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Carol can’t sleep. It’s also a day ending in -y, so who’s surprised?
The world, apparently. The whole world is very upset and surprised at this fact. The world manifests itself inside the head of a woman named Zosia, sat politely on Carol’s couch, hands folded on her lap. Carol stands with her back touching the little bar tucked into the corner of the living room. The mahogany edge is the only thing keeping Carol anchored to reality. It’s dark outside, sky inky and black and without the city lights it’s like everything beyond her house doesn’t exist anymore. Her head throbs; her vision sways a little. She’s not shitfaced, surprisingly, but she will be eventually.
The head pains and blurry vision are just from the lack of sleep. Carol hopes, with enough liquor, she will collapse on the couch again; if that doesn’t work, she’ll knock back something from her medicine cabinet that she absolutely shouldn’t mix with alcohol but will do it anyway, even if it’s just for four fragmented hours of sleep until she wakes up just as fucked up as before. It’s better than no sleep. Better than facing the reality of whatever fucked up world she lives in now, the world sat on her couch, smiling, with those big brown eyes that make Carol’s gut flip.
But that could be the vodka.
Carol knocks back another glass, sets it on the counter to her side.
(It’s definitely the vodka.)
Zosia sips her drink like a civilized person.
Carol just watches, until she can’t stand it anymore. “Whenever you want to explain why you’re here,” Carol says, “Go ahead.”
Zosia offers a polite smile, shifting in her seat. “We have an idea, Carol. A suggestion that may improve your sleep quality,” She says, “Should you agree to it.”
“Oh yeah? What?” Carol asks. “Got me a script for some valium?”
“We were thinking of something more... holistic.” Zosia says. Then, smiling like a fucking maniac: “Us.” Carol offers her nothing. Zosia’s mouth twitches with uncertainty. She explains: “We think a partner would help you rest, which, in turn, would help your overall wellbeing.”
Carol arches a brow, swilling her vodka. “You think we should sleep together.” Zosia doesn’t get it. So Carol makes it obvious. “Pretty forward, considering—”
Zosia blinks. “Oh. Carol. We—” A pause. That sheepish fucking smile. “That was not our intent. We think, perhaps,” She continues, “Some tactile comfort would be beneficial for you. While you slept.”
Carol pulls a face. That’s somehow worse.“What,” Carol quips, “Skin to skin? Like I’m some big drunk fucking baby?”
Zosia’s mouth opens and closes, the collective consciousness of the planet hesitating from saying, Yes, Carol. Just like that. Silence falls between them. Carol’s throat is dry and her belly burns from the liquor. She can count the amount of meals she’s had the last four days on one hand and struggles to recollect how much booze she’s forced down herself during that time.
Carol huffs, turning back to the bar. “I guess if I keep going like this,” She thinks aloud, “You’re not gonna have to worry about melding me to your freaky fucking hivemind at all.”
“Correct, Carol.” Zosia says.
“But you would let me drink myself to death,” Carol says, turning back, “If I really wanted to?”
“We would talk it through with you.” Zosia says. “We would do everything we could to change your mind.”
Carol nips her bottom lip. “But you’d still let me do it.”
“Correct, Carol.” Zosia says again, softer than before; her voice is low and edged with discomfort. “Please don’t.”
Carol purses her mouth together in one long line. Her lips are dry and chapped. All she tastes is the acidic tang of her vodka and the remnants of lunch stuck between the backs of her teeth. Her sight falls to Zosia again, which is a big fucking mistake, because whatever she’s doing with her eyes it makes Carol feel like she’s the biggest asshole in the world. Which, actually, by all accounts, she is; Carol Sturka is the most prolific killer since Stalin and the biggest asshole from here onwards. Zosia waits, patiently. Her eyes are dark, soft. Comforting. (She sees Helen. Almost.) Carol grits her teeth.
Her vodka hits the bar with a ringing thwack because the bottle’s almost empty.
“Fuck it,” Carol says, knocking back the last of her glass. “Fine. Guestroom.” Zosia perks up, mouth pulled into a too-wide smile. She stands, and Carol stares. “I don’t have to tell you where it is.”
“Ah. Yes,” Zosia says. “We wondered if you wanted to go together.”
“No. I don’t.”
For some fucking reason Carol thinks this is a good idea. She stops drinking for the night. She doesn’t pop whatever pills she can find. She doesn’t destroy her liver just a little bit more to ease her pain. Instead, she winds into the guestroom. Zosia is there. She doesn’t impose; she just stands.
“You don’t have to wait,” Carol quips, kicking off her slippers. “Just... dive in.”
