Contributor: Ryan Swofford
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Hallelujah wants to meet her savior. She’s sitting on the flower mattress, shivering uncontrollably and biting her red tongue. Her wet hair dangles before her eyes. She’s scared because she just had a vision—before you met her, she was shaking wide-eyed and wide-mouthed on the bed with her duck shoes in the air. She was watching a bloody bearded Jesus, skin and bones, as he wandered the Sonoma, looking for a place to stay. The Sonoma was Minneapolis, Minnesota. He came back. He was coming back. He is coming back.
Her little brother, Ronnie, he came over to check on her last night, when she was having the vision I told you about. He came in using the spare key and dropped a cheap bottle of wine on the sofa. He called her name: “Holly!” but she didn’t answer of course. He wandered around the little one-bedroom apartment like it was a giant castle. He kept calling her name: “Holly!” but she was silent of course.
So he knocked on her bedroom door with his ear pressed up against it. He listened and heard some gnarring. Gnawing. Gnashing of teeth. He didn’t want to barge in, though, because he thought maybe she was masturbating. Or, worse, fucking.
When they were younger, he walked in on her fucking maybe twice a week. Most of the time it was when their mom was out drinking and getting nailed by guys from bars—that was when it seemed like Holly had to retaliate—she had to rebel. She would call all the skater guys she promised she’d screw. Sometimes, more than one would show up. “That was an accident,” she’d say. “Seriously, Ronnie: I had no idea both of them would show up.” And she’d thank Ronnie for being cool about it—for making the boys grilled cheese sandwiches while they waited for their turns with Holly. Christ, she must have been one crazy lay. Ronnie still thinks about that every once in a while, but then he feels guilty so he gets drunk instead.
When she didn’t answer the door, Ronnie went into the living room, grabbed the strawberry wine off the couch, and left.
Like I said: Now she’s sitting on the naked mattress. She’s soaking wet—shivering like a baby bird. She tries to light a Parliament with shaky fingers, but she’s too weak to bring her thumb down on the lighter so she lets the cig dangle unlit from her pastel cracked lips. She lifts her finger and sees there’s a string tied around it. She has to remember something, but she doesn’t remember tying anything around anything. She doesn’t remember why there’s a guitar string sticking out of her arm. Or why she’s naked. Or why the mattress is soggy with piss.
She breathes and leads the steel string deeper into her vein.
She said it helps her to remember all the nights that we got over
Hallelujah doesn’t understand why her parents gave her such an ecumenical name and then gave Ronnie such a Jersey Shore bad-boy name. Didn’t they know he was doomed to eternal mocking and torture? I guess it didn’t matter as much back then, but Holly still wonders this as she watches the video feed from her apartment last night. She wonders all sorts of things about her brother, like: How big is his Johnson? And: Is he actually still a virgin? Also, but probably least importantly: Does he call himself an alcoholic or an alkie? They’re all stupid questions, but she figures Jesus will tell her all about it when she gets to Heaven.
The guitar string is all the way in her arm now. The pointy part is stabbing her shoulder and the little knobby doo-dad is poking its purple head out from her main vein—the one doctors poke when they give you a shot—the one you should probably stab with heroin.
Until the end of the week—that’s when He’s supposed to come back—until then she’s stocking up on food. In her vision, she saw things exploding. People exploding. Everything was exploding.
So earlier that morning, she wandered around, holding an empty cardboard box, until she saw a Salvation Army caravan. She stole all the nonperishable shit and left untouched.
When they were kids, she and Ronnie spent a lot of time getting high together. One night, Ronnie had a seizure. They were in the woods and the fire had gone out. Holly wasn’t high because it wasn’t her binging week—she alternated. They were planning on getting Ronnie high on something laced with something (his idiot friend’s party drugs) and hauling him back when he was sober enough to go to school. But now she threw him over her shoulder and walked him home—he was foaming at the mouth and flip-flopping around. She brought him home. Gave him his meds and stroked his soggy white head. Sang him to sleep.
Besides, it ties her outfit all together
On the day He’s supposed to come back, Hallelujah hides under her covers. The Bible says everyone will tremble and shake before Him—they will all know when He comes back. She doesn’t know why she’s supposed to be afraid, but she is anyway. She almost thinks she made herself afraid, but then she shuts her brain up.
This is all Jesus’ doing.
She had four Valiums but she’s still completely unhinged. Like a door swinging open. Knocking your fucking teeth out.
She’s still naked—she’s been naked for three straight weeks now. She thinks a string around her finger is _the_ accessory of the season. Ronnie came to visit, but she hid from him. She watched the cameras. Then she cleaned her mattress with some bleach.
Now, it smells like bleach. Her nose is in it. She’s crying. Terrified.
Ronnie opens her bedroom door. Finally, he walks to her bed and sits down.
And he sings her to sleep.
