least this is the right side. At least you’re not harvesting a teenager’s eggs to help her have a little The Omen baby. And Beth is safe here. Fran and Robbie are safe. As safe as anyone gets, anymore. On her left, George ran out of the house’s shadow with a sparkling laugh, streaking from the front door with Leda following behind, bleached dreadlocks coiled over one shoulder like a heavy knotted rope. Ramona hated Raymond. She hated it so much she could hardly think straight, so much it made her want to scream. All the bougie seaside shit, the empty storefronts, the sugar shacks and oceanfront spas. And the restaurant. As she paced the full-length window in the living room of the Shaw house she worked a finger through the blood-speckled bandages Piper had wrapped for her that morning to dig at the flaky dead skin and dried blood of one of her self-inflicted cuts. She was sick of her sling, even if Jules said it made her look rakish, whatever the fuck that meant, and she was sick of being fussed over and swabbed with hydrogen peroxide. Maybe she’d feel better if she just cut the arm off. That had been her mom’s sole joke, whenever one of them whined about a nick or scrape. You want me to cut it off? Want me to break the other one? You’ll forget all about it. She glanced out the window toward the shrinking wreckage of Hyannis and started at the sight of Karin’s reflection in the doorway at her back. “Don’t sneak around like that,” she snapped. “You gave me a fucking heart attack.” The tall, thin girl blanched apologetically. “Sorry, major. Just thought you’d want to know Jules handled that situation downtown. The t-girls in the old library.” “You don’t sound too happy about it.”

• From Mud Vein (2014)

  “I’m not interested in reconstruction,” I said, dismissively. “I’ll have the mastectomy and then I’ll go home without expanders. That’s my decision.” Dr. Montoll opened his mouth to speak, but Isaac cut him off. “The patient has made her decision, doctor.” He was staring straight at me when he said it. I pulled my lips tight, in thanks. “If my services aren’t needed, you’ll excuse me,” Dr. Montoll said, before making his exit. I looked at my hands. Dr. Akela sat on the edge of my bed. We spoke for a few minutes about the radiation I’d have to go through after my surgery. Six weeks. I had to admire her bedside manner; she was warm and personal. On her way out she touched Isaac lightly on the back of his arm. Mine. Isaac waited until the door clicked shut before he took a step forward. I braced myself for an influx of questions, but instead he said, “You can get dressed now. Are you free for lunch?” I blinked up at him. “Isn’t that a conflict of interest? Eating lunch with a patient?” He smiled. “Yes, we’d have to go somewhere other than the hospital cafeteria.” I was about to say no, when I heard the lyrics of the song he gave me this morning, playing in my head. Who gave someone a song that said, No need to worry because everybody will die when they had cancer? I liked it. It was the honesty. “All right,” I said. He glanced at his watch. “Meet you in the parking lot in ten?” I nodded. I got dressed and made my way downstairs. “I’m over this way,” he said, once I found him in the parking lot. He’d changed out of his scrubs and was wearing a white shirt and grey pinstriped pants. I followed him to his car, and he opened the door for me. It was too much. I freaked. “I can’t do this,” I said. I backed away from the car. “I’m sorry. I need to get home.” I didn’t look back as I walked toward my car. He probably thought I was losing my mind. There was a good chance I was. Isaac was waiting for me when I got home a few hours later, leaning against his car with his face turned upward. Soak it up, Isaac, I thought. Tomorrow my clouds will be back. For a brief second, I thought about not turning into my driveway and heading up to Canada instead. But I’d been driving around for hours and the needle to my gas tank was pointing to E. I wanted to go home. I walked past him to the front door. We were barely past the foyer when I said, “Why didn’t you ask me why I don’t want reconstruction?” “Because if you want to tell me, you will.” “We’re not friends, Isaac!” “No?” “I don’t have friends. Can’t you see that?”

• From Mud Vein (2014)

  [image file=image14.jpg] He came every night. Sometimes as early as three o’ clock in the afternoon, sometimes as late as nine. It was alarming how quickly a person could acquiesce to something—something like a stranger in your house, sleeping and scooping grounds into your Mr. Coffee. When he started buying groceries and cooking meals it felt permanent. Like I suddenly had a roommate or a family member I never signed up for. But on the nights he came late I found myself anxious, pacing the hallways in three pairs of socks, unable to stay in one room for more than a few seconds before I moved to the next. The worst part was, when he arrived, I immediately retreated to my bedroom to hide. None of the relief I felt at seeing the lights of his car reflected through my windows was allowed to show. It was cold, but it was survival. I wanted to ask him why he was late. Was it surgery? Did they make it? But I didn’t dare. Every morning I woke up to find another of his business cards on the counter. I stopped throwing them away after a few days and let them pile up near the fruit bowl. The fruit bowl that was always filled with fruit, because he bought it and put it there: red and green apples, yellow pears, the occasional fuzzy kiwi. We didn’t speak much. It was a silent relationship, which I was fine with. He fed me and I said thank you, then he went to sleep on my couch. I started to wonder how well I’d be sleeping if he wasn’t guarding the door. If I’d sleep at all. The couch was short—too short for his six-foot frame; it was the smaller of the two that I owned. One day while he was at the hospital I took a break from staring at the fire to push the longer couch in front of the door. I left him a better pillow and a warmer blanket. There was one particular night that he didn’t arrive until almost eleven. I’d given up on him coming altogether, thinking our strange relationship had finally run its course. I was on my way up the stairs when I heard a quiet knock on the door. Just a rap rap rap. It could have been a gust of wind it was so light. But in my hope I heard it. He didn’t look at me when I opened the door. Or wouldn’t. Or couldn’t. He seemed to be finding my pavers particularly interesting, and then the spot just above my left shoulder. He had dark crescents under his eyes, two hollow moons cradling his lashes. It would have been a hard call to decide who looked worse—me in my layers of clothing or Isaac with his droopy shoulders. We both looked beat up.