The guestroom isn’t as painful as her bedroom. She can’t face being in there—the sheets still smell like her, the duvet’s still crumbled. It’s best left that way: untouched, preserved; the last of Helen’s touch still somewhere in the world, without all these freaks ruining it.
Zosia unzips her boots. She places them at the beside the bed, and goes to pull the bedsheet back.
“You cannot sleep in jeans and a cardigan.” Carol says, unimpressed. She sighs. “First drawer, left wardrobe. There’s some sweats in there.”
“Thank you, Carol,” Zosia chirps, and then Carol reminds herself Zosia knew they were there anyway. She sifts through the drawer and pulls a simple two piece. Then, without warning, the next thing Carol sees is the bare back of her shoulder—
“Privacy—” Carol says, shielding her eyes. “Jesus Christ. Let me leave first.”
Zosia shrugs her shirt back up, looking over her shoulder with an embarrassed smile. “We apologize, Carol. Habit.”
“Habit?” Carol asks.
It hits like a landmine: habit means a memory from Helen, enmeshed with Zosia’s brain. Carol’s breath hitches. Zosia waits.
Carol exits to the guest bathroom.
Once inside, Carol clutches the marble counter like a life-preserver keeping her from drowning. Leans all her weight into it until the hard edge leaves digs in her palms, and even then it’s not enough. There’s that itch again. Claw for some liquor, guzzle it down, melt it all away.
It’s not even like she can blame the end of the world for why she’s feeling like this. That feeling’s been there for as long as she can remember. It ebbs and flows, it crashes her car and very nearly destroys her marriage; it cuts through everything Carol is like poison and hollows her from the inside out. Consuming, dissolving.
“We’re decent,” Zosia calls from the guestroom, and Carol sucks a breath.
They can’t kill you. Carol thinks. They want to help in whatever fucked up, peer-reviewed way that they can. They seem to think it’ll help. And you just want to sleep.
So there’s no harm in trying it.
“So like, if I freak the fuck out,” Carol starts, pulling back the bedsheet, “I’m just gonna crawl back to the living room and curl up there. Got it?”
“Of course, Carol,” Zosia says. “We do not want you to be uncomfortable. The opposite, actually.”
Zosia pulls back the sheet. She’s wearing a set of sweats neither Carol nor Helen have ever worn, which is appreciated. They’re sage colored and way too short in the leg for her; Zosia's pants look like capris, cuffed at her calves. And it’s just so weird. The disconnect. That’s not just Zosia. That’s Zosia pod-person. Zosia Everyone.
Carol slides into bed. “Right.”
Zosia follows.
Carol gawks at her. “Is Zosia okay with this? The non-pod person.”
“It is difficult to draw such a distinction, as we are everyone, Carol,” Zosia says, “But... this body is comfortable. In particular, she seems to appreciate your choice of linen. We like the thread count,” Her palm smooths over the bottom sheet. “And the color in particular. This is Egyptian cotton, correct?”
“Uh. Yeah, probably,” Carol mumbles. “Not quite the answer I wanted. But it’ll do. I suppose.”
Carol turns on her side and balls up. It’s the most embarrassing thing in the world to know that everyone—literally everyone—knows exactly how much of a baby Carol is when it comes to sleep. Curled up fetal. Hands tucked under her chin, knees high to her chest, surrounded by an obnoxious amount of pillows. The way it takes her no more than fifteen minutes of tossing and turning until she’s comfortable, and then she needs to get up to piss again, which she does, and then comes the second round of making herself comfortable.
You’re like a cat, Helen would say. My grumpy little cat.
The whole time Carol’s twisting and contorting Zosia lays on her back, hands knitted across her abdomen, perfectly calm. It’s kind of irritating how poised she is. Carol twists, tucks another pillow under her head, one between her knees, and greedily tugs the duvet up to her chin.
“Okay. Settled.” Carol mumbles. “Could you kill the lights, please,” she quips, “Or does killing electrons go against your code?”
Zosia chuckles. “It’s not killing,” She says. The bed creaks as she shifts her weight, reaching for the switch beside Carol’s nightstand.
Zosia is all legs and arms and at first it feels like Carol is sharing the bed with a human-sized spider; the spindly kind that can’t hurt you but the sheer length of them freaks you out. The way they’re slow and unhurried no matter what, even when you’re trying to get them out the house; they act like they belong here.
Zosia acts like she belongs here.
She’s lanky and weirdly strong, with these too long arms that reach for the nightstand without any trouble. Helen would have to half-roll over Carol to get anything from the nightstand; Zosia glides. Carol feels small. Smaller than usual. She feels like a belligerent fly stuck in a beige-cotton web.
The lights go out.
“Carol,” Zosia whispers, slipping back, “Is this okay?”
