“Cleave” A story. Marianna slams the glove compartment shut. Loose change rattles in the various caverns that collect such things as pennies, wrappers, single Barbie dolls shoes. She buckles herself into the driver’s seat and strangles the steering wheel. Rain slides from the darkness. Her breath condenses. She can’t see much, and she doesn’t dare turn on the car. Waiting like this is natural. She breathes in through her nose and out through her mouth. Tears flip onto her tongue, and she is surprised. This never happens. A hand slams onto the passenger side window. Kate rips open the door and drops into the seat. Marianna gapes at her twin. “Where is it?” Marianna stares straight into her sister’s eyes. Eyes like a mirror’s. “Mar? I need to know where it is.” “This was not, this was not – this wasn’t --” “You saw what happened.” “I did.” “Drive, Mar. Away. We need to split.” To split. To cleave or to move. Marianna leaves the keys dangling in the ignition and she slips out of the car, under the rain. The gun rests in the glove compartment. Kate thinks her sister kept the thing on her person, like every other time. But every other time, they didn’t use it. Kate rushes from the passenger seat and scans the night. Marianna is gone, probably in the trees already, protected but alone. Kate sees street lights and puddles and tries not to splash into any as she moves around the car. This time, for the first time, they’re severed. Kate crawls into the driver’s seat. She twists the car into life and drives as noiselessly from her parents’ home as she can.
Love that poem, Erin. Congrats! And I look forward to learning what those severed girls did.