Systemic Circulation
The thread dangling from a brown button on a tweed jacket, the thread as
the sound of death and then
eight years old and already there is separation of before and after and of this, that night and everything afterward, illuminating about with the childish simplicity of skinned knees and bicycles, somersaults and Band-Aids, and afternoon snacks of graham crackers and milk and
of life between memory and life before, of
that night, which still twists in words and vivid streaks of light, of how her mother looked, and of herself, Kayleigh, holding Malibu Barbie up to her, up to her mother, the mirror singing back in duplicate smiles, both of them and Barbie, Kayleigh’s mother in a shimmery black dress more beautiful than Barbie’s, and then there was Kayleigh’s father, in the other room, in a suit more handsome than Ken’s because
they must have been going to a symphony or the theatre because Kayleigh remembers that
it was her mother’s birthday, her hair swept up and smelling like Aqua Net and her skin smelling like perfume, but too much perfume because it stung Kayleigh’s eyes when she hugged her mother, careful not to smear her lipstick, and her father saying don’t give Ramona a hard time or she might not babysit for Kayleigh again, a wink because
just kidding, playful, and him patting her mother’s butt as they
and Kayleigh remembers her mother’s laugh, the way it filled the room that night, and her voice, Oh, Honey, and Love you, Kayleigh, and
if only she could pinpoint the exact moment, but instead it swirls through instant replays of whole scenes and breath, of multiple moments and
the dangling of a thread
because what is terror but fear of fear,
the way the thread, suspended in time, attached to a tweed jacket with the words Made in the U.S.A. on its tag, is now a springboard of gel-like memory, of origins and endings, Kayleigh remembering how Ramona said, a whole two hours until your bedtime, in an upbeat voice with the sound of happy water filling the sink in the bathroom and the Barbies in their impossible evening gowns,
how Kayleigh struggled to take off those impossible dresses, tiny openings and impatient stretching, careful not to tear, and
those uncomfortable shoes, sliding right off, shoes that didn’t matter anyway because even without them, their feet were still in an unnatural position
fabric and zippers and plastic, it’s unnatural to be
to be in any position for so long,
like in the closet, where Kayleigh was curled up as a cocoon, eyes shut so tight that colors filled her head, zig-zag reds and oranges, curling kaleidoscope colors when
Ramona told her to stay there, Ramona who was to Kayleigh like an adult but now Kayleigh knows that Ramona was just a kid herself, a teenager who probably thought about boys and college and maybe kids of her own someday, but
Kayleigh thought she could stay there forever, forever in the closet and everything would be fine, everything would be, she would be, but
the smell of leather, wool, and musty polyester
of her mother’s coats, her father’s coats, the boxes of shoes her mother only wore once a year, and
those smells that Kayleigh tasted in her nose, the dust she swallowed, worried about sneezing, of making a sound because
how long could she live without breathing,
holding her breath,
how long until she became a butterfly?
*
The waking of torn fabric, how time looks so huge and small, and now Kayleigh can no longer look at the photo albums of herself as a baby, giggling in a kiddie pool, pulling her doll by its hair, because that was someone different, a caterpillar not yet realized, and
with pen in hand, she inhales the page and lets it out
deep breath and
words
one day at a time, one foot in front of the other
all the different but same ways a therapist speaks, and
soon it’s over and soon it’s words and sentences and soon it’s beginning again and soon it’s over
and soon it’s over and over
comfort phrased as fear, fear phrased as comfort, everyone just trying to help, to be helpful, but
they are still out there
and if not them, somebody else, others
it’s fuel, mingling with the stoked colors in Kayleigh’s mind, as she wonders about Ramona, who she was, more than just what Kayleigh remembers because she was only eight then, more than just
a sweet girl in a small Pennsylvania town, fields of corn and cantaloupe by the roadside, silos and chimneys completing the landscape
where the houses stood with brick overtones, concrete undertones, and worn-out sidewalks, grass sifting through the cracks,
where safety once sat placid, a front door unlocked, front doors unlocked,