• From Mud Vein (2014)

  I shook my head. “You’re a surgeon because you have a fixation on death.” He didn’t say anything, but slightly hesitated as he cut into a zucchini—barely noticeable, but my eyes caught mostly everything. “We all do don’t we? We are consumed with our own mortality. Some people eat right and exercise to preserve their lives, others drink and do drugs daring fate to take theirs, and then there are the floaters—the ones who try to ignore their mortality altogether because they’re afraid of it.” “Which are you?” He set down his knife and looked at me. “I’ve been all three. And now I’m undecided.” Truth. When was the last time I heard such stark truth? I stared at him for a long time as he spooned food onto plates. When he set a plate down in front of me, I said it. It was like a sneeze ejecting from my body without permission, and when it was out I felt mildly embarrassed. “I have breast cancer.” Every part of him stopped moving except his eyes, which dragged slowly to mine. We stayed like that for … one … two … three … four seconds. It was like he was waiting for the punch line. I felt compelled to say something else. A first for me. “I don’t feel anything. Not even fear. Can you tell me what to feel, Isaac?” His throat spasmed, then he licked his lips. “It’s emotional Morphine,” he said finally. “Just go with it.” And that was it. That’s all we said for that night. [image file=image16.jpg] Isaac drove me to the hospital the next day. It was only my third time leaving the house and the thought of going back there made me sick to my stomach. I couldn’t eat the eggs or drink the coffee he put in front of me. He didn’t push me to eat like most people would, or give me the concerned eyes that most people would. It was all matter of fact; if you don’t want to eat—don’t. The moment you are diagnosed with cancer a gavel comes down on life, you start being afraid. And since I was already afraid, it felt compounded; fear pressing against fear. And just like that you inherit a cancer gremlin. I imagined it looked mutated, like my genes. It was sinister. Lurking. It kept you awake at night, gnawing on your insides, turning your mind into a distillery of fear. Fear trumps good sense. I wasn’t ready to go back to the hospital; it was the last place I was really afraid, but I had to because cancer was eating at my body.

• From Mud Vein (2014)

  I look out the window as I peel potatoes over the sink. And then I look down at the peelings, all piled up and gross looking. We should eat those. We will probably be starving soon, wishing we had a sliver of potato skin. I scoop up shreds and hold them in my palm, not sure what to do with them. I counted the potatoes before I chose four of the smallest ones out of the fifty-pound bag. Seventy potatoes. How long could we stretch that? And the flour, and rice and oatmeal? It seemed like a lot, but we had no idea how long we’d be imprisoned here. Imprisoned. Here. I eat the skins. At least they won’t go to waste that way. God. I am grimacing and gagging on my potato skin when I drop the potato I’m holding into the sink and press the heel of my hand to my forehead. I have to focus. Stay positive. I can’t let myself sink into that dark place. My therapist tried to teach me techniques to cope with emotional overload. Why hadn’t I listened? I remember something about a garden … walking through it and touching flowers. Was that what she’d said? I try to picture the garden now, but all I see are the shadows that the trees make and the possibility that someone is hiding behind a hedge. I am so fucked up. “Need help?” I look over my shoulder and see Isaac. I’d sent him upstairs to take a nap. He looks rested. Surgeons are used to the lack of sleep. He’s taken a shower and his hair is still wet. “Sure.” I point to the remaining potato and he picks up a knife. “Feels like old times,” I half smile. “Except I’m not catatonic and you don’t have that perpetually worried look on your face.” “Don’t I? This situation is kind of dire.” I put my knife down. “No, actually. You look calm. Why is that?” “Acceptance. Embrace the suck.” “Really?” I feel his smile. Across the two feet of air between us and a sink speckled with new potato skins. For a minute my chest constricts, then the peeling is done and he moves away, taking his soap smell with him. I have a need to know where a person is in a room at all times. I hear him in the fridge, he crosses the room, sits down at the table. By the noises he’s making I can tell that he has two glasses and a bottle of something. I wash my hands and turn away from the sink. He is sitting at the table with a bottle of whiskey in his hands. My mouth drops open. “Where did you find that?” He grins. “Back of the pantry behind a container of croutons.” “I hate croutons.” He nods like I’ve said something profound.

