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“There was a party… in the ‘70s.”
Rainey grimaced. She’d heard this before. She knew. She knew what had happened to her, and her mind refused to listen again.
Her throat bobbed. Her mouth opened, as if to protest. Nothing came out but a choked, wheezing sound.
The homeowner continued speaking.
“It was ‘20s themed.”
Rainey imagined a spinning record— anything to drown out the homeowner’s insipid recount. Just the cadence I like, she thought. A smooth jazz would fill the room, and she would dance, dance the Charleston or the Foxtrot. People would flood the space, and they’d dance with her.
Maybe they’d compete for how long they could last, swaying and moving like they were plagued. They’d toss out the obsolete CD players and speakers, and revert back to the record player— like they ought to.
Someone out there would fiddle around with her screws, and music would smother the room as it replaced oxygen.
That was what she wanted; to be recognized.
Was that what she wanted?
”There was, um, an accident.”
The homeowner’s voice shook a bit as they gripped the paper, which Rainey already knew had been signed by Celia. Celia, in all her glory. Celia, who kept an eye on everything in the house, like Rainey had incriminated herself. Like she was a scrambled version of Winston and the mayor prided herself on being Big Brother.
Rainey had half a mind to scream. Declare how much she wanted to be useful again, how much she wanted to be the shining star of the cast of discarded musical instruments strung around the house.
She didn’t. No, no, why would she, when she was scared of changing perfectly fine, anyway? She, alone, could play without touch, and had lasted longer in this house than any other object.
She didn’t want to change. She was fine. Fine the way she was. If anyone wanted to help her manipulate her, twist her into something she wasn’t, she would be devastated.
It was better to be a lunatic. Better to be alone.
Rainey knew— knew, in her heart, that they’d look at her differently if she was ‘fixed’.
She’d pop out somewhere, exclaiming, “Look, I’m better now!” and people would cheer. Cheer, because she was rightfully… right, again. Like they hadn’t scorned her, mocked her, when all she had done was try her best to bring back the vivacity she once witnessed.
She couldn’t have that. She had to urge the homeowner to leave, to stop trying to make her palatable or some other sweet word that would make people like her at her ‘best’. Because that was what mattered, wasn’t it? To be the better person. To forgive the people who laughed at her, when she tried.
God, did she try.
Why couldn’t someone appreciate her now?
Was that what would happen to her? People would love her again, even though she wouldn’t be able to love herself? Would she look at herself in some far-off, reflective surface, and mistake herself for someone else?
The homeowner was still talking. They had apologized, somewhere within the wall of speech they had uttered to make her potentially feel better.
Rainey opened her mouth again. Something came out, sounding both furious and morose, coalescing into something she couldn’t understand.
Change. It was already happening.
For once, she urged someone to leave. Commanded that she needed space, to think, and to listen to herself. After so long of asking for company, for her hey-day to return, and she had just directed the homeowner to leave.
It was for the better, Rainey insisted. Their meek ‘sorry’ couldn’t change anything. Could it?
Thinking. That’s what she needed. Thinking.