where threads hang off the cuffs of shirts and blazers, and
it’s okay to ask questions, to want to know, but
it’s the why that screams in Kayleigh’s head, the why that continues through to never ceasing,
her life divided by death, the before and the after, like
in school, where they had to pledge allegiance to the flag of
the United States of America, where
they had to repeat those words out loud, as they heard them, and Kayleigh said,
I pledge exception
to the fear
of the U.S. of A, but then she thought that
something about that didn’t seem quite right, and this followed by the
ongoing fits of panic, even when the counselors told her it’s okay
it’s okay
it’s okay
how many times did she hear that, it’s okay, and then it was
let’s put you on this or this
and her parents’ eggshell voices, wondering if it would ever be okay again, while Kayleigh wrote down her mind, like the therapist said to do, the words faster than
the paper hurrying off to
she’s not sure where it goes these days, those days, now, then, her thoughts, just
words
writing faster than the seconds, than the seconds of hours, of hours of days, of days it seemed that she stayed silent in that closet at eight years old, staring at the thread dangling from a brown button on a tweed jacket, and
if she runs out of paper, she writes on her desk, dotting i’s and crossing her t’s, crossing lines, crossing out a line, adding another here, and
some years escape her now because it was
antidepressants, antianxiety meds, sedatives, stimulants, and
more of the same
when all she wanted was to
and then there was homework and reading about
American history, biology, and how the human body is resilient
organisms and cells, cell walls, ecosystems, communities, population, extinction, it was her
sitting in class, this was
all of her, Kayleigh was all of that, and
words on her desk, on park benches, bathroom stalls, walls, walls, and walls, and more words on her, her body, on her heart and soul and blood, blood and soul and
the heart and the body beginning to, advancing then, in motion, words and thoughts dancing all around
it’s called systemic circulation, she learned,
the way the blood moves between the heart and the rest of the body,
of oxygenated blood and deoxygenated blood and circulation
for body tissue and nutrients
circulatory pathways of her pen, all just to be normal
to be normal, to have
first date, love, and a kiss with too much tongue, and there she was thinking about how it feels so good but then wondering if she’s allowed to feel that good, the boy running his fingers through her hair, asking questions like
get to know you, he said, and
Kayleigh saying, you don’t want to know me because look at my hands
they’re shaking, he said, and it’s
finally, somebody noticing
it’s okay, he said, we don’t have to, and
that’s the way it works, Kayleigh’s thoughts, when circulating and recirculating through what she remembers, what she recalls, one year forward, two years back, forward, back, back and forth and
the brown thread dangling
the Made in… labels, on this, on that, sometimes here, sometimes there
like the labels thrown about in the news, in documentaries, words like murderers, criminals, monsters, and then more specific, spree killers or mass murderers, organized, disorganized, those who do it for
and those who do it to, and
them, the one who, the ones who, and always that neighbor who says that they could never have imagined such a sweet and
or the neighbors and friends who knew all along, always suspected because there were clues, like cats going missing and the stench of
Kayleigh remembers their eyes looking at her from the black-and-white newsprint, her mother saying she shouldn’t look, she should forget, but her father saying that maybe it would be good to see them, to face it and maybe
but the clearest of it all is the thread, the thread, the fixation on the thread dangling from a brown button, a brown button on a tweed jacket in the closet, and Kayleigh wondering what would happen if she pulled at that thread, wondering where it would end because where did it start and
focus
the eyes take time to adjust to the darkness, and
if she blinked, the thread disappeared
for a moment, if she blinked
if she blinked, then none of it was real
the staring at the thread for hours, smelling the leather, wool, and musty polyester, her mother’s coats and her father’s coats, and the cardboard boxes of the shoes her mother only wore once a year
trying not to make a sound,
trying not to breathe
to breathe, to
not to breathe.
