Medusa & the Forever Quarantine

When quarantine comes down, Medusa almost doesn’t notice. Nothing has changed for her really. Her entire life has been a form of self-imposed lockdown. Involuntary in the major, a blessing in the minor. In her apartment, behind three deadbolts and the latched chain, she can harm no one and no one can harm her.

(Except herself, maybe, but who gives a shit about that?)

She orders Chinese through UberEats twice a week; makes sure to check the box for leave at the door instead of meet at the door. Something so mundane should never be so painful. She orders enough food for two. Sets the table for two. Pours twin glasses of the darkest red wine she can find. She switches back and forth from seat-to-seat, carries on a lifelong conversation with two versions of herself.

(One girl is behind the locked door, the other just in front of it. Both of them have their hands pressed against the wood. They both wish they were the other. They are both glad they are themselves.)

Medusa smokes an entire pack of Marlboro lights on her patio in the middle of the night. Makes sure she sits against the railing, facing the wall and not the courtyard, just in case someone else is peering out through the gloom. She just can’t be responsible for anymore ruin. She always feels like someone is watching her. Someone is always watching her. Fuck everyone who says this is for her protection.

(If this is a fairytale I am telling it wrong.)

She builds a shrine for Athena. Tries to pray and ends up screaming into her clasped hands. Why is she always the one asking for forgiveness? She uses a gilded sword hidden away in the closet to destroy the altar; gold and silver fragments litter the carpet, shimmering in the dim light like they have not just been reduced to so much less than what they were. They cut deep into her fingers, and blood runs down into her palms. She resists the urge to bring her hands to her mouth— but only just. She is tired of falling asleep with blood in her mouth.

(There is always blood in her mouth. )

Instead, she walks into the shower, leaves the sword on the floor— it was never hers anyway. Turns the water as hot as it will go. She never feels clean. She wishes she could burn away her flesh down to the bone beneath, and slip into a different skin. One less tarnished, less agonizing.

But she is only mortal, after all, and despite all evidence to the contrary, she just doesn’t want to die. She hates that about herself.

(She is tired of hating herself. )

Eventually, the water runs cold, just like it always does. The well of despair is only so deep. She tracks wet footprints into the living room, wraps a towel around her hair, piling it up high. She ignores the fractured altar. Ignores the way it seems to have eyes of its own, and a mouth that says “You’ll be back. You always come back.”

(And she will. She’ll put the sword back in the closet, and scrub the blood out of the carpet, and she’ll get back on her knees to try again. Fail again. Give up and let go and hold on. This is all she has left.)

Medusa turns the tv on, halcyon flickering the only light in the house, and watches two strangers fall in love. It’s sweet and slow and when one reaches out for the other, no one flinches. There’s no one there to see if she cries. No on there to care if she rewinds the scene over and over again just to hear the words “I will not let you slip through my fingers” played on repeat.

(This is my problem. I can never write anything anyone can relate to.)

She sleeps on the couch, feet tucked underneath the cushions as she dreams about the dark ocean, the broken clock above the mantle that always strikes twelve, the chipped porcelain teacup, and a house on a hill with no doors—only wide open windows and doorways framed in ivy.

(This isn’t a fairy tale. But it will be.)