• From Mud Vein (2014)

  Isaac pushes the box closer to where I’m sitting so that I’m able to reach inside. The pages are all pulled from their binding, lined in four rows. I lift another page. The style lines up with the first book, lyrical with an old-fashioned feel to the prose. There is something strange about the writing, something I know I should remember, and cannot. I start pulling out pages at random. Separating the pages of Nick’s book from the new one. I work quickly, my fingers lifting and piling, lifting and piling. Isaac watches me from where he leans against the wall, his arms folded, lips pursed. I know that underneath his lips his two front teeth slightly overlap. I don’t know why I have this thought, at this time, but as I sort pages my thoughts are on Isaac’s two front teeth. I am about halfway through the box when I realize that there is a third book. This one is mine. My fingers linger over the bright white pages—white because I told the publisher if they printed on cream I would sue them for breach of contract. Three books. One written for MV, one written for Nick … but the third…? My eyes reach over to the unknown pile. Who belongs to that book? And what is the zookeeper trying to tell me? Isaac pushes himself off the wall and steps toward the pile that belongs to Nick. “We have to finish reading this one,” he says. My face drains of blood and I can feel a tingling along the tops of my shoulders as they tighten. I hand him the pile. “It’s out of order and the pages aren’t numbered. Good luck.” Our fingers touch. Gooseflesh rises on my arms and I look away quickly. [image file=image35.jpg] We work to set the books in order. Through the longest night, the night that never ends. It’s good to have something to do, to keep you from waltzing down crazy street—not that we haven’t already been there. It’s a street you only want to visit a couple times in your life. We have power again … heat. So we take advantage by not sleeping, our fingers flying over pages, our brows creased with the strain. Isaac has Nick’s book. I take on the task of the other two—mine and…? It seems that there are too many pages to make up only three books. I wonder if we will discover a fourth.

• From Best Erotica & Sexual Deviance Narratives Ever Written (2024)

  He has left; I am in a state of the most violent agitation; I shall not describe the night I passed: my tormented imagination together with the physical hurt done me by the monster's initial cruelties made it one of the most dreadful I had ever gone through. One has no conception of what anguish is suffered by the wretch who from hour to hour awaits his ordeal, from whom hope has fled, and who knows not whether this breath he draws may not be his last. Uncertain of the torture, he pictures it in a thousand forms, one more frightful than the other; the least noise he hears may be that of his approaching assassins; the blood freezes in his veins, his heart grows faint, and the blade which is to put a period to his days is less cruel than those terrible instants swollen with the menace of death. In all likelihood the Count began by revenging himself upon his wife: you will be as convinced of it as I by the event which saved me. For thirty-six hours I lingered in the critical condition I have just described; during that time I was brought no relief; and then my door was opened and the Count appeared: he was alone, fury glittered in his eyes. "You must be fully cognizant of the death you are going to undergo: this perverse blood has got to be made to seep out of you: you will be bled three times a day, I want to see how long you can survive the treatment. 'Tis an experiment I have been all afire to make, you know; my thanks to you for furnishing me the means." And, for the time being occupying himself with no passion but his vengeance, the monster made me stretch forth an arm, pricked it and stopped the wound after he had drawn two bowls of blood. He had scarcely finished when cries were heard. "Oh, my Lord, my Lord !" exclaimed one of the servants who came running up to him, "come as quick as ever you can, Madame is dying, she wishes to speak to you before she gives up her soul." And the old woman turned and flew back to her mistress. However habituated one may be to crime, it is rarely that news of its accomplishment does not strike terror into him who has committed it; this fear avenges Virtue: Virtue resumes possession of its rights: Gernande goes out in alarm, he forgets to secure the dungeon's doors; although enfeebled by a forty hours' fast and the blood I have lost, I exploit my opportunity, leap from my cell, find my way unimpeded, traverse the court, the park, and reach the forest without having been perceived.

• From Mud Vein (2014)

  “He can refuel it,” I say. “I think that as long as we stay put, he will refill the generator. If we figure out the code and get out, we will lose power and freeze.” He thinks long and hard about this. It sounds right. To me, at least. “Why?” asks Isaac. “Why would you think that?” “It’s in the Bible,” I say, and then automatically flinch. “You’re going to have to break this one down for me, Senna,” he says, frowning. His voice is terse. He’s losing patience with me, which isn’t really fair since we are both sinking in the same ship. “Have you seen the picture hanging next to the door?” He nods. Of course. How could he miss it? There are seven prints hanging on the walls of this house. When you spend six weeks locked up somewhere, you spend a lot of time examining the art on the walls. “It’s a painting by F. Cayley. It’s supposed to be of Adam and Eve when they find out they have to leave Eden.” He shakes his head. “I thought it was just of two very depressed people on the beach.” I smile. “We are like the first two people,” I say. “Adam and Eve?” He’s already so full of disbelief I don’t even want to tell him the rest. I shrug. “Sure.” “Go on,” he says. “God put them in the garden and told them not to eat the forbidden fruit, remember?” Now it’s Isaac’s turn to shrug. “Yeah, I guess. Sunday school one-o- one.” “Once they were tempted and ate the fruit they were on their own, exiled from God’s provision and his protection in the place he created for them.” When Isaac doesn’t say anything, I go on. “They leave perfection and have to fend for themselves—hunt, garden, experience cold and death and childbirth.” I flush after the last word leaves my mouth. It was dumb of me to mention childbirth considering Daphne and their unborn baby. But Isaac doesn’t skip a beat. “So you’re saying,” he says, crinkling his eyebrows together, “that so long as we stay here—in the place our kidnapper provided for us—we will be safe and he will keep the heat and food coming?” “It’s just a wild guess, Isaac. I don’t really know.” “So what’s the forbidden fruit?” I tap my finger on the tabletop. “The keypad, maybe…” “This is sick,” he says. “And if one painting means that much, what else is hidden in here?” I don’t want to think about it. “I’ll make dinner tonight,” I say.

