Black Cherry Merlot
When I found out my aunt died I smiled. When I told my sister our aunt died I smiled. When Sister found out our aunt died she thought I was joking. I couldn’t hold it in, I smiled. Sister laughed and asked why I was smiling. I told her I can’t control it, I don’t mean it, I miss our aunt, but she is dead. When Sister found out our aunt died she called Brother to double-check. When our aunt died Brother, Sister, and I laughed, talking about how I was the worst person to deliver the news. I miss my aunt every day; I find her toenails and hairspray.
But still I run away. Family is all dying, picked off like plums. They, in a different state, die and die and die. They get lost on the streets too too cold, lost on the streets freezing to death overdosing cold bliss fingertips, found dead. They fall and tumble and tank down the stairs and no one knows if it is because of the current drug use or the years of addiction prior. They do not listen to doctor recommendations, they do not subscribe to advice, they all think they know the right way. They all know the way to death, the way to the ashy urns that must contain trace amounts of those not in our family, even if it is half an ash flake they could not get off in the crematorium. They spend their time poor as poor people do and they receive no help for mental illnesses, addiction, family relations. They spend their time in a different state, far away from me.
It was the final girls who taught me: do not be around those that are targets. In the movies I grew up with, it was the final girls who taught me survival is an option. It was me that decided: run run run run run run run run run run run, no one can die in Bangor, Maine.
It was the final girls who taught me: someone has to live for the sequel to be made and so: I run to another state hoping for a franchise with less death, fewer tears, so I smile when my aunt dies, forcing myself into a comedy.
I lie in the arms of the people that love me and I cry about how much I love them and about all of the positivity that bubbles inside of me. I lie in the arms of the people who love me and I cry when they tell me they are proud of me and I am doing the right things and I am talented and gorgeous and funny and cute. I cry and cry and cry thinking about the love I hold, the love I give, the love I am given.
Dad calls because he is crying at work again. One of the hundreds of songs came on that make him cry and he wants me to know. He needs to tell me that he is feeling. Dad has feelings. There was no concept of emotions being for girls when I was growing up. Dad has feelings. Dad is crying because “Brick” came on because “When I Was Your Man” came on because Sister and I explained the plot of My Sister’s Keeper because we called when he needed to hear our voice. Dad is crying right now.
It was the final girls who taught me to fight and hide and run all at the right times. So I run and hide in another state and I fight fight fight to graduate and graduate and get a job and pay my bills and make a savings. I fight for my life from obsessions and compulsions and addictions not centered around drugs. I fight myself for thinking about the things we should not be thinking about because if we do then someone else might die. I wait by my phone.
Sister taught me how to stand up for myself. She told me that people are not inherently owed my time or energy. Sister taught me that a battle needs brass knuckles. Sister taught me the power of giving a gift. Every day Sister gives me gifts: one curd of cheese, a small knife, pedicure flip-flops, knit scarves. Sister taught me that the world is draining, but laughing is a faucet broken and overflowing.
Brother taught me how to punch, how to take a punch. Brother taught me that if you smile and laugh the joke will land and people will look at you in awe. Brother taught me being an asshole is also a hug. Brother taught me how to hide in plain sight: off to the corner of all eyes, paralyzed still, moving slowly always, shifting shape. We practise how to be chameleons.
It was the final girls who taught me there can only be one. I am fighting for my life but I cannot be alone. I will make it to the cops and return with help. There is no point in making it out alive if Brother and Sister cannot live.
I hide their lessons in my trench coat and leave it at home: I’ve already memorized all of this. I cannot burn the notes they pass me, written in their handwriting. I know these could be the last things they write. In this family movie, it is more than likely that they are next. The killer is coming for our generation. How many of us are left?
I peek underneath the skirts of the states they all live in and I realize it is true: no one dies in Bangor, Maine. But in the states that they reside: someone is already standing behind them with a knife. I try to scream to them to run and hide and fight all at the correct times. I watch my cousins light it smoke it inject it drink it. I watch my family light it smoke it inject it drink it. I watch the killer light it smoke it inject it drink it. I watch the dead ones hide it all in the walls, board them back up, unboard them to package the envelopes, board them back up, lick and seal the envelope, mail it out. I watch the packages arrive, the envelopes delivered, boxes on porches. I watch them all unpack the same knife at the same time. I reach and reach and reach and reach. I stretch and stretch my arms across states but the wind keeps blowing them in the wrong direction. They always grab the knife. Their DNA is everywhere now.
It was the final girls who taught me not to trust anyone, especially those you trust.
It was the final girls who taught me how to hold a knife gun axe umbrella chainsaw wrench flamethrower turkey carver machete corkscrew vacuum barbed wire.
So I stay hidden until I run home again. It’s always time for a sequel/trilogy/franchise. Plus, it is Nibling’s birthday. I run home with a knife in my pocket, gun in my coat. I do not leave my back turned to doors. I do not take time to hold hands. I do not take stops to pee. I run home and I hold their whole bodies in my arms and I try to fit them all on my back or in a purse but they always seem to crawl out of hiding. They know their DNA is everywhere. So I hug my niblings and I tell them the safe word, the combination to the lock, I give them a phone that will speed dial me and the cops all at once and tell us their location.
And I fight. I run home and I let my guard down up down up. I hover my hand over the knife. I tell them all we need to grind our fingerprints off, it is about time we give up our DNA and swap with another creature. They always wear ear muffs no matter the time of year.
Then I run. Again. I don’t stop running. I run until I hit my head on a wall that cannot move that cannot be moved that will always stand still. I run.
Now I am home and all the doors are triple locked and boarded up and the rooms and doors and cabinets have all been checked. I shimmy into the crawl space holding a match. I sleep while it slowly burns. I wake up when the flame touches my fingers. I repeat. Eight hours.
It was the final girls who taught me: damn, that shit is fucked up, and some people just have shit luck.
It was the final girls who taught me we will have the last laugh.
Dad is watching over us as he hovers from afar. Mom is in the living room, ashes in an ashy urn. Dad sloughed off as she decomposed into her bed became her bed as she overdosed in her bed, Dad came home, couldn’t drive himself, Dad was driven home by a coworker to find out that he is a widower. Dad watches the windows pass and in each one he sees his dead wife alive with life and love coating her from head to toe. Dad watches over us but in his periphery he is watching Mom in the windows follow him. Dad is in another state. Dad has run away. Dad runs and hides and fights with his new girlfriend. Dad runs and hides and tells us he only sometimes fights with his new girlfriend. Dad watches over us but we are too scared to watch over Dad, we hide under our covers, even our eyes are hiding. Dad has a pocketknife he only holds with gloves: in case of emergency, take the time to put on gloves or else your DNA your DNA your DNA your DNA your DNA. Dad has too much DNA, in jars he keeps some of mine some of Brother’s some of Sister’s some of Mom some of girlfriend some of stranger in the ashy urn. Dad is watching over us.
It was the final girls who taught me that parents are fleeting and isn’t that the purpose? No parent wants to bury their child and so they sacrifice and bleed all over they are drowning knowledge in blood.
I teach myself every day that there is no such thing as final girl, only final girls final people final things. When they all die they make their finale. We will all die. We will all exit out the screen and into your living room. You will be holding the knife.
Victoria Hood (she/her) (@toriiellen1) (@toriiellen) is the author of a collection of short stories My Haunted Home (FC2) and chapbooks Death and Darlings and Entries of Boredom and Fear (Bottlecap Press). Her book of poetry, I Am My Mothers Disappointments, was released Mother’s Day 2024 from Girl Noise Press. She hopes to discomfort, humor, and charm.