*
Pulse
heartbeat
blood
body
a cough from the page
a roar like a newborn’s cry as
Kayleigh pretends she is large, a menacing figure, not young, not old, not an adult, not a child, just a large statue silhouetted against the sun
strong
her pen touching the paper, writing that
last night she dreamt of cats and trying to find the bathroom in an unfamiliar building, a government building, and cat hair like bread crumbs led the way, and then she was stopped before she could find the bathroom because
a security guard thought she was an intruder, and
it was just a dream, just a dream, but enough to remind her
an intruder entered
two intruders
after they had filled the sink with water for the Barbie swim party, just she and Ramona and the Barbies in their uncomfortable shoes, those feet
it’s unnatural to be in any position for so long, and
how Ramona froze, her left hand around Kayleigh’s wrist, her right hand still clasping one of the Barbies
and she must have turned the faucet off because
they both heard the sounds of
the front door opening and
a male voice
and another male voice saying, I hear someone, let’s do it
Ramona’s index finger up in front of her mouth, and
how unnatural it is to be in any position for so long, in a closet, the closet next to the bathroom, down the hall from the kitchen, where the telephone was, down the hall from where the living room was, where it
Ramona, in a wordless whisper, telling Kayleigh to
don’t say a word,
don’t cry, and
don’t come out,
no matter what you hear, no matter what happens, just don’t, don’t
don’t.
*
Small becomes invisible, and then cocoons grow into butterflies, but only the lucky ones
and the sounds of death fade, but it takes a long time,
the gulps, half-breaths, wheezing, moans, and separation
the blood that is carried away and back and forth, all of this circulation of
death, life, and imagination, of back and forth, and of memory, of
oxygenated fear because first it was Ramona, and
then it was the world, as
Kayleigh, in fourth grade, watched the Challenger explode, the TV detonating over and over, her teacher blinking in disbelief because
blinking makes it go away for a moment, makes it disappear, and
a brown thread dangling from a tweed jacket,
her mother yelling Kayleigh!, her father yelling Kayleigh!, all the screams of the living, so loud Kayleigh could taste and hear
the echoes bouncing off the walls and the windows, the house shaking with her mother’s screams, and Kayleigh wondering,
is it safe to come out yet, because
Ramona had told her to sit silently, to not say a word, to not come out no matter what she heard, no matter what happened, just don’t, don’t, so
Kayleigh sat folded within herself there in the closet, years ago but like yesterday, she still feels the
and hears the
even after her parents said they were moving and soon everything would be new again, even though there were still fields of corn and cantaloupe by the roadside, even though there were still silos and chimneys completing the landscape, and even though the houses in the new town still stood with brick overtones and concrete undertones next to worn-out sidewalks, grass sifting through the cracks, and
Kayleigh listens for the sound of the latch, but checks anyway, double-checks, checks it over and over again, can never check enough now because
she’s never far enough away, it’s
nobody is safe anymore unless she is locked in and they, all of them, everywhere, are locked up, because there are two kinds of fear, the fear that holds you back and the fear that lets you go, and
Kayleigh thinks of words and how it feels to write words, and how there are two kinds of people, people who do and people who don’t and
how there are two kinds of words, words that do and words that don’t,
safe words
and words of devastation, the words that make you wince, make you cease to exist, make you stare at a thread of a jacket for hours,
words that separate birth from death, young from old,
you from me from he from she from they, in the
lifeless hours that seemed like days, like weeks, like years, for years, and
there is Kayleigh, separated from herself, staring, focusing, her eyes adjusting as they stare into the darkness,
cringing and shading her eyes from the colors she sees as she emerges from the darkness afterward, after what must have only been four or five hours but which was so much longer,
the blinding light of the living room, the blue and red flashes outside the window, in the driveway, and
and that is the moment when she understands that she was created in that closet,
the new Kayleigh who
has been born into another life, one of destruction on the outside, one of
temporary permanence.
*
She uses a permanent marker because there’s a need for eternalness, for perpetuity, and there’s a sense of urgency, for explanation of, for there’s
no statute of limitations on murder, and
she writes on her left thigh, I am, and on her right thigh, I am, and then everywhere, fragmented attempts at proving it to herself, and the sudden panic of what if no one is left, and it is her job to repopulate the world, or what if everyone is dead when she finally opens the closet door, or what if
Kayleigh wonders at the supposed distinction between child and adult because
she wonders which she is, child or adult,
when on the city bus, on her way to work, Kayleigh sits next to a man in scrubs, and she’s intrigued by his profile, by the way his nose juts out and the way his glasses fill in the gaps, so
she reaches out and caresses his arm, runs her finger up the inside of his arm, along the soft skin, and whispers perfect, even though
he is timid, as though he wants to pull his arm away but doesn’t,
her fine-tipped permanent pen on his skin, his veins as guides, she writes: You are and I am and then it’s
this is my stop, I-I’m sorry, he says, but
yes
no
Kayleigh thinking, just listen to the ink and the spaces in between and maybe, but when she puts the pen to the skin of the woman who was on the other side of the man who has gotten off the bus, it’s
no
yes
but
I am just one
I dream of skyscrapers silhouetted against the sun
but no, it’s
stop, you freak!