• From Mud Vein (2014)

  The sentiment makes me sick. The rest of the prints scattered throughout the house include: Hitler and the dragon, Freud and the lake, Darwin under the bridge with the mysterious cloaked figure. My least favorite is “Winter” in which a man is riding a yak over a snow-covered village while two eyes peer coldly at me. That one feels like a message. When I have counted everything in my closet and Isaac’s, I start counting things in the kitchen. I note the colors of the furniture and the walls. I don’t know what I’m looking for, but I need to do something with my brain. When I run out of things to count, I talk to Isaac. He makes us coffee like he used to, and we sit at the table. “Why did you want to fly away on your red bike?” He raises his eyebrows. He’s not used to questions from me. “I don’t know anything about you,” I say. “You never seemed to want to.” That stings. It’s not entirely untrue. I have that whole stay the hell away from me thing going on. “I didn’t.” I count the kitchen cabinets. I forgot to do that. “Why not?” He spins his coffee cup in a circle, and lifts it to his mouth. Before he can take a sip he sets it down again. I have to take a moment to think about that one. “It’s just who I am.” “Because you choose to be?” “This conversation was supposed to be about you.” He finally takes a sip of his coffee. Then he pushes his mug across the table to me. I’ve already finished mine. It’s a peace offering. “My dad was a drinker. He used to rough up my mom. Not so much a unique story,” he shrugs. “What about you?” I consider pulling my usual stunts of avoid and retreat, but I decide to surprise him instead. It gets boring always being the same. “My mom left before I hit puberty. She was a writer. She said my dad sucked all of the life out of her, but I think suburban life did. After she left, my dad went a little crazy.” I take a sip of Isaac’s coffee and avoid his eyes. “What kind of crazy?” I purse my lips. “Rules. Lots of rules. He became emotionally volatile.” I finish off his coffee and he stands up to get the whiskey. He pours us each a shot. “You trying to keep me talking, Doctor?” “Yes, ma’am.” “Tequila works better.” He smiles. “I’ll just run down to the liquor store and grab a bottle.” I take my shot and spill my guts. I’m not even drunk. Saphira would be so proud of me. I crinkle my nose when I think of her. What does she think about all of this? She probably thinks I dipped out of town. She was always accusing me of … what was the word she used?

• From Mud Vein (2014)

  I hide from him up in my attic bedroom, and sometimes when I’m tired of that I lie on the floor in the carousel room and stare at the horses. He doesn’t come in here, says it creeps him out. I try to hum songs, because that’s what one of my characters would do, but it makes me feel nutty. No matter where I am, I can feel him pulsing through the walls. He’s always been intense. That’s what makes him a good doctor. He’s trying to figure out why we are here, why no one has come. I should, too, I guess, but I can’t focus. Every time I start wondering why someone would do this my head starts throbbing. If I press at my thoughts I will implode. Like a grapefruit in the microwave, I think. When we are in the same room his eyes press on me. They press like fingers into my flesh—harder and harder until I pull away, run to my trapdoor and hide. He doesn’t come up to my room anymore. He started sleeping in the room where I found him tied up, instead of on the couch. It happened after the six-week mark. He just moved in there one night and stopped guarding the door. “What are you doing?” I said, following him to the bed. He pulled off his shirt and I quickly averted my eyes. “Going to bed.” I watched in bewilderment as he tossed his shirt aside. “What if … what about…?” “No one is coming,” he said, ripping the sheets aside and climbing in. He wouldn’t look at me. I wondered what he didn’t want me to see in his eyes. I hadn’t argued with him. I’d carried my blankets and my knife downstairs and sat on the sofa, my eyes on the door. Isaac may be letting his guard down, but I wasn’t going to. I wasn’t going to trust my prison. I sure as hell wasn’t going to accept this as permanent. I brewed a pot of coffee, grabbed some beef jerky and took watch. When he’d come downstairs the next morning, and found me still awake, he’d acted surprised. He brought me a fresh cup of coffee and some oatmeal, then sent me off to bed. “Good morning, Isaac.” “Good night, Senna.” I hadn’t slept. I could go ungodly amounts of time without sleep. Instead, I’d pulled a chair to the window that sat directly above the kitchen and watched the snow with him. Now, a week later, I wake up with clarity as sharp and cold as the snow outside my window. Sometimes, when I am writing a book, I’ll go to sleep with a plot hole in my story that I don’t know how to fix. When I wake up, I know.

