JUNO


    MINDEN, LA


    SEPTEMBER 1986


    My back is pressed against the door. I tug at the locked doorknob, banging upon it with my fists. I’ve misplaced the key. I push over the thick cardboard boxes that I had spent countless hours stacking in front of it. Tugging, pulling, straining. It simply won’t budge, and I begin to viciously punch at it with my clammy fists. The filthy imprint of the creature’s palm is still freshly pressed upon my hand. There is sweat pouring down my face, and I am struggling to breathe. I turn around again, yanking at the doorknob. Something is barricading it from the other side. The shadowy figure has moved around my mattress and sprawled sheets. It’s coming closer to me, and I am glued to the door.


    They take another step forward.


    “Go away,” I scream at the top of my lungs.


    Silence.


    My eyes are wet. I don’t know what this person wants—is it a person? No, there is no person here with me. It’s a hallucination, the very same one that Tom Brunswick has repeatedly told me about. I remember him telling me to think logically. It has spawned from the depths of my deprived mind. Otherwise, how could someone enter a locked room from the inside with only one door? I had checked everything—even bolted the window. In reality, I am still asleep on that mattress. This is a nightmare that I am still in. I must wake up. I must. I roll up the sleeves of my wrinkled nightgown and begin to slap and pinch at my arms. There is pain, so I pinch harder until the skin is red and sore.


    Come on. Wake up, wake up, wake up.


    Two bare feet leave muddy prints against the rotting bedroom floor, visible in the moonlight. There is a heavy silence in the room, other than my futile, pathetic attempts to leave this room. I can’t stay here another minute. I simply can’t. I should’ve begged Tom—pleaded with him to remain at his place for the next two months. I’d have gladly slept in the backyard or garage. I should’ve borrowed some money, rented a hotel room; with decent running water and electricity. I should’ve called the cops and have them check every sprawling inch of this place. What was I thinking?


    I should’ve—


    Juno.


    I begin to kick at the door again with my bare heels. I’m trying to shut its quiet, broken voice out of my head. It sounds very human, but I don’t want to acknowledge it as such. I hate that it knows my name. I want to get away from it. I’m tired of being afraid of something I can’t see. This fills me up with a heat I can’t comprehend—and my tongue is loosened from its weight. All the weeks of anxiety and stress and sleepless nights seem to bubble over and spill out of me. Who did this thing think it was, and what right did it have to reign dominion over my own life? I didn’t sign up for any of this.


    ”Let me out of here.”


    Silence.


    ”Let me out of this room,” I slowly repeat, although I can see how pointless it is to say such a thing. But I still want to establish some sense of authority. It has me here for a reason, to commit a deed I am not prepared for. “Let me go. You can’t keep me here forever.”


    There’s a shifting noise, followed by heavy, distilled breathing.


    “Show me your face,” I demand. “Or are you too scared to do that? Come out in the light so I can see you, you animal.” I narrow my eyes. “Do it. I dare you, since you have the guts to keep me here against my will.” My hands are shaking. “You’re nothing but a dirty thief, too. You have my driver’s license and my knife, don’t you? I know what you took from me. Give back my stuff! I’ll call the police on you myself.” My voice is shaking.


    No reply.


    ”I will! And then everyone in this town will see how rotten you are.” My throat burns. “I will!”


    An inky figure spreads out against the wall—the rotting floor, which groans and strains under our weight. In the moonlight, I catch a glimpse of dried leaves and twigs stuck upon a matted head of tangled, filthy hair—wild and long and unkempt— facial features swallowed up by the darkness. It remains standing near my mattress, silently watching my every move. My throat burns. A deep heat suddenly settles upon my face. Resting on top of one of the cardboard boxes is a book, and my shaking hands feel around it in the dark. If they wish to kill me, I’m going to do whatever I can to delay this creature. I will make sure my child is able to live another day, even if I won’t, just as long as this thing doesn’t cross paths with it.


    I throw it at the figure.


    The book falls to the ground with a thump.


    ”I hate you,” I yell. “I hate you.”


