Quit Hitting Yourself

by Technicolor

five

One night, while she was sleeping—Bon Bon curled up at her back, and on the floor her double slept with a blanket nicked from the closet, occasionally kicking and murmuring like a puppy—Lyra woke up with a small start. She had an idea. Well, first she had gone to sleep thinking about something, and then she had an idea.

She thought about the radio.

Of course. That was the only different thing about the day she showed up. Vinyl had, accidentally or with awful intentions, given her some sort of haunted radio and that’s why she showed up, why she wouldn’t leave, and she couldn’t believe it hadn’t occurred to her before. Being so pissed off and sad all the time had clogged her brain up, but now it felt, for the first time, like it was running clear.

But the radio! She could take care of it. It would take care of all these problems, and she’d never have to think about it ever again. A wave of scary relief rolled over her bones, and she almost giggled, but stopped herself. Bon Bon stirred a little against her; she very, very carefully slipped out of bed, kissed her girlfriend on the cheek, stepped around her sleeping form on the floor. Couldn’t wake either of them up if she was doing this, after all.

Lyra crept to the bathroom and grabbed a towel, then to the closet for a hammer, and then delicately, so very delicately she carried the radio out of her office, into the backyard. She didn’t turn on any lights. The moon was high and beautiful and her chest felt light and giddy as she wrapped the evil box up in her fluffy pink towel, covering it up completely. The hammer had a nice heft to it.

Her hits were neat, controlled—but powerful. Smash. Take a breath, pull back. Smash. Wood broke and snapped, things that sounded like glass made muffled breaking sounds. Smash. Three. Pull back, breathe. Smash.

After the ninth strike, and when she was left with nothing but an indistinct lump, she sat back on her haunches for a while and sucked in air to catch up with her pounding blood. It already felt better. So, so much better. It took her several minutes of gasping and breathing to realize she was crying.

She wiped her face up and took three more long breaths, staring ahead and smiling broadly. She lifted the towel and unwrapped it a little. No surprises, no sudden recovery or hidden crystals, no dark magic. Just one smashed radio. She bounced it up and down and relished in the jingle of busted electronics, like it was the sound of a lock finally being picked free in her heart.

Lyra swung it around, tied the corners up and walked back inside with her head high, ready to sleep well.

She was there. Standing by the dining table.

Why was she there.

Why was she awake and standing right in front of her?

“You’re not even thirty yet, and you’re already a failure.”

Hate her. Hate her. Hate her.

“Can you believe that?” She glanced to the towel. “You hardly ever do anything, and you still manage to fuck up what little you actually do.”

Punch her?

Punch her.

“All you do is sit around and sleep. You don’t even try.”

Lyra punched her in the nose.

She stopped talking. Just stared at her, and not with that stupid lie of a smile, the one she knew too damn well. Her eyes were wide, shocked, and the air went cold between them.

She reached up and wiped some of the blood away.

“I hate you too, you know,” she mumbled before storming off past her, through the living room, and shoving her way out the front door.

Lyra wasn’t sure if she had just beaten her or not. She didn’t feel any better.

She went back to bed, snuck under Bon Bon’s arm, and didn’t sleep.