• From Between Us

  10 ​never examined “emotions”: In the ’80s and ’90s, componential theories broke the meaning of emotion concepts down into constituents, such as the appraisals of a situation (e.g., Craig A. Smith and Phoebe C. Ellsworth, “Patterns of Cognitive Appraisal in Emotion,” Journal of Personality and Social Psychology 48, no. 4 [1985]: 813–38); the action readiness (e.g., Nico H. Frijda, Peter Kuipers, and Elisabeth ter Schure, “Relations among Emotion, Appraisal, and Emotional Action Readiness,” Journal of Personality and Social Psychology 57, no. 2 [1989]: 212–28); and physiological and behavioral responses (Nico H. Frijda, The Emotions [Cambridge, UK: Cambridge University Press / Éditions de la Maison des Sciences de l’Homme, 1986]). 10 ​examining the words for emotion: Phillip R. Shaver et al., “Emotion Knowledge: Further Exploration of a Prototype Approach,” Journal of Personality and Social Psychology 52, no. 6 (1987): 1061–86; Aneta Wierzbicka, “Talking about Emotions: Semantics, Culture, and Cognition,” Cognition & Emotion 6, no. 3–4 (1992): 285–319. 10 ​“cuts nature at its joints”: Plato compares philosophers’ taxonomy to the way a butcher carves things, at their natural junctures (Plato, “Phaedrus,” n.d.); implying that the world comes pre-divided. 10 ​in U.S. research: Shaver, Schwartz, Kirson, and O’Connor, “Emotion Knowledge . . . .” 11 ​Chinese participants were asked to do the same task: Phillip R. Shaver, Shelley Wu, and Judith C. Schwartz, “Cross-Cultural Similarities and Differences in Emotion and Its Representation: A Prototype Approach,” in Review of Personality and Social Psychology, No. 13. Emotion, ed. Margaret S. Clark (Newbury Park, CA: Sage Publications, Inc., 1992), 175–212. 12 ​method that had been introduced by others: see, e.g., Beverley Fehr and James A. Russell, “Concept of Emotion Viewed from a Prototype Perspective,” Journal of Experimental Psychology: General 113, no. 3 (1984): 464–86. 12 ​“on the inside” of the person: This definition of emotions as phenomena on the inside of the person is also used by anthropologist Catherine Lutz, who proceeds to describe emotions among the Ifaluk as taking place in the social realm (Lutz, Unnatural Emotions, 41). 13 ​in Western (mostly U.S.) science: Henrich, Heine, and Norenzayan note that most psychological studies have been produced in Western (particularly U.S.) contexts, and more particularly with college students (“The Weirdest People in the World?” Behavioral and Brain Sciences 33, no. 2–3 [June 2020]: 6183). 13 ​my subsequent research: Batja Mesquita, “Cultural Variations in Emotions: A Comparative Study of Dutch, Surinamese, and Turkish People in the Netherlands” (PhD diss., University of Amsterdam, 1993). Some parts of this thesis research have been published (Batja Mesquita, “Emotions in Collectivist and Individualist Contexts,” Journal of Personality and Social Psychology 80, no. 1 [2001]: 68–74; Mesquita and Frijda, “Cultural Variations in Emotions: A Review”, 1992).

• From Mud Vein (2014)

  I close my eyes and listen to his heart. This is the first time—the very first time—that I am meeting this side of Isaac. After all these years. Without his permission I turn on the flashlight and aim it at him like it’s a spotlight. He gives me a warning look, but I just smile and keep it on him. This moment deserves a little something special. It’s four days ‘til Christmas. Give or take a day or two. I do my best to keep track, but I’ve lost days along the way. They dropped out from under me and messed up my mental calendar. You’re the one who went crazy and pissed herself like some dink in a mental institution. Isaac says I was like that for a week. Which still makes it Christmas. Christmas in the dark. Christmas in the attic room. Christmas drinking melted snow and eating pinto beans out of a can. Christmas was when we met. Christmas was when the bad thing happened. The zookeeper will do something on Christmas. I know it. And that’s when it hits me. It was sitting there in my subconscious the whole time. I moan out loud. Isaac is downstairs so he doesn’t hear me. And then I can’t quite catch my breath. “Isaac,” I wheeze. “Isaac!” I hate this feeling. And I hate how it hits me out of nowhere so that I can never be prepared. I don’t know what’s more overwhelming at this moment, the fact that I can’t breathe, or the realization that was powerful enough to steal my breath away. Either way, I have to get to a nebulizer. Isaac found them down the table. He brought one up. Where did he put it? I look helplessly around the room. The top of the wardrobe. I get out of bed. It’s a struggle. When I’m halfway there he walks in carrying our wood ration for the day. He drops his armload when he sees my face. He darts to the wardrobe and grabs the nebulizer. Then he’s pushing it between my lips. I feel a cold rush; the vapor hits my lungs and I can breathe again. Isaac looks pissed. “What happened?” “I had an asthma attack, idiot.” “Senna,” he says, swinging me into his arms and carrying me back to the bed. “Ninety percent of the time your asthma attacks are stress induced. Now. What happened?” “I didn’t know I needed anything extra,” I snap. “Other than being imprisoned in a house made of ice with my…” I lose my words. “Doctor,” he finishes. I twist my body so that I’m facing away from him. I need to think. I need to form a structure for this theory. The Rubik’s cube twists. Isaac gives me space. I’m locked in a house with my doctor. He’s right. I’m locked in a house with my doctor. I’m locked in a house with my doctor. With my doctor. Doctor…

• From Mud Vein (2014)

  “He probably has a Daphne, too, by now. You’re not human unless you pair off with someone, right? Find your soulmate or the love of your life—or whatever.” I wave it away like I don’t care. “People have a need to feel connected to someone else,” Isaac says. “There is nothing wrong with that. There is also nothing wrong with being too burned to stay away from it.” My head jerks up. What? Does he think he’s the soul whisperer? “I don’t need anyone,” I assure him. “I know.” “No you don’t,” I insist. I feel bad for snapping at him, especially since I initiated the conversation. But I don’t like what he’s insinuating—that he knows me or something. Isaac looks down at his empty bowl. “You’re so self-assured, sometimes I forget to check on you. Are you okay, Senna? Have you been—” I cut him off. “I’ve been fine, Isaac. Let’s not go there.” I stand up. “I’m going to mess with the keypad.” I can feel his eyes on me as I leave. I stand at the door and start pressing random number combinations. We have been taking turns trying to guess the four-digit code, a pretty stupid idea since there are ten thousand possible combinations, except there is nothing else to do, so why not? Isaac found a pen and we write the codes we try on the wall next to the door so we don’t use repeats. We have hidden knives in every room of the house: a steak knife under each mattress, a serrated knife the length of my forearm underneath the couch cushions in the little living room, a butcher knife in the bathroom under the sink, a carving knife in the upstairs hallway on the windowsill. We have to find a better place for the upstairs hallway knife, I keep thinking. Anyone can grab it. Anyone. Grab … it… My finger is suspended over the button that reads 5. I can feel my chest constricting slowly, like there is an invisible boa constrictor giving me a snake hug. My breath is coming quickly, too quickly. I turn until my back is against the door and slide down the wall until I’m sitting on the floor. I can’t catch my breath. I am drowning in a sea of air; it is all around me but I can’t get enough of it into my lungs to live. Isaac must hear my wheezing. He shoots around the corner and crouches in front of me. “Senna … Senna! Look at me!” I find his face, try to focus on his eyes. If I can only catch my breath… He takes my hand, his voice imploring me. “Senna, breathe. Nice and slow. Can you hear my voice? Try to match your breathing to my voice.”

