Survival Of The Fittest

"Cocaine heart is broken, time to retire
Head won't listen to the words I decide on
Meet this, this is from a point of arrival
Preach it from another human devour"

((Beltway traffic was slow, say it ain't so.))

Stella Nyquist, in-uniform sitting in a white Camaro.

Next to her is a Ferrari. Driver's staring at her through the window, young guy. He keeps revving the engine; isn't going anywhere.

She does not acknowledge him.

Let's set the tone.

Picture this.

You're 15. The cheer team sees you as Stella fucking Nyquist, smart, funny, pretty, perfect, an object of envy. The football team sees you as a cheerleader. You don't see yourself as either of these things. To you, you're just yourself. Your real passion is observing the way the world works, cracking codes. You're riding public transit to school. It's morning, sun's not up, rush hour. Aisle's full, you were early enough to be sitting. There's a guy standing, facing you. Seems normal. Kinda looks like skinny college-aged Seth Rogen, glasses and an athletics hoodie.

"How old are you?" Spoken down directly at you.

You don't say anything. Because he couldn't have been asking you. And if he was, you misheard.

"How old are you?" again.

Oh.

You look up. He's looking down at you.

"15," you say, because you don't know what else to do.

Guy turns away from you and says something to his buddy. Buddy laughs.

Nobody says anything.

You turn your head away. Stare straight forward.

Next stop, guy and his buddy get off the bus.

Nobody says anything.

Bus reaches your stop. You stand up, step out, and off. You go to school. And you seem the same as you do every day. And you never say anything.

But it leaves a mark.

You learn - you know - you learn, there are certain axioms to human behavior. You learn to recognize the moment their eyes get strange.

"Cocaine heart is broken, time to retire
I don't know purple, though tropical
Head won't listen to the words I decide on
I'm a ghost open for bidding poll
Meet this, this is from a point of arrival
Pardon, but knock the show overload
Preach it from another human devour"

Your first kiss was in the Sixth Grade.

Lunch break. Group of boys roaming around.

"Truth or dare."

"Truth."

"Fuck you, you always choose truth."

"Fine, dare."

"I dare you to kiss Stella."

They think it's very funny and cool, track you down.

You say yes so they'll leave you alone. He's said at most three sentences to you before. Never really speaks to you again after this.

His lips taste like acid reflux.

"I don't know purple, though tropical
I'm a ghost open for bidding poll
Pardon, but knock the show overload
Easy done, something for everyone"

It's your eighteenth birthday. Your dad buys tickets for you and a friend to go to Tracee Bluebell's Vegas residency show. He did not ask you whether you liked Tracee Bluebell. You did not ask for these. Your eyes do not light up when you see them. You are not going to use them. Your dad takes it personally.

You're seventeen. Your dad asks you if you've ever thought about becoming a model. You shrug, not really listening to him. He then says you're too short to be a model.

You're sixteen. You're driving with your dad as a passenger for the first time. M.I.A. starts playing on the stereo. He turns it off, says he doesn't like hip-hop, says the musicians are all bad people. He then puts on a song by Led Zeppelin. You point out that Jimmy Page is a pedophile.

You're fifteen. Your dad is driving you to a date. He makes yet another joke about teenagers having sex.

You're fourteen. You're having The Talk with your parents. They tell you you're forbidden from premarital sex. This is strange because your family is not and has never been religious.

You're thirteen. Your dad keeps trying to talk to you during Zoom classes.

You're twelve. You're passing by your dad's home office on your way to the kitchen. His door's open. He doesn't hear you. On his screen, you catch a glimpse of the incredibly loud anime he's watching. There's a man walking in on a naked woman in a locker room. Full frontal. You turn around and go the other direction.

You're eleven. Your dad drags you to yet another concert. Yet again, you are the youngest person there. Yet again, it takes up your entire day.

You're ten. Your dad decides now is a great time for you to watch Disaster Movie (2008) together.

You're five. Your dad calls you a "monkey". This bothers you because monkeys are stupid and annoying and they throw poo. He notices you're bothered. He finds it funny, doubles down.

