Where Rose Writes Very True Stories

Just using Lana Del Rey’s album cover to post a short story.

This is more of the heart of a concept of a novel that I have had in my head for YEARS. It’s the idea that got me writing in the first place. My problem was, I didn’t feel like I was good enough at writing to write it. So I decided I needed to write something else first. And eventually, that lead to The Very Real World of Emily Adams.

This short story centers around Matthew, who later becomes a serial killer… it’s not a spoiler. It’s a big part of the story. He kills people who remind him of his father-in-name-only. I’m pretty excited to write him, eventually. And that *eventually* is a big reason why I felt like I had to write *this*. I’m so wrapped up in school and other projects, and life got so heavy, that I totally started to lose sight of these characters, and I really don’t want them to go away. I also thought it’d be healing for me to write it. But, this is a very rough draft. It’s… yeah. It’s pretty rough.

A big warning, though. This does have some cursing. And it is also centered around a suicide attempt. Suicide attempts are just a part of my history. So, suicide awareness is a big thing for me. And I think understanding that headspace and why people do it is important. If people understood, they’d show more compassion. And honestly, more compassion would lead to people being less afraid to talk about the painful feelings that lead to this, which in turn, would lead to fewer attempts.

Without further ado, here is the story:

Cinnamon Girl

The world was spinning now. The Great Gatsby blared on the TV ahead of him, the bright colors bleeding together and blurry—the whole room was blurry. It was much more messy and dimly lit than the TV, though. Matt stumbled to the couch, his fingers digging into the soft fabric of the back as he struggled to stay upright.

He gasped for air like he was drowning. 

He just wanted to lay down.

It was like he was suffocating, as though Stacy from work were sitting on his chest—he was a great guy, but man, he was biiig. 

Stumbling along the large arm cushion, he made his way around the couch. It somehow felt like he was trying to run around an island—an island that smelled like the whiskey he’d spilled on it. It was a far better smell than the vomit that stung the back of his nose and was on his clothes. His stomach twisted and churned. 

No. Don’t puke, don’t puke, don’t puke. Just get on the couch. You are not going to die on the bathroom floor.

“Oh ssshit, I gotta lay down,” he mumbled to himself, taking a lumbering step forward. “Ugggh, I’m so woozy.” His stomach heaved and he swallowed vomit. “Holy shit. I think I’m dying.” He laughed. It was funny because he was dying.

Falling to his knees, he crawled to the very front of the couch. “I need to lay down.”

Putting his weight on the cushions, Matt hefted himself up onto the couch, making sure that his head lay on the pillow that she had slept on only a few days ago. It still smelled like her lotion—like sugar and cinnamon.

He’d made it. 

Hooray.

Now, he would sleep. And he wouldn’t wake back up. It was over. Hallelujah, it was over. He wouldn’t feel this pain anymore. Whatever agony his guts were in, it was nothing compared to this. Nothing could adequately describe it. It was as though death had squeezed his heart, hollowing it out with its touch and rotting it from the inside. There had been a time when his heart used to just bleed and bleed in his mind, torn to pieces by the edges of shattered dreams. But that had stopped. Now it was dead, there was nothing but rot. He’d been so afraid that this was all that was left within him. The thought had been terrifying. But now there was only acceptance—because he knew. He knew this was all that remained of who he used to be, and of all the hope that had once kept him going.

Stupid.

He was good at pretending, though. He knew he was funny, goofy, and nice. Why wouldn’t he be nice? Why spread cruelty like a disease? No, he’d made the decision a long time ago. The cruelty he had endured would end with him. And so, yeah, he fooled everyone. No one could see the grief that rounded his shoulders, as if he were carrying something heavy—because he was. No one could see the sorrow that always dimmed the light in his eyes.

Mags saw it sometimes, though. She was the only one… the only one who ever saw. The only one who’d touch the back of his arm and ask him, “But, how are you really?”

And then his mask would slip a little. But she carried enough pain in her own life—he didn’t need to add any of his to it. He refused. So he’d lie. “I’m okay, Mags. Really.” 