• From Mud Vein (2014)

  I stand at the door and start pressing random number combinations. We have been taking turns trying to guess the four-digit code, a pretty stupid idea since there are ten thousand possible combinations, except there is nothing else to do, so why not? Isaac found a pen and we write the codes we try on the wall next to the door so we don’t use repeats. We have hidden knives in every room of the house: a steak knife under each mattress, a serrated knife the length of my forearm underneath the couch cushions in the little living room, a butcher knife in the bathroom under the sink, a carving knife in the upstairs hallway on the windowsill. We have to find a better place for the upstairs hallway knife , I keep thinking. Anyone can grab it. A nyone. Grab … it… My finger is suspended over the button that reads 5. I can feel my chest constricting slowly, like there is an invisible boa constrictor giving me a snake hug. My breath is coming quickly, too quickly. I turn until my back is against the door and slide down the wall until I’m sitting on the floor. I can’t catch my breath. I am drowning in a sea of air; it is all around me but I can’t get enough of it into my lungs to live. Isaac must hear my wheezing. He shoots around the corner and crouches in front of me. “Senna … Senna! Look at me!” I find his face, try to focus on his eyes. If I can only catch my breath… He takes my hand, his voice imploring me. “Senna, breathe. Nice and slow. Can you hear my voice? Try to match your breathing to my voice.” I try. His voice is distinct. I could pick it out in a lineup of voices. It’s an octave above an alto. Deep enough to lull you to sleep, lilting enough to keep you awake. I follow the patterns of his speech as he speaks to me—the dragged out consonants, the slight rasp over his “e’s”. I watch his mouth. His incisors slightly overlap his front two teeth, which also overlap; a perfectly imperfect flaw. Gradually, my breathing slows. I focus on his hands, which are holding mine. Surgeon’s hands. The best hands to be in. I trace the veins that run along the backs of them. His thumbs are rubbing circles on the skin between my thumb and forefinger. He has square nails. Manly. So many of the men I’ve dated have had oval nail beds. Square is better. I feel my lungs open. I take in air hungrily. He’s helping me. Square is better, I say over and over again. It is my mantra. Square is better. I am exhausted. Isaac doesn’t skip a beat. He picks me up and carries me to the sofa.

• From Mud Vein (2014)

  I try. His voice is distinct. I could pick it out in a lineup of voices. It’s an octave above an alto. Deep enough to lull you to sleep, lilting enough to keep you awake. I follow the patterns of his speech as he speaks to me—the dragged out consonants, the slight rasp over his “e’s”. I watch his mouth. His incisors slightly overlap his front two teeth, which also overlap; a perfectly imperfect flaw. Gradually, my breathing slows. I focus on his hands, which are holding mine. Surgeon’s hands. The best hands to be in. I trace the veins that run along the backs of them. His thumbs are rubbing circles on the skin between my thumb and forefinger. He has square nails. Manly. So many of the men I’ve dated have had oval nail beds. Square is better. I feel my lungs open. I take in air hungrily. He’s helping me. Square is better, I say over and over again. It is my mantra. Square is better. I am exhausted. Isaac doesn’t skip a beat. He picks me up and carries me to the sofa. He’s good at taking care of people. He takes care of you without you having to ask. He disappears into the kitchen and comes back a minute later with a glass of water. I take it from him. “He knew to buy the exact clothes sizes that we wear, but he didn’t know I have asthma?” Isaac frowns. “Have you checked in all of the cabinets for an inhaler?” “Yes. The first day.” He looks at the floor between his feet. “Maybe he didn’t want you to have an inhaler.” I grunt. “So, this sicko kidnaps me and brings me out here to die of an asthma attack? Anti-climactic.” “I don’t know,” he says. It’s hard for a doctor to say those words. He told me that once. Doctors were supposed to have the answers. “None of this makes sense,” he says. “Why someone would take me … put me here with you. How did they even make the connection between us?” I don’t know the answers to any of this. I turn my head away. Look at the picture of the sparrows. “You need to take it easy. Be—” I cut him off. “I’m okay, Isaac.” I place a hand on his arm and immediately pull it away. He looks at the spot where I touched him, then stands up and walks out of the room. I press everything together—my eyes, my palms, my lips, the hole inside of me that will never be sewn back together. “Isaac,” I breathe. But he doesn’t hear me. [image file=image7.jpg] I start sleeping in the room with the trapdoor after the first week. It’s warmer up there. Isaac makes me lock it as soon as my feet disappear up the ladder. “Just in case,” he says. “They have a key too, but it will buy you time.” Sure. Great.

