Ill-Magination
Stephanie Gaitán
Ophelia. John Everett Millais.
Living on a busy street by two shopping centers, I hear a lot of noise coming in through my shut bedroom windows. It can take me a long time to fall asleep, because of the vrooming, the cars at the red light blasting music, the shouting, the what you gonna do about it bitch? that reaches me four stories above the street.
During this pandemic, I’ve moved from my internal thoughts and noises to those happening outside me (antidepressants have helped tremendously). But recently, I got sick – nausea, over twenty-four hours without food because I couldn't keep anything down – and I was compelled to return to my inner world. I couldn’t use my phone much or watch TV or read, so my imagination and sleep were my only escapes.
I’m in a room with two beds. It looks like a hotel, only it isn’t. There’s a sliding glass door that leads to Central Park—grass, trees, and strangers walking about. I get up and walk to the living room, friends and family are gathered. There are two strange seats, and I know they’re a type of futuristic device, maybe for time-travel or virtual simulations. There are ghosts in my apartment. I know this, innately. Suddenly, I’m out on a ramp, outside the building, giving birth. I’m wearing a white nightgown, the kind you’d see in an English countryside horror movie. I’m in a squat, pulling long legs out of my vagina with a doctor behind me. The baby is born and it’s a female version of my ex-boyfriend. She’s beautiful, with his same brown skin and dark curly hair. We go into the apartment and she’s an adult and I’m in love with her.
He keeps coming back to me, as thoughts, in dreams. I chalk it up as induced by social distancing. Pain finds its way to the surface when everything is still, an easy ocean to traverse. But it wasn’t all pain, and those are the moments my mind tries to maintain. I was in love with him and I want him to be okay. He broke my heart, but I want him to be okay.
This department store is strange, and I’m aware of this. I think I’m lucid dreaming again. Countless wooden stairs and ladders lead to different rooms where toothpaste, clothes, and old DVDs are being sold. The cashiers are at registers with high counters, like the Double Discount on Simpson Street had. There’s a man who takes your bags at one of the landings. I only give him one of my bags. I keep my backpack and prepare to protest with I’m carrying my wallet in it, but he doesn’t ask for it. I find a best friend from high school up in a room where bootleg anime T-shirts are displayed. We hide ourselves away behind a tall shelf and have sex. No one notices.
I gave a dating app a try, though I was hesitant. I lasted six days, the same amount of time I spent in a hospital psych ward. I was isolated, and lonely. There’s something neurotic about dating apps—you post your best photos, you best bio, your best version of you and hope someone takes the bait, someone you find attractive or can carry a conversation with. But I don’t think people are so genuine anymore. And when you are genuine and have great tits, the creeps come crawling.
The children’s floor at my local library is as comforting as ever—light comes in through the tall glass windows, the rug and cushions are bright and lovely, the picture books lined on the shelves like a mosaic of stories. I’m carrying a large black bag; I don’t know what’s inside. I place it on the sofa and marvel at the books lined on the shelves. I start with the books against the wall and pick up Arthur chapter books. I think to myself: Helena will love these! I continue browsing and somewhere along the way, I acquire two dogs—a large one and a small one. I’d gathered several books in my arms by the time I decided to borrow the dogs too, so at checkout I decide there is no way I could get home with my black bag and all that I borrowed. So, I only take the small one, and he is so happy, and I am so happy.
A loud, metallic banging wakes me. I think, this must mean I’m going to die soon. I had a good dream, I was happy. I was so happy.
Stephanie Gaitán is a writer, editor, and mother from the Bronx whose world has been featured in 433. Her past-times include laughter, and time-travel to childhood touchstones with her daughter. Her work has also been featured in Stone of Madness Press, Voyage, and Palabritas. Insta: @myeyesarebooked / Twitter: @GaitanWrites