Through Our Mind
by Gretchen Troxell
Bowling Green State University
Gretchen Troxell is currently studying creative writing with a minor in film studies at Bowling Green State University. She has been previously published in Issue 13 of Fleas On The Dog. She enjoys exploring topics surrounding mental health in her work with the goal of helping those struggling feel less alone.
Thick black marks from deadbeat teenage shoes litter the high school hallway. Keeping my eyes on the ground, I follow the pattern set before me as Maura strides by my side. She walks me to every single class and, upon arrival, takes up permanent residence in the seat beside me. Her silent confidence brings the same comfort as my mom’s chicken noodle soup used to when I was six – back when mom was still a helper, not a hounder.
As we approach the hallway bend, a massive pack of students floods the hallway, decorated in garish neons of yellow, green, orange, and pink. The obnoxious colors burn right through my irises until flashes of each pigment block my vision. They’re all talking, and one girl, an unfortunate-looking brunette in an unflattering shade of pink, holds a microphone to her overlined red lips. Maura raises an eyebrow which forces my smile to crack. I already know we’ll be insulting them tonight – thank god, someone else is able to see how annoying and fake my classmates are.
The sharp shrill of the microphone turning on haunts my ears, replaying over and over, and the calming urge to bash my head into the lockers joins in the echo.
“Join us in the gym for the pep rally! This way, ladies and gents!” She squeaks in a voice that could be accused of mocking Mickey Mouse.
They’re getting too close, and I can hear each individual scrape of their shoes. The noise bounces up my skin like a resentful rash, causing an intense itch as my scratching nails threaten my flesh. My skin doesn’t feel right – it’s too hard, too dry; I want to rip it off.
“Don’t let them win, Nickie,” Maura says with the confidence of a Lieutenant General, “they mean nothing.” Her words nudge me along. I hadn’t even realized I had stopped moving, blocking several students from the hallway as a result. The main crowd has already disappeared from the hallway.
I follow Maura the rest of the way through the building and out the exit doors. Her steps are focused, concentrated, and I wish she would take my hand for the rest of the way. “You can just tell they’re peaking in high school,” she says. I can feel my shakes leaving my body with each new step, as they always do with Maura around, and my bones no longer feel like they’re cracking under my body’s tension. When I look back to Maura, she’s already gone.
When I arrive home, mom is sitting at the counter, rubbing her cracked, ruby red hands together. She jolts awake from her slumped frame after a few seconds and with rapid blinks forces the sleep out of her eyes. “Hi, honey,” she says, slightly too eagerly. She stands pathetically across from me, biting her lip like an anxious middle schooler after asking a question in class.
In front of her are unevenly cut apple-slices, arranged perfectly on a paper plate. There’re two cans of soda, one on either side.
“How are you feeling, Nickie?” She says slowly and in her most practiced tone. I blink back at her in response. The question annoys me. The inclusion of my name. The nature of the question being one that you would ask to a small child. Everything about it. I breathe evenly three times, in and out. It’s just enough time for the anger to settle before I say something I’ll regret, or I guess that’s the idea.
“I’m great.” The silence laughs at us.
She’s moving closer now. “Talk to anyone at school today?” Her voice isn’t human. It’s nearly robotic – the only real thing about it being the exhaustion of it all. Mom asks this question every. single. day. I can’t tell her about Maura, so poor mom just thinks I have no friends. Doesn’t really matter though, she should be happy with an obvious lie.
“Sure.”
Mom moves around the wooden island that separates us and binds me in a tight hug that meets limp arms. She holds me tight to her chest, probably whispering an ‘I love you’ and doesn’t even pull away when my arms fall. Her thin dyed hair covers my face, itching my forehead to the point where I want to burst into tears. Eventually, I melt out of the stronghold and offer a weak smile that lights up her face. I turn in the direction of my room, but her gentle fingertips touch my wrist, and I turn back around.
“You want a snack first?” She says, gesturing towards the plate.
“I don’t really like apples anymore.”
I hear her slump back into her chair as I enter my bedroom. Maura’s already in here, making herself comfortable on the bed. I swing my bookbag off my shoulders and throw it on the bed. Maura isn’t here anymore. I don’t need her right now.
