Page 64 of You Weren't Meant to Be Human
Twenty-Seven
Levi has to call Tammy in early today.
“Breathe,” she says, a hand on Crane’s stomach as he leans against the bathroom sink. “There we go.”
The baby has snuggled itself against Crane’s spine, and swear to god, he can feel its head low in his pelvis—threateningly low, shockingly low. Everyone on the internet who said that Braxton-Hicks contractions aren’t painful can go fuck themselves. It feels like he’s being squeezed with a vise.
“Are they getting stronger?” Tammy asks.
Crane shakes his head.
“And they’re not getting any closer together…”
It surefeels like they are.
“And your water ain’t broke, so.” Tammy straightens up. “Not yet. Just breathe, baby, it’ll go away.”
Not yet? Crane whimpers helplessly. He can’t do another month of this. The skin of his hips is paper-thin, with no more room to stretch; the dull red marks have taken on the texture of stringy meat and give the distinct impression that they could open up into a dozen wounds at the slightest provocation. His breasts sport thick, dark nipples that have started leaking, leading him to cramming handfuls of toilet paper and tissues into his bra to keep it from soaking through to his shirt.
His belly reminds him of the hive when it gets excited. When it begins to move and thrum and the swarm starts to shiver.
Tammy says, “I know it’s bad, but you can do it.” She manages a breathy laugh. “Bodies like ours have been doing this for thousands and thousands of years. It’ll manage on its own. All you gotta do is survive it.”
Crane would like to correct her on that, but Tammy wouldn’t be interested in the death-via-childbirth statistics Sophie memorized in high school.
Tammy has to go. She makes no mention of Jess, which could mean nothing. Levi sees her out, but Crane doesn’t leave the bathroom—he’s too busy measuring his breathing, waiting until his muscles unclench and he can unstick his jaw. He has to jam fingers in his mouth to pry his teeth apart. He’s still shaking, and he wraps an arm around his stomach, runs a hand down the too-thin skin, tries to soothe the thing inside so it stops attempting to puncture his organs.I don’t like that you’re in there, either, he wants to tell it.I want you out too.
Looking in the mirror is a bad idea, though. His hair is disgusting. It’d just be easier to shave his head at this point. The last timehe managed to wash it was, what, a week ago? Two? And barely even then—he stuck his head into the sink, and he can’t remember if he used shampoo.
He’s always had hygiene issues. It’s a point of contention, to say the least. There’s a unique shame attached to hygiene issues, becausebad hygieneis associated withautismwith unbelievable ferocity. One time, Crane had gone down to Aspen and Birdie’s because he couldn’t get himself clean, and while Birdie sat and talked him through the steps, Aspen explained: there’re a lot of different reasons this might happen. Did he have trouble with toothpaste growing up, or was the taste strong enough to make him panic, no matter the flavor? There are so many different parts to it, and if his brain is overwhelmed, it becomes impossible to string into anything useful. Let alone how difficult it can be to move from one task to another. The willpower it takes to get up and do any of it—it’s suffocating.
Crane had looked at Aspen curiously—how do you know all this?—and Birdie supplied that Aspen had googled it because they wanted to help.
So yeah. Sophie lied about brushing her teeth until Mom started checking the brush bristles and smelling her breath before bed. Middle school was spent avoiding showers, until Dad gently informed her that the grease made her hair look wet. She’d gotten her act together by high school, thanks to them both, but was never able to showerdailylike everyone else seemed to. Every other day was the best she could manage.
It’s been a lot longer than that now.
In the doorway, Stagger watches.
“Alright,” Levi calls from across the apartment. “I’m headed out too. Keep your shit together.”
For some reason, Crane huff-laughs. Another hunt for the hive. Aslong as Levi doesn’t come back with a bullet wound again, he doesn’t care.
The moment the door closes and the lock clicks into place, Stagger takes Crane’s chin in his hand and lifts it, letting the harsh white light of the bathroom illuminate the healed mess of his face. The too-smooth skin, the melted upper lip. Crane’s eyes slide shut.
Stagger’s thumb slips into Crane’s mouth and works its way between the teeth. He tastes decidedly salty.
Crane finds Stagger attractive the way he found that burned-up fireman attractive at fifteen. He would hesitate to use the wordattractive, because that doesn’t seem right—it’s less aesthetics and more a combination of different desires coalescing into a general sense of wanting to fuck him. Though maybe thatiswhat the word means. The bizarre middle ground ofyou make senseandyou’re like meandI want to feel something.
After they had sex in the back of the truck that first time, Levi had leaned down to kiss him. That had been Crane’s first kiss, too.
How different would it be with someone else?
Maybe that’s what he wants.
A tinyclicksounds from the sink, and Stagger retracts his thumb from Crane’s mouth. Crane frowns and cracks open an eye.
Stagger is putting toothpaste on Crane’s brush, mimicking the very specific steps he’s seen—wetting the bristles, massaging in the toothpaste so there’s no awful texture when it hits the mouth, and tapping it twice on the sink to shake off any stray drops of water.
