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.