One of my backpack pouches is unzipped, and a few papers tumble out in the fall. I kick the assignments under my bed and shift through my phone on the floor until my eyes force close, and I doze off into sleep.
My room is completely dark when I wake up due to my permanently closed blinds and overhead light I never bother to turn on. Due to only taking half-days at school, it’s only 3:00 p.m. when I’m greeted by darkness.
Mom knocks at the door then slowly pushes it open. “Were you asleep, honey?” She whispers as she turns on the light. The burning glow stabs through to the back of my skull, and I slam my face into the crumb-filled carpet.
“No,” I lie, an unnecessary defiance seeping into my voice.
“Okay,” she says softly and pauses. I turn slightly and see her taking in the unmade bed and the unopened ripped bookbag, and I fucking know she’s ‘secretly’ examining the knots in my hair. I watch her straighten herself up before she says, “Hey, do you mind going to the store for me? I’m really busy with work and only need a few things.” She signals to a small paper list in her right hand that only has four scribbles on it. Doesn't take a world-class detective to figure it out: she’s trying to get me outside.
“Sure.” I’m only agreeing to use her car. I like driving alone. Driving alone and driving far. And if it’s not a far drive, I make it one.
I stand and take the paper from her hand, trying my hardest not to look in her begging blue eyes. She stretches her fingers to touch mine so quickly I hardly notice. “I love you, Nickie,” she says. When we’re side-by-side like this, we’re even in height, and our genetic similarities become glaring.
“Me too,” I surrender and move past her.
As I get situated in the car, I crank up the music and smile softly to myself. Above my head, I see mom swinging her arms as she fast-walks towards the upstairs window. She’s waving goodbye as if sending me off to war. I raise my hand slightly – she’ll probably mistake it for a wave from her distance.
My smile relaxes as I drive away. I’m proud of myself. Although she’s not here, I think about Maura; she’d agree mom’s searching for a connection that’s simply not there.
I’ll always be the first to admit it.
I can see why perfectly reasonable spectators would call me crazy, and I would completely agree with their stance if I saw it in someone else. I know mom will never be able to see Maura because I know Maura isn’t real. I’m not some psycho talking to themselves in a park, causing moms to pick up their children and run. I know she’s only in my mind. I don’t dare speak to Maura out loud unless I’m alone because that would be pure, diagnosable crazy, and I’m not about to get wheeled away to a psych ward. I’m not like those people. When I’m alone, talking to Maura is just a game. Like a way to pass the time. None of the therapists that have ever wandered through my life know about Maura. I’m sane enough to know she’s not there. I’m not crazy like the people you see on TV.
“Why do you always go the crazy route? What’s so crazy about me?” Maura asks, fake-annoyed, from the passenger seat. She adds a scoff which is a little over the top.
“Everything about you is crazy,” I reply, not bothering to raise my voice above the blaring music.
Maura laughs, and we enjoy the rest of the ride, trapping ourselves in the sound behind the closed car windows. I consciously take the long route to the market where the high prices are played off as justified for organic foods. Oranges, bananas, strawberries, blueberries. All ingredients mom must've so desperately needed that she couldn’t have waited till tomorrow – she must be pretending to make smoothies again. Very creative.
When we get there, it’s unusually crowded, and I almost feel like I’m back in the hallway. Mom’s given me a reusable bag to save the planet, but the handle fabric is pricking my skin. The brushing of people’s coats against mine is giving me a fever, and I’m trapped in a trance as I stumble forward. “Jesus, Nickie,” Maura’s distorted voice says behind me.
I see the oranges first and rush forward. There isn’t room for Maura here; I must’ve left her back there. The bright peel burns my eyes to the point where I can feel the sting in my head. Still, I grab for the fruit and want to vomit as I feel its wrinkles, zig-zag lines that brand my fingertips. The car keys are stabbing me from inside my pocket. My bag keeps hitting my side. My jeans are too tight around my thighs.
As I rush to put the oranges in my bag, two fall to the floor, and a million heatwaves circle through my body at once. I take up too much space as I bend down, my jeans suffocating my boiling skin. When I get up again, I throw the oranges back on the pile, but the force makes one fall down again. Children and their parents are watching me.