*
Kayleigh doesn’t remember any sounds except the ones she doesn’t want to remember, and she doesn’t remember any faces except those she doesn’t want to remember, those faces from the newspaper, a young man with a prematurely receding hairline and thick-framed glasses, squinting at the camera, and the other one, a baby face, his nose too large for his cheeks, his mouth and eyes too small, but both men normal enough that they could be anyone
normal enough that they were everyone
and then there were too many people talking, it was
the blur of confusion and lights and color, all happening fast, but slowly, and her still not knowing whether it was real or not,
the screams
and echoes and
how she felt their anguish because it was also hers and
her mother’s voice, oh, Kayleigh, my baby girl, screaming and crying, twisted happiness and horror and Kayleigh burying her face in her mother’s black dress, her mother’s makeup smeared, smudged and running mascara, red cheeks,
no longer smelling of perfume,
just sweat and fear, and
her father talking to police officers,
a thread loose on his cuff, and
Ramona
hours that seemed like days, but really only
a lifetime, a lifetime being too short, and now
Kayleigh dreams those dreams where you scream but no sound emerges, only
silence
and hand-picked moments of memory, like
when she was in seventh grade, assigned to write an essay about what she would save if her house were on fire and she could only save one item and
to assume her loved ones were safe and
safe
and then,
reading “The Tell-Tale Heart” and then,
turning seventeen and being told to pick a college major, to decide what to be as an adult and then,
the Unabomber’s manifesto published by The Washington Post, because sometimes words stick to paper, making them real, eternal, in a way that nothing else can ever be, and then,
the Columbine shooting and the so-called “Trench Coat Mafia,” and then,
Y2K and stockpiles of food, waiting for the world to end, waiting for the computers to reset, and then,
9/11, and then,
ten people killed by a spree killer in Red Lake, Minnesota, and then,
thirty-three people killed in a mass shooting in Blacksburg, Virginia, and
then and then and on and on and
each moment becoming a part of Kaleigh, recirculating through her bloodstream, the fear morphing into creatures and nightmares
until she decides that maybe all people are monsters, and
on and on and
stop
stop hurting her, Kayleigh had wanted to scream, but Ramona had told her to be quiet, to not say a word, no matter what she heard, and
she remembers Ramona’s scream like it was a minute ago, like it just happened, like it’s still happening,
a scream which became a rasp, a grunt, a moan, then nothing, and
they said Ramona fought back, they could tell from the defensive wounds, and they said that the men stayed until she was dead and that
the motive was adrenaline, a thrill, a hedonistic high, and how they had gone up and down the blocks, just looking for unlocked doors to
just passing through from on their way to
just because they wanted to know what it was like to
and Ramona wasn’t the only one, it was
and they
emptied her wallet, but nothing else was taken, just
Kayleigh had heard them break the TV, smash the lamp, their cheerfully grizzly voices pitched in excitement, heat, and exhilaration, of
anyone else here
nope, checked the bedrooms, no one else and Kayleigh
holding her breath for forever,
and still clutching a Barbie doll when she heard her parents’ voices,
and still staring at the loose thread on the button of a brown tweed jacket, all because
because
because you and you and you and you,
because the pounding blood,
because
systemic circulation, the
heart and
body,
because over and over,
because she was in the womb of her mother,
and because she was in the womb of her father, and because
she was born of her own womb,
is born of her own womb,
is still being born.
Jessica Klimesh
Jessica Klimesh is a US-based writer, editor, and proofreader who works with academic, technical, and creative writers. In her editing work, she has a penchant for following rules; in her creative work, she has a penchant for breaking them. Jessica holds an MA in English from Bowling Green State University and an MFA in Creative Writing from Cedar Crest College. Her fiction has appeared or is forthcoming in The Cafe Irreal, Star 82 Review, Flash Flood Journal, Briefly Write, and elsewhere.