You're four. It's at this age that you outsmart your dad for the first time.

You're three. You don't want to watch cartoons with your dad and he makes another joke about corporal punishment.

Coach Harper's been in the industry a long time, done collegiate and Nationals; waded through Varsity Spirit's consolidated shit. She knows so many ways a human body can break.

War stories.

She does her best by you all.

"Meet this, this is from a point of arrival
Pardon, but knock the show overload
Preach it from another human devour
Easy done, something-"

Stella thumb-punched the 'next track' button.

"Don't blink, don't wait, don't walk, you're late
Don't fall from grace, behave
Don't trip, sashay
Okay, sashay"

Ferrari guy was still there. Still revving. Leering.

"Don't kid, don't blame, don't snap, insane
Don't crack, don't act your age
Don't change your name
It's all the rage"

Stella clipped her teardrop aviators off the rearview. Slid 'em on.

"Do ask but don't tell, don't laugh but do smile
Don't have a glass, don't stay a while
Don't take a pic
Don't feel so sick"

Next exit was hers.

"Nothing under heaven could have a more beautiful face; but though between five and six years old, and seemingly healthy, he was so far from being able to walk, or stand, that he could not so much as move any one joint; his limbs were vastly long for his age, but smaller than an infant's of six months; his complexion was perfectly delicate, and he had the finest hair in the world; he never spoke, nor cried, ate scarcely anything, and was very seldom seen to smile, but if any one called him a fairy-elf, he would frown and fix his eyes so earnestly on those who said it, as if he would look them through. His mother, or at least his supposed mother, being very poor, frequently went out a-charing, and left him a whole day together. The neighbours, out of curiosity, have often looked in at the window to see how he behaved when alone, which, whenever they did, they were sure to find him laughing and in the utmost delight. This made them judge that he was not without company more pleasing to him than any mortal's could be; and what made this conjecture seem the more reasonable was, that if he were left ever so dirty, the woman at her return saw him with a clean face, and his hair combed with the utmost exactness and nicety." — George Waldron, 1700s

You know, they used to burn children like you.

"Big time nothing
I look inside, I look inside, I look inside
Nothing
I look inside, I look inside, I look inside
Your eyes"

Turning signal on.

"One, two, one two"

Mirror check, shoulder check, lane change.

"Don't show, don't flake, go hard, debase
Don't make a dishonest mistake
Don't be so sure
I need a cure"

Up the ramp to Silver Springs.

White Camaro pulled up the driveway. Stella popped open the door, stepped out, keys dangling. Slammed it shut.

A child's footprint in the concrete, just one. Set long ago. Wasn't hers. Different family used to live in this house, couple a' fuckin rubes who'd thought they could afford a dream home in the middle class. As if it being realistically out of their price range wasn't what'd hooked them in the first place.

Grabbed a stick of uncooked spaghetti on her way through the kitchen. Crunched it into a paste between her molars.

From the hallway behind her, the whine of a power drill.

"I need a helper!"

Lars.

She sighed.

"Lars."

He was attaching the mount for a TV monitor to the wall above the door at the end of the hall. Standing on a flimsy child-sized chair. Girl pink, according to Mattel. One of Stella's chairs from when she had the capacity for whimsy.

"Do we need a TV up there?" She said.

"The internet signal's better here."

"It isn't." A statement, not an incredulous expression.

"I need you to hand me one of those screws." He said.

"What screws?"

"On the table."

He gestured to a desk a couple feet to the left.

Stella wasn't sure why he needed her for this. But okay. She walked to the table. Grabbed a screw. Handed it to him.

Bzzzzt, he screwed it the fuck in.

"Can you hand me another one?"

Stella walked to the table. Grabbed a screw.

Was about to hand it to him as one of the chair's hind legs snapped under his weight. He crashed to the floor, could've broken his neck if he'd hit the desk. She stepped out of his way. Otherwise, didn't flinch. He landed over the drill. Lucky it wasn't running.

She stared at him. Red and black cheer uniform. Blank face.