A mother pushes past me. Her drug store branded perfume assaults the insides of my nose until all I feel is nausea that goes directly to the pit of my stomach. The fragrance circles my head, and I need her to move. I need her to go away now.
I can’t afford to bend down again. I can’t afford to stay here. As my eyes search for the bananas, I suddenly stop. My body is numb.
Maura is over there. But she’s real. Solid. Concrete. I can see her in real flesh. I. Am. Seeing. Maura. I Am. Seeing Maura. I Am Seeing Maura. IAm SeeingMaura. IAm SeeingMaura IAm SeeingMaura. IAmSeeingMaura. iAmSeeingMaura iAmSeeingMaura iAmseeingMaura iamseeingMaura iamseeingmaura iamseeingmauraiamseeingmauraiamseeingmauraiamseeing
mauraiamseeingmauraiamseeingmauraiamseeingmauraiamseeingmaura .
I look around and try to call my Maura the one I know isn’t real because obviously she’s in my head, but she won’t come because she’s right there, and she is real, and I know she’s right there because I don’t normally see her like this because I always know that she isn’t really there, and I’ve always been able to see her, so I always know she isn’t flesh, but now she is flesh, and now she is here, and she is flesh, so I know she is real, and she is right there, and she is real.
“Maura?” I call out, but she’s already walking away, so she must’ve not heard me – Maura typically doesn’t ignore me. I’m running towards her before I know it, and I imagine myself flipping over shopping carts as I burst through families, breaking the conjoined hands of parent and child. My sweat clings to my skin.
“Maura!” I yell. She turns this time, wide-eyed, but did she not see me? Why is she already turning back around? Why is she ignoring me? Maura is my friend; why would she treat me like this? Why is she acting like that bitch from school? Why is she fucking acting like a high school bully? Why is she ignoring me? Why won’t she love me? Why is she ignoring me? Why is Maura doing this? Why Maura? Why? Maura.
My scream threatens to burst my lungs, and my throat is being squeezed to the size of a q-tip. I try to shove the name out of me, willing to break and choke on the splitters of my ribs in the process, anything to make her hear. “Maura!” She’s staring now, right at me, and she’s halted. Waiting for me.
I throw myself at her, enclosing her in my arms. My rapid heart matches hers, and our skin makes contact – real, physical contact. I’m not falling through the air like last time. She isn’t laughing, taunting me for being foolish. We’re comforting each other as we hold each other in our arms. Our arms wrapped around each other. We have become one.
Her piercing scream interrupts our peace. Interrupts our safety and our love, the home we’ve built within each other. A sharp coldness pierces my upper chest and rockets through me. The shooting pain won’t go away. She isn’t very strong, but her hands are pushing against my cracked chest. I want to tell her she has nothing to prove. I’ll protect her like she always protected me, but I don’t have the air to speak, and now more hands are pulling at me from the back, and I’m violently ripped from her.
Two men, one bald, one ugly, are ruthlessly clenching onto my arms. The ugly one lets go once I’m yanked from Maura, but the bald one keeps holding on. I twist like a rag doll against his binding arms, but his grasp just tightens. I want to turn around and bite him hard enough to bleed. Stab his ugly veins with my white teeth and spit it back at him. Kick him until he cries. Ram my fingers into his eyes, so he can’t cry. Until he’s just blood and useless tear ducts.
“Are you fucking crazy!?” Maura screams. An older woman is trying to comfort her, but all she’s doing is shielding her from me.
“Why do you always go the crazy route? What’s so crazy about me?” I laugh desperately, begging her to remember our earlier conversation. The words come out raw and bloody. They don’t feel like they came from me; my throat is too tight.
“What the hell!” Maura cries out, going off-script. Too good of an actress. She’s whimpering with quick gasps for air that show in her chest. Silent tears fall and land in her partially open mouth. Good, good actress. But she keeps hiding her face in the shoulder of the older woman – I don’t want to miss one second of her face.
“Maura, it’s me,” I say, hoping my voice is a little softer to let her know she doesn’t have to act. We’re not playing pretend in my room anymore; we can show ourselves to the world. We’re both real.
I go in to hug her, but both sets of hands return and restrain me. Every time I move my hands, their grip tightens, and I want to cut them open at the neck and watch them slowly bleed out behind me. Maura needs me in the way I always needed her, and they’re denying me it. They’re taking away my moment. I’m going to kill them.