• From Best Erotica & Sexual Deviance Narratives Ever Written (2024)

  "I remember languidly wishing that my life could pass away in that placidly dull and dreamy state, so like a mesmeric trance, when the benumbed body is thrown into a death-like torpor, and the mind, 'Like an ember among fallen ashes,' is just wakeful enough to feel the consciousness of ease and of peaceful rest. "All at once we were roused from our pleasant somnolence by the jarring sound of an electric bell. "Teleny jumped up, hastened to wrap himself in a dressing-gown, and to attend to the summons. A few moments afterwards he came back with a telegram in his hand. "'What is it?' I asked. "'A message from ——,' he replied, looking at me wistfully, and with a certain trepidation in his voice. "'And you have to go?' "'I suppose I must,' said he, with a mournful sadness in his eyes. "'Is it so distasteful to you?' "'Distasteful is not the word; it is unbearable. This is the first parting, and——' "'Yes, but only for a day or two.' "'A day or two,' added he, gloomily, 'is the space that divides life from death:— "It is the little rift within the lute, That by-and-by will make the music mute, And ever widening slowly silence all."' "'Teleny, you have had for some days a weight on your mind—something that I cannot fathom. Will you not tell your friend what it is?' "He opened his eyes widely, as if he were looking into the depths of limitless space, whilst a painful expression was seen upon his lips; and then he added slowly,— "'My fate. Have you forgotten the prophetic vision you had that evening of the charity concert?' "'What! Adrian mourning over dead Antinöus?' "'Yes.' "'A fancy bred in my over-heated brain by the conflicting qualities of your Hungarian music, so stirringly sensuous and at the same time so gorgeously mournful.' "He shook his head sadly. "'No, it was something more than idle fancy.' "'A change has been taking place in you, Teleny. Perhaps it is the religious or spiritual element of your nature that is predominating just now over the sensual, but you are not what you were.' "'I feel that I have been too happy, but that our happiness is built on sand—a bond like ours——' "'Not blessed by the Church, repugnant to the nice feelings of most men.' "'Well—yes, in such a love there is always "A little pitted speck in garnered fruit That, rotting inward, slowly moulders all." Why did we meet—or, rather, why was not one of us born a woman? Had you only been some poor girl——' "'Come, leave aside your morbid fancies, and tell me candidly if you would have loved me more than you do.' "He looked at me sadly, but could not bring himself to utter an untruth. Still, after awhile he added, sighing:— '"There is a love that is to last, When the hot days of youth are past." Tell me, Camille, is such love ours?' "'Why not?

• From Manhunt (2022)

  If the Matriarchy could put real firepower on the water … Teach’s smile widened. “There,” she said, plucking a dumpling from the plate between them and popping it into her mouth. She sucked grease from her fingers. “Now she has it.” The Screw ran six levels deep into the hard, cold granite, starting at the motor pool and its double airlock and decon valve and moving on through UV greenhouses, security, the front offices for trade and “participation,” the squash courts and the swimming pool and the indoor basketball court, residential A, security, the kitchens, fungal beds where farmers used processed shit from septic two levels down to grow designer mushrooms in the dark, Sophie’s thread-spanning apartment, and the cisterns, and just above the surgical theater which served as Indi’s lab, there was a square little afterthought of a library, a three-story shaft full of tightly packed shelving. It was quiet when Robbie arrived a few minutes before midnight, ducking out of the deserted central spiral and down a narrow corridor past the empty reference desk. Banks of darkened fluorescents wired to timers hung above each row in the stacks. The floor was carpeted in cut gray berber. In the far-right corner a narrow staircase led down to the second floor, which, since the stacks on the first ran one through ten, was where the note he’d found finally led him. Nowhere else in the Screw was ordered like the stacks. Robbie took the stairs. A lone bank of lights buzzed below, visible through the rails. He reached the bottom of the shaft and looked down the eleventh row. A trans woman stood under the buzzing fluorescents at the row’s end. She was tall and lean, her head shaved down to black stubble. She wore a long black skirt and a mustard-colored cardigan, and on the back of one dark, long-fingered hand was a tattoo of twining beach roses that wound up past the cuff of her sweater. Her dark eyes held the wan light strangely, like prisms. “You’re Robbie.” “Nice to meet you,” he mumbled, not quite knowing what else to say. The thought that this was some kind of perverse loyalty test had crossed his mind more than a few times. He had a knife he’d taken off one of the women at the blast doors hidden up his sleeve. “I got—” She shook her head to silence him, an almost imperceptible gesture. “I’m Zia. I run the stacks. Have you been down here before?” Robbie shook his head. “You can help me with reshelving.