    I don’t know what or who I am talking to, but I do. I truly hate this presence. And it has ruined everything, made my life a living hell for the last four months. I think about all the months of endlessly working to save up for the down payment of this house. My dreams of a hope and future for my baby and I are shattered. My blood shall be dashed upon the floor—my unborn child cut from my womb and placed into someone else’s despicable arms. Practically the thing that is standing in front of me now. It is waiting to attack, like a fox that watches its prey from the shadows.


    ”I hate you,” I shout. “You hear me?”


    It doesn’t answer me. Of course it doesn’t.


    As I move, I stumble over a cardboard box and hit my right knee. I am gasping for air. My arm goes into it, fishing for another random object, and I pull out my water globe. I chuck it at the figure again, which doesn’t flinch. The globe crashes to the floor, leaving behind shards of glass. A large puddle of the gelatinous, glittering liquid spreads outward, glowing in the moonlight spilling through the window. I can about make a pale bare foot that steps into it—the nails are dark, thick, and long. There are gashes and small cuts that mark the dirt-caked flesh. I can’t help but wrinkle my nose at the stench coming from them. When was the last time this thing has taken a bath? Have they ever heard of soap or deodorant?


    I imagine my father shaking his head, like he always did when he was disappointed. Trabajas demasiado rapida mija, he’d scold me when I attempted to make a cake for my grandmother one time; I was ten years old. I ended up putting in salt instead of sugar, and she had gotten so ill from the first bite that she had to go to the emergency room. I was in such a rush to have it ready for her I had skimmed over the directions in the cookbook. ?Necesitas planificar y tomarte tu tiempo!


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    Defeated, I lean my sweaty head against the door. I will never be able to see my kid grow up, go to college, get a job, get married, or have children of their own. I will die on the moldy bedroom floor on the second floor of some asbestos ridden trap house that hasn’t been renovated since the forties. One that I was too stupid to buy in the first place; all because I was so desperate to own a home.


    The figure stares at me.


    My knees are weak. I curl sideways against the door, my hand still wrapped around the knob. I just want my mother to have a place to come to, if she ever decides to come back to the States, if she ever decides to forgive me. If she ever changes her mind—she could come and visit her grandchild for the very first time, hold them in her arms. I miss her more than ever in this moment. I’ve dreamt about it for years. I’d show her the backyard, the rooms, the freshly painted walls—and see her smile—we could forget about the past. We could laugh and smile like the old days. I am nothing but a failure; perhaps she could see that I had made something of myself.


    Those days seem further away than ever.


    My attention drifts back to the figure. It’s just standing there, watching me loudly sniff and wipe my puffy eyes, which haven’t yet gotten used to the dark room. It is so still it is like a statue. Maybe it is only my imagination.


    Everyone wants something, Juno, my mother used to say. Everyone’s looking to fill a hole.


    ”Is it money you want?” I wearily ask. “Look. You can take everything I have. Take it all. My car, my clothes, my wallet, everything. You can sell them. I don’t care. Just let me and my child out of here. Please.”


    There is no answer.


    I draw in a shaky breath, preparing myself for the worst. When are they going to do it already? It’s torture to wait for this long. I’m expecting a knife to be plunged deep into my side, a blow to my face. Maybe they have a gun and plan to blow my brains out. They’re going to take my baby, leave my corpse up here. I will become forgotten and alone, like this house is.


    The figure slowly takes a step towards me.


    “No, no, no, stay there!” I shriek, motioning with my hands. “Away. Away. Go away.”


    They pause, before they take another step, gracefully moving around the shattered glass from the smashed globe. I’m feeling around in my cardboard box until I pull out a hanger, pointing the wired edge at the shadow. My hand is shaking so bad I can hardly hold it straight. They are still moving towards me, and I can feel their eyes directly on my soul.


    “No! Don’t come any closer.” My voice is raw, and I shield my large abdomen with both of my arms. “Get away from us. I’ll use this.” The metal wiring of the hanger digs into my hands. My arms are extremely shaky. “Leave.”


    The figure tenses up, as if taken back by my words. They suddenly stop by the window. I’m surprised that they do so—as I can be easily overpowered by its twisted, towering frame.