But maybe it wasn’t a lie in that moment. Because when he was with Maggie… well, that was the only time he ever felt okay.

She’d thrown him a birthday party the other day. It’d put off his plans, because this—this was the big twenty-fourth birthday party he’d planned for himself. All of this was his big gift to himself. He was going to grant himself the mercy he’d never been given and put himself out of his misery. It would be easy, peaceful—he’d fall asleep, and just not wake up. He was done waiting for the page to turn, for his story to get better, because it only ever got worse.

Gatsby. I’m the Great Gatsby.

 Ugh. I’m pathetic—that’s what I am.

Didn’t matter anymore, though.

The cinnamon was comforting. He could almost see her there.

His arms were so heavy. 

 Matt reached in his pocket for his phone. He needed to see her face, even if it was just in photographs.

He smiled. There she was. Maggie Mags.

The pain—shit, he couldn’t breathe. Tears filled his eyes.

She was so beautiful. And smart, and funny. And always herself, no matter what—a total goofball. That’s why even boring stuff was fun with her. He loved that about her. And she was by far the kindest person he had ever met. People gravitated toward her, because she made them all feel safe—even the worst of them.

She was perfect. She didn’t know it, but she was.

Mags deserved so much better than what she had now.

Matt thought of how, as kids, he’d sometimes hide under her bed. She wouldn’t tell anyone he was there, so when his father-in-name-only came hunting for him, he wouldn’t find him. Her mom was in on it, too. They knew. Matt would sometimes stay there for days. They did what they knew how to do, trying to protect him. 

Their fortress was the swing set where they’d play, and their vast and wonderful kingdom was her backyard. The fence kept all the monsters out. 

When the ghosts and demons that haunted his memories swallowed his mind, he would fight them off with the light of these memories. 

But then the demons would find him in his sleep—they were much harder to fight off there. No, he couldn’t even escape them in his dreams. No matter how hard he tried, or how much therapy he went through, he found himself reliving the very worst moments of his life almost constantly—like it was happening all over again… again, and again, and again.

But Matt loved remembering every moment with Maggie. He loved remembering her. Being with her.

He loved her.

That was always his go-to. When he couldn’t escape the pain, she would rescue him in his mind.

But not just in his mind. In real life, too. She tried. She’d thrown him that birthday party—and she hatedparties. It made him wonder if she knew his plans somehow. She had seemed suspicious when he’d given her all the toys he’d kept from their childhood. 

And because of that, he actually, almost didn’t do this. He almost changed his mind. Because he’d been at Maggie’s the day before his party. And for a brief, shining moment, he thought… well, he was stupid for what he thought. But he and Mags were in the kitchen while she kneaded bread dough and made dirty jokes, using the dough as visuals. It was the way she looked at him. The way she let him get so close to her. Something shifted inside him, as if he were coming back to life. And he thought maybe…

But nah. He was really dumb for thinking that. For one thing, she deserved way better than him. He was a mess, and he didn’t know how to fix it. Nothing could fix it.

She deserved better than her asshole boyfriend, Danny, too, though. But he was the father of her kids, and they were supposed to get married and all that stupid shit. Her boyfriend had really gotten in his face a few days later at the grocery store. “Let me break it to you now—she will never love you,” he’d said. Matt was taller than him, but the man was like a bear, his eyes full of rage, making him shrink. “Anything that happens—it’ll be pointless, and it’ll be gone before you know it. She’s mine. It doesn’t matter what happens. She will always choose me. Get it? You’re Gatsby.”

Gatsby? What an odd thing to say. Matt didn’t know who Gatsby was, but he had the boring, confusing book read by that night—and was actually surprised by Danny’s self-awareness. Because if Matt was Gatsby, then Danny the Bear was Tom Buchanan… maybe not something to be all that proud of.

