A Garden of Vines

November 24, 2019


Photo by Sugar Bee on Unsplash 



A Garden of Vines


Jane Marshall Fleming


            Click. My eyes flicked open. It was nearly two in the morning now and my neck ached from resting on the arm of the couch. I could hear the street underneath my windows buzzing with the sounds of the late-night bar crowds being released like rats into the night.


            The knob of my front door jerked back and forth, stopping against the deadbolt. I caught my breath, letting only the soft tick of my watch unfurl across the vinyl floors.


            The sound rang forward, click, click, click. The chrome shine of the doorknob glared at me, daring me to move, to breathe. Long shadows from the television light obscured everything but the light of the hallway snaking underneath the door. I pulled my phone from my pocket and considered calling the police. What do I say? Someone is messing with my door handle?

            Instead, I texted Matty, “She’s here,” and then placed the phone back into my pocket. It could just be a drunk neighbor, I thought. But no, I knew better. I could feel her blank eyes drilling holes through the cheap wood on the door, a soft chant of “let me in” on her lips. The downy hair on my arms stood at attention, my skin prickling with it.

             The handle stopped moving. I waited for the patter of her footsteps away from the door. None came. I strained to listen until the buzz of the fluorescent lights in the hallway filled my ears. In the silence, I imagined her staring quietly, her face blank, eyes wet, two inches from the chipped white wood of the door. How much time had passed? Minutes? Hours?


            I sat with my feet curled under me, tingling, threatening pins and needles if I were to unwind. I knew it would be hours before I could fall asleep.

            I looked at my phone again. Matty had been calling me, frantic.


            “Are you okay?”

            “Do you need me to call the police?”

            “All clear,” I responded, “I think she left.”



            When my phone let out the chime of my morning alarm, I felt as though I had just been pulled from deep water. I sputtered upwards from my troubled sleep fighting for breath. I grabbed the device and rolled over, moaning and rubbing my sore neck.

            My body felt stiff and feverish. In the bathroom, I shuttered at my own reflection, opening the medicine cabinet to push the mirror out of the way. Maybe it’s not real. But I couldn’t let go of the sight of her red hair that softly curled down her bony back, her face full of freckles, blue-gray eyes the color of slate, and lips, thin and pink, like mine. They were all mine.

            The rain had continued. The windows in my living room were playing host to tiny eddies rolling down the glass, obscuring the city skyline beyond. Indigo storm clouds peaked in between the glass buildings and bright yellow cranes. We needed the weather— Dallas was a city trapped between grass and dust and the dirt-streaked window panes on the buildings around us showed it. But right now, the dirt had simply turned to mud, rolling black and brown slime down the windows, creating trash-filled pools that smelled of Sulphur against the sidewalks.

            I sipped my coffee, listening to talk radio on low and slowly unfurling the fist-sized knot that had formed in my stomach. It will be okay. Self-soothing was never my strong-suit. I resisted indulging myself in doomsday theories that explained why a being who was me, but so obviously not me would appear on my doorstep, would insist upon crossing the threshold.

            When I got up to leave, the door was heavy, faltering as I pulled it in from its water-warped frame. I stepped into the hall and nearly jumped out of my skin. She was curled up against the side of my apartment, asleep. A fire-headed cat. Her lips were curled into a faint smile, her eyelids heavy over the slate-colored eyes. My eyes. Is this what I look like when I sleep?

            I locked the door and stepped around her to the elevators as if she were a fleshy ghost.



            Our office building was a tan block of ill-conceived concrete— one of those sixties era behemoths that plague all major U.S. cities like an unsightly case of concrete and metal acne. As I walked through the maze of gray cubicles towards my desk, Matty wheeled into my path, offering me a concerned, knowing look from underneath his mop of dark brown hair.

            “Are you okay?” He mouthed.

            I nodded and gave him a dismissive waive. I am fine. I am okay.

            I made my way to my cube, tacitly acknowledging colleagues who craned their necks out of their own desks to say hello. I sat in my cube, staring at a blank spreadsheet, unread emails blinking in the corner of my screen in small flutters. For nearly an hour, I produced precisely nothing. Finally, I stood and announced to no one in particular that I needed some air. I suddenly understood why people smoked cigarettes— that need to funnel energy into something alive, burning, to release the smoke from the fire that was forming in your chest. The closest I could come to such a relief was the intake of fresh, city air.

            As I walked into the office building’s atrium, a coworker stood just beyond the glass sliding doors, her brown hair falling in front of her face as she leaned forward to shake the water on her umbrella onto th