Alice and Galvin

I come downstairs. I heard sounds in the basement, and my heart is racing from the excitement of possibly seeing Galvin there. He hasn’t come for a while, but I thought he would make an appearance today, for my twelfth birthday. I wipe the blood off my wrists on the pajama bottoms. I don’t want to worry him too much, but I do want him to see the cuts. They’re not very deep, but the two red streams running down my arms are starting to drip off the fingers.

“Tell me, why do I do these things to myself?”

Galvin smiles knowingly, “Because you need something to be strong enough to shake you out of whatever prison you’ve created for yourself.”

“Why can’t I just be normal? Why do I need these extremes?” I sniffle. “I can’t take it anymore.”

His eyes squint, looking at the pools of blood. He doesn’t seem overly concerned. “You can stop this at any time you choose to,” he replies. “You obviously are enjoying it too much for now.”

I shake my head, enraged now at his patronizing answers. “You don’t get it.” I want to stomp my foot, have a little tantrum. “I don’t want this, and I’m trying to stop these patterns. I want to be a normal human being, emotionally attached to other human beings. I can’t seem to find solace in anyone.”

“Why are you seeking it in someone?” I think he’s trying to be difficult, asking these Oracle-like questions. “You’re enough, don’t you think? Anything you need is always within your reach. What makes you feel whole?”

“I like to write,” I say after a short pause, “and dance. I love to dance. Letters calm me down, and dancing makes me feel connected to everything. Without questions.” For a moment, I’m lost in my thoughts. I’m thinking about the beat of the drum and the feeling of sand rolling between my toes as I dance. It’s soft and malleable, supportive and unstable all at once.

He shrugs, as if this conversation is getting redundant. “Well, then, dance and write. What else do you want from me?”

I glare at him, sorry now that I started this conversation in the first place. I wasn’t looking for sympathy, but what’s wrong with needing a shoulder to lean on every once in a while? “Nothing.” I grab my blanket off the couch where he’s sitting, and head for the door. I feel silly for being here. For saying what I’ve already said. Why did I drop my guard? “I’m sorry that I interrupted. You don’t owe me anything, and you’re right. I should solve my problems on my own.”

“Now, don’t get your panties in a knot,” he chuckles, leaning back and smiling that arrogant smile that makes me want to hit him and kiss him. “I am trying to help, it’s just I have my unconventional methods.” His face turns serious, “You should just do what makes you happy. That’s the basic recipe for being happy, I think.”

“I try, but sometimes I do the complete opposite. It’s as if I become someone else’s marionette, my legs and arms not my own,” I’m starting to gesticulate because I can’t find the right words to make him see. “Instead of going to a school dance, I sit at home and stuff my face. I know for a fact that my body will get heavy, and my spirits will be lower. But I still do it. As if I have no will of my own.” The napkin that I was holding to the wounds drops to the floor, and I sink down beside it. I don’t want to appear vulnerable, but I’m so damn tired of pretending. “I think something’s wrong with me.”

“I could have told you that ages ago,” he smirks, his eyes warming up. “Hey, it’ll be OK. It’ll pass, and you’ll learn to get better at it. It’s a phase.”

“Really?” I want to believe him so desperately. What I want most of all is to believe that he’s not a figment of my imagination. I open my mouth, but chicken out and say instead, “When? I feel that I’m stuck in a vicious circle. I keep doing the same things, as if I’m not learning anything with age." I want him to realize that he's speaking with an adult now. I'm not a little girl believing in unicorns and Santa Claus anymore, I'm twelve.

“It’s all part of it. It will make you a better writer. Because deep down, you know that’s what you are.”

I hold my breath, and stare at him. The sinking feeling in my stomach usually means that something hit home. I get enough courage to ask, “Do you really exist?”

He spreads out his arms, palms up as if he’s about to take a bow onstage, “What do you think? No, the important question is, does it matter?”

“Of course it does!” I burst out. Because that would mean I’m not crazy. And I’m not alone.

“Then I exist. But maybe not just yet.” He looks at my confused face, and adds, “I will, in another form. You won’t be alone in this forever.” He gets up and leans over me, his face so close to mine that I can smell his warm breath. “Keep doing what you’re doing. You’ll be alright, I promise.”

I reach out to touch his arm, and his shape dissipates under my fingers. I can still feel his presence, and I pick up the blanket to leave the room feeling calmer than I have been in a long time.