Rather than reacting with a reflexive outburst, Carol bites back her vitriol and really thinks about it. It’s better than the couch. Better than the endless loop of Golden Girls and grainy tinned laughter slipping in and out her benzo-addled dreams, better than the bile bubbling up in the back of her throat because her gut is nothing but liquor. In the dark, she just hears Zosia’s breathing. Steady, rhythmic.
Carol doesn’t answer at first. “You seem tired.”
“We are not,” Zosia says with a poorly stifled yawn, “But this body is, yes.”
“You should let her sleep, then,” Carol snaps, “Like a normal fucking person.”
“You... haven’t answered our question, Carol,” Zosia says, body bone-tired and yet her voice remains courteous. “We can relocate to the car,” She says, “If you’ve changed your mind.”
“No, no. Fuck,” Carol says, turning over. “Just sleep here. It’s fine. I’m really okay with it.”
Zosia’s body relaxes back into the bed like the weight of the world was just lifted from her shoulders, and by all accounts, it probably was. “That is... very good to hear, Carol,” Zosia says. “We appreciate your hospitality.”
Zosia lays on her back, low-lit in the dark. Carol can just barely make out her features; the long bridge of her nose, the silky sheen of her hair; her mouth, still smiling slightly. Zosia looks like no one Carol knows and everyone she knows, all together, all at once.
“Goodnight, Carol.” Zosia whispers.
Carol’s reply is pointed. “Sleep well,” She says, “Zosia.”
Zosia makes a rough sleepy sound. She takes one long, deep breath, and she’s gone.
Carol’s brow furrows. She rolls back over, mindful not to pull the duvet too much. There’s an odd familiarity about this that Carol can’t place. A presence, maybe, even though she really doesn’t believe in that shit. She doesn’t feel alone. If Carol closed her eyes, and really, really tried to take herself back to the time before, it feels like she almost could.
Zosia’s breathing sounds from behind. Cicadas buzz outside Carol’s window, and usually, she’d hate that sound—but now it reminds her of before, and she’ll cling to anything from before, even the grating sound of hundreds of bugs clicking as they fuck each other. Carol doesn’t expect to sleep. For a long time she doesn’t. She cries without making a sound; tears fall, but no sobbing, no change in her breathing. She rides it out like every other night she’d stifle her crying without Helen hearing, without waking her, without her needing to feel like she has to to put Carol back together just to watch her shatter again.
Eventually, Carol stops. She swallows, eyes lidded, until the reach of two long arms hook up under her shoulders, drawing her in. Carol braces. She cracks one eye open. Zosia buries her head into Carol’s shoulder, obviously asleep. Grumpy, Zosia murmurs, soft and broken, then kotek, which doesn’t sound English at all. Carol doesn’t know what to do with herself. It doesn’t feel bad. She doesn’t feel bad. Zosia is close and her heat is like a soothing salve for all the tension in Carol’s body, melting it away, better than booze ever could.
But Carol has known this woman, manifest of the world or not, for barely a week. So Carol waits a moment—a long, long moment, careful not to stir her—and slowly unpeels herself from Zosia’s embrace. Carol shuffles back to her corner of the bed, curled and oddly relaxed.
Her head feels heavy, limbs lax and not so tightly curled up. She feels so stupid for crying. But crying is good, and the release of cortisol does just about enough for her biological processes to win out and allow her to drift to sleep, finally. It’s dreamless. It’s over much too quickly. Part of her wanted to dream and see Helen again, speak to her, tell her how sorry she is for being so miserable, for never appreciating her enough.
Zosia stirs beside her.
Dawn cracks through the blinds. Carol’s stomach rumbles. She’s not happy. No where fucking close to happy. But there’s something in her mind that's not so jumbled, and maybe it’ll stick around long enough to get her shit together and get some food down herself. Carol sits up, and the slightest movement to the bed jolts Zosia awake. Her eyes flicker open and—for just a second—she’s almost human again. Then the glue sets in, melding her to everyone else.
“Good morning, Carol,” Zosia says, voice bright yet hoarse with sleep. “Can we get you breakfast?”
“Nah, see. You’re in my house,” Carol says, stretching, “So you’re gonna get the shittiest over easy eggs, all burnt—because somehow, I manage to do that,” she explains, “And we’re gonna ration the last of the OJ between us. That's as good as I've got.”
Zosia nods.
“And then you’re gonna leave.”
Zosia nods again. “Of course, Carol.”
Carol swings her legs off the bed, angling toward the kitchen. “Of course, Carol,” She parrots to herself, resigned. Still not adjusted. Still spinning. But not drowning, for right now, which is all Carol can ask for.