    “I hate you,” I repeat. I mean it with every fiber of my being. The words just flow out of my mouth. “I hate you. I wish that I had never moved here. I can’t even get a good night’s sleep because I’m always worrying about you!” I clench my teeth. “I hate you, you hear? Nobody loves you. That’s why you have to do this. Because people get sick just being around you. You make me sick. Why can’t you just go home? Mess with someone else for a change. You ever thought about that?”


    Silence.


    ”What do you want from me?” I explode.


    No response. I am startled to see the figure’s demeanor change, their shoulders slump as they look down for a moment. My chest is still rising up and down—my face is still warm with rage. Tears are escaping down my cheeks.


    You are my home.


    It’s a soft, yet clear whisper. Barely audible to the point I can just about make it out. The entire house creaks, like it is struggling to support our weight. I drop the hanger, and it loudly echoes against the floor. There is a rapid sound of their footsteps rushing towards me at full speed in the pitch black. The room in its entirety disappears. A tingling, itching sensation suddenly over my flesh, before there is nothing left at all.


    * * * * * *


    I open my eyes.


    No, no, no—


    What has only existed moments ago is gone. My arms, legs—the rest of my body as I know it, including my unborn child. I can’t feel a kick—any sense of movement in my stomach, which has been the only thing keeping me going the last couple of weeks. My body has been replaced with the same abysmal pink blob, pixelated and sharp at the edges—like the strange road in front of me. There is no pain, only a fierce numbness, and I cannot tell which one is the worst out of the two. I fight to make sense of it all. How is it that I have landed here without the television set or game console?


    That doesn’t matter. How am I supposed to do anything without arms or legs? Who designed this?


    The path, which reminds me of the yellow brick road I read in the Wizard of Oz as a child, itself twists and goes off into the distance, but I don’t wish to follow it. I turn around and start heading the opposite direction. My new body tingles and burns.


    I’m too exhausted to care. I shiver, it is beyond freezing in this place. It takes me a few moments to figure out how to move up, down, left, and right. It’s like driving a car, expect without the skills or the engine. I just have to maneuver forward, and although I can go very fast at times, I slow down too often. I don’t know where to go. I just have to keep moving until I can figure a way out of here, which is probably a slim chance.


    There must be a way out, right?


    A dense, colorful forest lies ahead, full of blue and green trees. Clearly, there is some attempt at nature here—like I’m in the woods or a national park. The background is some strange, stupid tune that echoes in this place—like the ones I used to hear in those cheap arcade games. Does it ever stop? Will it ever stop? I want to cover my hands with my ears.


    I look up, down, left and right. Gasping frantically, I rush through the endless trees—more like float— trying to make sense of my surroundings. Trying to find a way out of it. I am no longer human, but I regret all the times I had taken it for granted. Pink does not look good on me; it’s such a stupid color.


    I begin to destroy each and every pixelated tree in front of me, bits of green and brown and black dissolving. I shall never see him again. As I blast through one row after another, a number floating above my head increases, but I don’t care, nor pay attention to it. My mind is spinning. I know if I try to break out, it’ll result far worse than a broken arm and a couple of stitches. I think the creature that’s holding me hostage knows that. It’s not a chance that I’m willing to take at the moment.


    I’ll need to destroy this place if I have to.


    I should’ve never returned to that house. I am a horrible mother. I <em style="font-size: 0.9em">failed to protect my child.


    I’m beginning to demolish another row of trees in this programmed forest when a sound reaches my ears—do I even have ears? I don’t know. It’s loud enough for me to hear it. I spin around, turning away from a smoldering tree, which has caught fire and is burning nicely. I am still floating off the ground, and I can’t deal with the fact that I don’t have feet anymore.


    A strange yellow creature is behind me. I’m not sure how to describe its shape—it’s round at the top like me, but much more spiky at the very bottom. I can see its black eyes shyly meeting my own, and it says something before I can even comprehend what I am looking at. It tilts its head to the side.


    I stare back.


    “Who are you?” it asks.