On Sundays the monsters arrive for dinner.

     The Lady likes to tell me that they aren’t there, but she doesn’t know that she is already flattening into another dimension, one where all the others dwell like deteriorating lawn gnomes with paint too thin. I see the purl of acid unraveling her cheeks, the dangerous hiss of her hinges as she folds in half at the dinner table. A sullen parliament of Them stands behind her. They are like logs, stiff with fat bark—juicy, even, and ponderous groans slipping through yellow fluids as they wave hellos in my direction. I step aside, watch the salutations fall with sloping doe eyes.

     Lady hiccups politely into her napkin. She peers at me, slowly, tortoise-like, and I can do nothing more than drink it in, spoonfuls of it dribbling from my mouth and running down crevasses I didn’t even know I had: not until they were drenched and sticky.

     Finally she looks away, and I billow small sighs of relief.

     "Sit down," she coos, as if everything is just fine. I smile, shake my head. Rickety legs trembling, the dining table quavers under the weight of her elbows-with-no-manners.

     "It’s Sunday," I remind her nervously. I wait for some rebuke, or maybe she is just angry enough to chuck a fork my way.

     Not today. "Come, be reasonable," Lady begs, drawing her elbows from the table, which springs back into shape with a pleasurable moan. "This is our last night together."

     I stiffen. She says it as if it were a bad thing, the treacherous creature, as if she isn’t delighted. I know better, though; I have systematically ruffled through her glee, saw the glisten of it squeal from her pores like demented sweat. Waves of self-pity wander at my threshold, but I close the door with a resounding click and lean against it, exhausted.

     This is a game of pretend. I widen my lopsided grin and saunter up to the table, whispering my apologies to the chairs for sitting on them. For a moment I wonder whether I should curtsy, but decide that that would be pushing it. Lady proceeds to pile vegetables on my plate.

     That is when the monsters start. At first they are tentative with bulging spasms, nails tinkling along the fine china as they chatter girlish woes. They are making fun of Lady, adopting her affected sadness. This is ten times as cruel, and I sob into strands of strained spinach, for the monsters will follow me everywhere and they are joyful. But those nails, those long claws—those agonizing streaks they peel off a million surfaces—I hate them, loathe them, throw my malice into the thesaurus and come marching out with an army of burning words, but they don’t feel anything on their tough bark.

     Wincing now, I stab my food and shovel it down. The slick sound of my chewing, however, does little to stem the flow of shrill from the nails. Seeing victory in sight, they purposefully drop their teacups and bend to retrieve them, flapping their stringy hands all around and bursting air molecules with them. Each atom they sever causes me to shudder, to stalk the edges of another collapse.

     Lady senses my anxiety and misinterprets it. She strokes my hand. "This is good for all of us, honey," she whispers condescendingly. "You’ll get help, and in a few months you can come back home."

     Her words are, to be blunt, stupid.

     The monsters strike up a symphony.

     My quivering chin stutters open, trips forward: "I hear it, Mommy..."

     She panics, which is normally fun to watch, but not this time because this was supposed to be the end for her, the last stretch to the finish line. The napkin slips from her lap and flutters down across the harsh grate of her chair being pushed back. Lady rushes over to me, rips my head away from the sound and presses it against her full bosom.

     It’s muffled, but not enough. Sobbing into her chest does not help. I slip from her clamping hands, leaving a wet smear of invisible mascara on her sweater.

     "They’re not there!" she screeches into my ear, over and over, jamming loud decibels into my ears. In the back of my mind, this turns into an odd nursery rhyme, in which a chorus of Ladies alternate hopping up and down: "They’re not the-ere, they’re not the-ere..."

     I dash upstairs, but the claws still follow, leaving angry stripes on the crimson wallpaper. The suitcase is still curled up innocently on the bed. Fumbling with the rough leather, my shaking hands unclasp the metal as all my possessions come tumbling out.

     The empty suitcase bangs against the mattress, gasps like a fish, finally gets punctured by the onslaught of sharpened nails—will it be mad at me, I wonder?

     Of. Course. Not.

The driver twists impatiently around and surveys my tattered luggage.

"Let’s get going, sir," I urge, glancing at the rear view mirror to see Lady sprinting towards the taxi. "I’m in a hurry."

He grunts. "She comin’ with ya?"

"No."

"Whazzat yer carryin’? Looks awful beat."

I smooth my suitcase and implore its soft brownness. The clasps slap open easily this time. Giddy laughter escapes me, and a sea of severed nails bursts onto the passenger seats. Somehow it’s satisfying to see them all submerged.  

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Jenny Xie is a student in Southern California with a penchant for coughing, eating, and occasionally blinking. She has published stories in a few children's and literary magazines, but her main outlet for writing is quickly becoming her zine, Godzilla Says Hi. More information can be found at http://www.freewebs.com/godzillasayshi.
E-mail: moawmie at gmail dot com
 

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