• From Between Us

  I knew that I did not know under what circumstances distress occurred, how it felt, and what you would do when distressed. I knew that I did not know if distress made you a bad person, or what responses it elicited in others. Similarly, Sofia had no trouble recognizing her unfamiliarity with stenahoria. It is much harder to become aware that you have to learn the emotions associated with words for which your native language does provide a linguistic equivalent. Yet, learning these “emotions” is not necessarily any faster or easier than learning culture-specific emotion words. In fact, second language learners who are not immersed in the new culture simply attach the new language’s emotion words to the concepts from their native culture. This is what happens in classroom learning of a second language—the way I started to learn English: we learn the labels of the new language, but without learning their actual meaning. The linguist Howard Grabois nicely illustrates this point in a study on Spanish second-language learning. To chart the respective meanings of words for love, fear, and happiness in Spanish and in English, he compared the word associations that Spanish native speakers had with these concepts with the associations that English native speakers have. There were differences in these association networks. For instance, the English fear was more closely associated with fear responses (“anxiety,” “nervous,” “stress,” “sweat,” “scream,” “shaking”), whereas its Spanish counterpart, miedo, was associated with words for loneliness and aloneness. Interestingly, foreign-language learners who had never lived in a Spanish-speaking environment, or not for very long, learned the Spanish words but without acquiring the Spanish associations; they simply glued a new word (e.g., miedo) to an existing concept (e.g., associations with “anxiety,” “nervous,” “stress,” “sweat,” “scream,” “shaking”). Only when second-language speakers of Spanish had lived in the country for some time would they start to make the Spanish word associations; they could be said to have learned the “emotions”—i.e., a new set of episodes—rather than merely the labels. Not until you personally experience, or watch, the new culture’s emotional interactions do you learn what it means to have the emotions of a new culture. Until then, the new words are empty vessels, or rather, vessels filled with old baggage.

• From Mud Vein (2014)

  I waited until our last session to tell her about the rape. I didn’t know why except that other than the cancer, the rape was the last thing that happened to me. Maybe I had a chronological way of dealing with things; a writer’s route to solving problems. Her insouciance over the matter was what finally won me over. It was as if the entire time I saw her I was counting down the days until I would have to tell her about the rape, dreading the pity I’d see appear her eyes. But there was none. “Life happens,” she said. “Bad things happen because we live in a world with evil.” And then she’d asked me the strangest thing. “Do you blame God?” It had never occurred to me to blame God since I didn’t believe in him. “If I believed in God, I would blame him. I suppose it’s easier not to believe, then I have nothing to be angry at.” She smiled. A cat’s curl smile. And then it was over, and I’d left a free woman, my purgatory served. Isaac would operate on me now. I would be free of cancer, free to move forward without fear. Without some of the fear. That night I started having the dreams again, hands pushing and pulling at me. Sharp pain and humiliation. The feeling of helplessness and panic. I woke up screaming, but there was no Isaac. I got in the shower to wash away the dream, shivering under the scalding water. I couldn’t fall back to sleep with those images so fresh in my mind, so I sat in my office and pretended to write the book my agent was waiting for. The book I had no words for. At noon, five days before my surgery, I dressed to go to the hospital for my pre-op appointment. It was March and the sun had been fighting the clouds for a week. Today the sky was uninterrupted blue. I felt resentful of the sun. That thought made me think of the things Nick used to say about me. You’re all grey. Everything you love, the way you see the world. I walked out to my car, stepping around puddles of rainwater from the day before. They were colored like an oyster shell, iridescent from the oil collected from my car or Isaac’s. When I got to the driver’s side door, I saw a cardboard square underneath my wiper blade. I darted a look over my shoulder before plucking it out. He had been here. Last night? This morning? Why hadn’t he rung the bell? I climbed into the car a little bit excited and slipped the CD from the sleeve. This time he’d written the name of the song on the disk in red permanent marker. Kill Your Heroes, Awolnation. My hands were shaking as I hit play.

• From Mud Vein (2014)

  He nods. I climb up the ladder to get something clean to wear. It makes me sick, putting on clothes that someone chose and put here for me. I wish I had my own, but not even the pajamas I’m still wearing are mine. I study the contents of the wardrobe. Almost every article of clothing is something I would have chosen for myself—except for the color. There is too much of that. This is creepy. Who would know me well enough to buy me clothes? Clothes that I actually like? I pluck a long sleeve yoga top from a hanger and find the matching pants underneath it. In a drawer are a variety of panties and bras. Oh God! I decide to go without either. I can’t wear underwear that some sicko bought and folded into a drawer. It would feel like was touching me … there. I slam the drawer closed. Isaac helps me down the ladder. Since my attack on the door, my wrist has swollen to twice its size. “Keep it elevated and out of the hot water,” he says before I go into the bathroom. I find soap and shampoo under the sink. Generic stuff. The soap is white and smells like laundry. I keep the shower to five minutes even though I want to stay longer. The brownish water never gets really hot and it has a strange smell. I get out and dry myself with the lemon-colored towel that is hanging on the towel rack. Such a cheerful color. Such an ironic color. And so thoughtfully hung here for us. I rub at my arms and legs trying to capture all of the drops. Yellow to soften the blow of the snow and the prison and the abduction. Maybe whoever brought us here thought that the color of this towel would stave off depression. I drop it on the floor, disgusted. Then I laugh, hard and shrill. I hear Isaac knock lightly on the door. “You okay, Senna?” His voice is muffled. “I’m fine,” I call out. Then I laugh so hard and loud he opens the door and lets himself in. “I’m fine,” I say to his concerned face, trying to stifle my laughter. I catch the laughter behind my hand as tears begin to leak from my eyes. I’m laughing so hard I have to hold myself up by the sink. “I’m fine,” I gasp. “Isn’t that the craziest thing you’ve ever heard? Like I can be fine. Are you fine?” I see the muscles in his cheek flicker. His eye color is metallic, like a tin can. He reaches for me, but I bat his hand away. I’ve stopped laughing. “Don’t touch me.” I say it louder and harsher than I intended.