The Bear must’ve read the confusion on Matt’s face because he added, “From The Great Gatsby. Look, NEVERMIND!” he went on, “You can put on a show all you want, have some fun, but in the end, you’re just pretending. Nothing you have is real. Okay? None it is actually yours. Because you’re nothing. You’re a used up, worthless piece of shit. What, you think she’d ever end up with someone like you? You’re disgusting, and a drunk, and you’re useless and going nowhere. You’ve got nothing to offer. Nothing. You’re broken. You’ve made your shit choices, and you will never be worth anything. Got it?” 

Harsh. And kinda weird—Gatsby?—but whatever. He knew what Danny the Bear was trying to say, and he was right.

It was okay. It needed to happen. Hope was dangerous. It made people delusional—and he’d definitely been delusional for a minute there. He was almost grateful he’d bumped into the Bear at the grocery store. He’d reminded him of what was real.

This was real. This pain. This madness. This sickness. This mess. This was who he was. And no matter what he did, he couldn’t rewrite history, and he couldn’t change where his life was going. 

He needed to escape. There was no other way out. He’d tried. He’d been searching desperately for a door, a way to reach the other side of this darkness, but there wasn’t one.

This was the one monster that Maggie couldn’t save him from—because no one could. No one could save him from himself.

“The world is full of happiness that I have never known.”

What was that from? He tried to remember. It was that musical that Mags’s mom always listened to. Les Misérables?

Oh well.

Mags was his safe place.

She didn’t know it.

He wanted her to know it.

His heavy hand pushed past the empty pill bottles and reached for the remote on the coffee table, muting the TV. Dropping it onto the floor, he picked up his phone again. His stupid fingers kept hitting the wrong buttons, but eventually he got his phone to blare Cinnamon Girl by Lana Del Rey. Mags smelled like cinnamon. She was his cinnamon girl.

He struggled to keep his eyes open.

His stupid fingers did their best, trying to type the message to Mags. He started with the lyrics of the song—it seemed like a good idea. He was bad at knowing how to express important things.

“Thrrrs things I fantasy to u but I’ll just left u live

“Like ir you gold me without hrting me, ull tr the first whoever did”

Maggie texted him back, “????”

He squinted at what he’d sent then mumbled to himself, “Wow, that’s bad.” Lots of autocorrect and terribleness. 

It was so hard to hold his phone. His eyes couldn’t stay open. His vision was so blurry.

He didn’t have much time.

Matt squinted again. 

Oh shit. What if he was writing the wrong person?

No, it was Mags. Okay, good. He fought to focus. This was important. He had to get this right. He clumsily typed in the words, “Mags, you’re my cinnamon girl.”

He sent it.

Wait. That was dumb. He tried to hurry and type more words before she wrote him back, “You are my safe plate.” Damn it.

“Place.” Better.

“You are the only person I can be with, and just BE. The world is better around you.

“I just needed you to know that. I love you, and I have always loved you.”

He read it over, just to be sure he got that right. The phone dropped from his hand, plunking onto the carpet and playing Lana Del Rey on repeat. Matt took a deep breath, inhaling the cinnamon sugary pillow and letting his eyes close, surrendering. 

The pain wasn’t so bad anymore.

No. He was happy. Because in his mind, there was peace. In his mind, he was with Mags, and she loved him. 

Fantasy was better. In his fantasies, he knew what real love felt like. In his fantasies, he was with Mags. She wasn’t sleeping on the couch; she was in his bed. They were still laughing over a Simpsons episode and giggling about her bread jokes, seeing her smiling face, her eyes bright and beaming at him. His heart was whole, and the pain was gone. 

  As he took a shaky breath, peace enveloped him. For the first time in his life, he was truly able to rest.

He didn’t hear the knock on the door that happened about ten minutes later, nor the doorbell. He didn’t hear how it got louder and louder, or the repeat doorbell dings. Soon, Mags was frantically banging on his front door, shouting, “Matt! Matthew! Let me in! Please! Ugh. What are you doing? I know you’re in there, I’ve still got that tracker-thing on my phone from when we went to Six Flags… okay, I’m starting to freak out. Where are you? MATT!”