"Are you hurt?" She said.

"I'm okay."

She turned. Continued on her way, left her father on the floor.

Your name is Stella Nyquist. Look at you. Everybody looooves you. You know this because otherwise they would've tried to kill you by now. You're okay. Something isn't right. You can't tell what it is. But something isn't right. Whenever you feel, just inside, in the way you fit together, it isn't right. Something is dying. It's always been dying. Ever since you can remember, this low-level Taos hum of a scream. Like the world is vibrating. Synth subwoofer soil. Deep, dark blue. You think about death. What's the line? Cells interlocked with cells interlocked with cells? You think about death often. You are no longer afraid to die. This is all that you have left. You've noticed the pedestrian bridges on the strip all have suicide barriers. Nobody calls them that, but that's what they are. If you shoot yourself in a Vegas hotel room, they charge your estate for the repairs. How did you know that? You can't remember. Interlocked. You avoid the locker room after practice and you don't use the showers at school. Interlocked. When people breathe on you, it makes your skin crawl. Interlocked. You think about the shape of Ingrid's face in profile. You think about interlocking with Ingrid. Your hair stands on end in a different way. No. Jesus, you're going to kill yourself. You don't want to be here. You don't want to be here. You don't want to be here anymore. You don't want them to look at you like that, you'd rather die. You'd rather die. You think about grabbing an eyebrow pencil, pushing it through your cheek, and tearing until you see your molars. What is wrong with you? What the fuck is wrong with you? God, what the fuck is wrong with you.

She walked upstairs. Stepped into her bathroom. Locked the door behind her. Looked at herself in the mirror. Started cleaning her makeup off.

Salem, literacy, female hysteria, photography, meeting the devil at a crossroads, radio, movies, Mad Gasser of Mattoon, Black Dahlia, Pearl Harbor, Reefer Madness, nuclear family, comic books, Red Scare, TV, UFOs, windshield pitting epidemic, Jean Shrimpton's white dress, LSD, Kennedy, Elvis, James Dean, Woodstock, Manson, men in black, Zodiac Killer, free love, Mothman, sex and drugs and rock & roll, the call is coming from inside the house, hook hand car door, Bundy, Gacy, candy apple razor blades, disco, aluminum tab sex coupons, cruising, Night Stalker, swingers, snuff films, Etan Patz on a milk carton, "swear to God the devil made me do it", gay cancer, street punks, AIDS needles hidden in payphones, child grooming, video games, Calvin Klein underwear, backmasking, Mark Kilroy, Dahmer, strange man in a strange white van, McMartin preschool, gangster rap, JonBenét Ramsey, internet, Columbine, goths, spunkball, 9/11, gel bracelets, Planned Parenthood, vaccines, gay agenda, lipstick parties, Natalee Holloway, Dr. Phil has opinions, Survival of the Fittest, copyright infringement, dark web, family values, Sandy Hook, cell phones, knockout game, killer clowns with axes, Pizzagate, Slenderman stabbings, MS-13, cultural Marxism, COVID is a Chinese conspiracy, Gabby Petito, gender ideology, Balenciaga, neon-lit drug-fueled teen orgies, TikTok is a Chinese conspiracy.

She walked to her room, grabbed some comfortable clothes, walked back, closed the bathroom door behind her, locked it again. Turned the shower on.

Backtracked to the door.

"Alexa," she took a quiet breath in through her nose, "plaaaaay... The Naked and the Famous?"

"Now playing The Naked and the Famous," through from somewhere on the other side. "I don't remember the first time
But I think I survived
Probably better not to try to recall 'cause it feeds it, yeah it keeps it alive"

She doubled-checked the doorknob, made sure it was locked.

Good.

"There are specific things
That I have to do
Day to day just to keep it at bay
You wouldn't believe if you knew"

Inhaled again. Sharp, reflexive, throat getting sore, something welling in her eyes.

Walked back to the mirror, sniffled, grasped the hem of her cheer top, where it met her waist, so she could start removing it.

Stop.

((And, if you wanted anything past that millisecond, fuck off.))