“Nickie!” Someone bursts through the crowd. Was that crowd always there? A fragile, haggard woman makes her way to the front row and is already crying despite missing most of the show. Mom. She’s rummaging through her wallet and whispering desperately to Maura. She’s talking to Maura before me. She’s going to be fucking thrilled I made a friend.
Her hand comes up with a few 20 dollar bills and a small card with her number on it. Maura, whose tears have been replaced with sniffles, nods and with one last look at me – a look that confirmed everything I needed to know, a look that said come find me, I’ll be waiting – she disappeared through the onlookers.
Mom quickly approaches my captors. In a hushed tone, she explains her role and dismisses them. There’s a slight grumbling between them, but mom’s hopeless expressions can be pretty convincing. Her eyes are too glassy to fully see me when she reaches her hand up to touch my cheek. Just past her, I see an abandoned cart with her coat thrown on top. It holds strawberries and blueberries. I was supposed to be getting those.
She walks me out to the parking lot, her hand resting firmly on my back, but she’s too jumpy. Every step I take, I feel her arm twitch, just waiting to jump up and trap me in her grip. Her arm must be getting tired, but her hand never falls.
When we’re safely in my grandma’s car, the one mom occasionally borrows, she talks so softly, she’s almost whispering. “Nickie, I love you so much. Are you okay?” I can hear the click of the door lock.
I don’t bother responding. We both know it’s a stupid question. Mom used to always talk about taking classes to improve her communication skills. Maybe she actually took them. I remember very long dinner conversations of her bragging about them, but nothing would ever work. Mom could “care” all she wanted. She only wanted to fix me, and that isn’t real love.
“Yeah, fine.” No point in explaining. Mom wouldn’t want to hear it.
“Maura isn’t real, honey,” she says evenly, like she’s rehearsed it. Every syllable is strong. Solid. She’s said it over and over. Must’ve been in front of a mirror.
“How do you –” I have to take a moment because I’m being too loud, and mom’s already peeking out the windows in embarrassment. I guess maintaining eye contact wasn’t part of those communication classes. “How do you know about Maura? No one knows about Maura,” I manage to spit out through my teeth.
“It’s okay, Nickie, I promise. She’s been a part of your life for a long time. You’ve shared before, please. Do you want to talk about her?” Her tone has picked up, and I’m suddenly overwhelmed with the opportunity. I want to talk about her. I want to share her hobbies and relationships and the way she talks and her favorite foods and what her hair looks like in the morning. Mom’s eyes are widening.
But I look into the backseat, and I can see her shaking her head.
“No. I don’t know what you’re talking about. I’m not crazy.”
Mom sighs and nods. Her body is crumpling in her seat, but she musters up the energy to start the car. Maura winks at me from the back.
Interview with the Author
1. What inspired you to write this piece? What was your thought process throughout?
I wrote this originally during my first year in college, probably one of the lowest points of my life when I didn’t really have anyone to talk to. It started out as a description about a girl who just desperately needed support and eventually grew into a real story. Although it’s no longer really about me, I wanted to incorporate struggles such as sensory overload and isolation which I have experienced and write a story that might show someone who's struggling that others have been there too.
2. What do you hope readers will take away from your piece? What effects do you want the piece to have on the person, community, or society?
Above all else, I want at least one person to read this and think, “oh my god, I’m not alone. I’m not the only one who’s dealt with things like this.” I also want audiences to realize even if not to this extent, people do live with these kinds of struggles, and it can be life-consuming, and they still might never let it show.
3. What is your favorite piece of fiction (short story, novel, flash fiction, etc.) that you’ve ever read? Why?
My favorite piece of fiction is probably *Sharp Objects *by Gillian Flynn. It’s incredibly intense, and readers should know it contains some triggering content, but its narrator faces internal battles you basically never see described in fiction. She’s unreliable in a way that is so extremely human. It’s also a murder mystery (my favorite genre) with a satisfying ending.
4. If you plan on continuing to write, what are some goals/plans you may have for your future?
My life goal is to write a novel and keep getting published! I love writing; I really don’t think I’ll ever stop. I also want to help people. I want to make them cry. I want to make them laugh. I want to make them feel seen.