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Hallelujah wants to meet her savior. She’s sitting on the flower mattress, shivering uncontrollably and biting her red tongue. Her wet hair dangles before her eyes. She’s scared because she just had a vision—before you met her, she was shaking wide-eyed and wide-mouthed on the bed with her duck shoes in the air. She was watching a bloody bearded Jesus, skin and bones, as he wandered the Sonoma, looking for a place to stay. The Sonoma was Minneapolis, Minnesota. He came back. He was coming back. He is coming back.
Her little brother, Ronnie, he came over to check on her last night, when she was having the vision I told you about. He came in using the spare key and dropped a cheap bottle of wine on the sofa. He called her name: “Holly!” but she didn’t answer of course. He wandered around the little one-bedroom apartment like it was a giant castle. He kept calling her name: “Holly!” but she was silent of course.
So he knocked on her bedroom door with his ear pressed up against it. He listened and heard some gnarring. Gnawing. Gnashing of teeth. He didn’t want to barge in, though, because he thought maybe she was masturbating. Or, worse, fucking.
When they were younger, he walked in on her fucking maybe twice a week. Most of the time it was when their mom was out drinking and getting nailed by guys from bars—that was when it seemed like Holly had to retaliate—she had to rebel. She would call all the skater guys she promised she’d screw. Sometimes, more than one would show up. “That was an accident,” she’d say. “Seriously, Ronnie: I had no idea both of them would show up.” And she’d thank Ronnie for being cool about it—for making the boys grilled cheese sandwiches while they waited for their turns with Holly. Christ, she must have been one crazy lay. Ronnie still thinks about that every once in a while, but then he feels guilty so he gets drunk instead.
When she didn’t answer the door, Ronnie went into the living room, grabbed the strawberry wine off the couch, and left.
Like I said: Now she’s sitting on the naked mattress. She’s soaking wet—shivering like a baby bird. She tries to light a Parliament with shaky fingers, but she’s too weak to bring her thumb down on the lighter so she lets the cig dangle unlit from her pastel cracked lips. She lifts her finger and sees there’s a string tied around it. She has to remember something, but she doesn’t remember tying anything around anything. She doesn’t remember why there’s a guitar string sticking out of her arm. Or why she’s naked. Or why the mattress is soggy with piss.
She breathes and leads the steel string deeper into her vein.
She said it helps her to remember all the nights that we got over
Hallelujah doesn’t understand why her parents gave her such an ecumenical name and then gave Ronnie such a Jersey Shore bad-boy name. Didn’t they know he was doomed to eternal mocking and torture? I guess it didn’t matter as much back then, but Holly still wonders this as she watches the video feed from her apartment last night. She wonders all sorts of things about her brother, like: How big is his Johnson? And: Is he actually still a virgin? Also, but probably least importantly: Does he call himself an alcoholic or an alkie? They’re all stupid questions, but she figures Jesus will tell her all about it when she gets to Heaven.
The guitar string is all the way in her arm now. The pointy part is stabbing her shoulder and the little knobby doo-dad is poking its purple head out from her main vein—the one doctors poke when they give you a shot—the one you should probably stab with heroin.
Until the end of the week—that’s when He’s supposed to come back—until then she’s stocking up on food. In her vision, she saw things exploding. People exploding. Everything was exploding.
So earlier that morning, she wandered around, holding an empty cardboard box, until she saw a Salvation Army caravan. She stole all the nonperishable shit and left untouched.
When they were kids, she and Ronnie spent a lot of time getting high together. One night, Ronnie had a seizure. They were in the woods and the fire had gone out. Holly wasn’t high because it wasn’t her binging week—she alternated. They were planning on getting Ronnie high on something laced with something (his idiot friend’s party drugs) and hauling him back when he was sober enough to go to school. But now she threw him over her shoulder and walked him home—he was foaming at the mouth and flip-flopping around. She brought him home. Gave him his meds and stroked his soggy white head. Sang him to sleep.
Besides, it ties her outfit all together
On the day He’s supposed to come back, Hallelujah hides under her covers. The Bible says everyone will tremble and shake before Him—they will all know when He comes back. She doesn’t know why she’s supposed to be afraid, but she is anyway. She almost thinks she made herself afraid, but then she shuts her brain up.
This is all Jesus’ doing.
She had four Valiums but she’s still completely unhinged. Like a door swinging open. Knocking your fucking teeth out.
She’s still naked—she’s been naked for three straight weeks now. She thinks a string around her finger is _the_ accessory of the season. Ronnie came to visit, but she hid from him. She watched the cameras. Then she cleaned her mattress with some bleach.
Now, it smells like bleach. Her nose is in it. She’s crying. Terrified.
Ronnie opens her bedroom door. Finally, he walks to her bed and sits down.
And he sings her to sleep.
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Author:
Ryan Swofford
