Drenched by Marisa Matarazzo

Author:Marisa Matarazzo
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9781593763756
Publisher: Catapult
Published: 2018-05-16T00:00:00+00:00

KELLY GREEN develops a cough. A very moist and rumbling cough. So loud I can hear it echo across the field. Sounds like the sputtering chug of a broken boat in the ocean. The drowning sound of a boat that’s never going to make it back to land. I spy Kelly Green mostly in silhouette, doubled over, heaving with cough. Lung fungal death starts in the alveoli. There, the spores nest and quietly blossom, first retarding the exchange of oxygen and carbon dioxide. The victim finds himself or herself wickedly fatigued. Short of breath. The fungus then grows too large for the alveoli, causing them to rupture. Fatal concentrations of fungal poisons are released into the bloodstream. They make it to the brain in no time, establishing residence in the limbic system. From here, billions of baby spore balls are born and develop quickly. They take up brain space, squeezing the brain matter for room. I have seen Kelly Green pound his or her head on the desk in migraine agony. I think about the Spanish Inquisition and torture tactics and can’t escape my imagined image of some of the inquisitioned with their heads being squeezed in vises, their faces tangled and crying. And I wonder if Kelly Green is thinking of the same thing. Thinking he or she has fallen into a time trap and is suddenly being mutilated for his or her religion. Only in this case, it’s not religion, it’s business. Does Kelly Green realize this? I wonder if Kelly Green can think at all. I wonder if Kelly Green is having the thoughts of the spore ball. Kelly Green’s brain is turning into fungal cauliflower.

Hefeweizen asks me out on a second date. He doesn’t dig through my purse. He doesn’t story-dump on me. I keep waiting for that, but no. I haven’t met his father. His chest appears mark-free, but I have a theory. A markless chest doesn’t mean he didn’t sample The Floodgates of Love. He quite likely ate them, but perhaps did so as a single guy. Or, ate them with a partner—and has not broken up with her. They might still be together. I might be the other woman. Maybe his lady will kill me.

I accept his invitation. I shouldn’t. I should stop with him. Avoid and evade. Run, hide. My job’s well done. Kelly Green is as good as mold. I should exit and carry on with the rest of my life, in another place, with other people.

I have this dream: My Love emerges from the bomb shelter. I am sitting in the sand next to the manhole cover. He freezes, looks at me for several long moments like he doesn’t recognize my face. He slings his backpack over his shoulder, puts the manhole cover back in place. Walks away down the road. He grows small in my vision, but I get up and follow him—trailing behind. He walks far, but I keep him in sight. Past tall buildings and short buildings, parking lots and houses, centers of town where errands are run.

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