by Shiv Mehrotra-Varma
It causes me great anguish to read about a woman in pain.
To watch through her eyes as she burns and withers away, ailed by a plague that cannot be cured. Yes, I despise it - but it has never failed to give me a profound sense of clarity. And for that reason, I have never stopped.
When I began my literary journey, I empathized with these women. I was in that angsty gray area between junior and senior year when I read Falling Leaves.
The Memoir of an Unwanted Chinese Daughter, the subtitle boasted. Was I not unwanted too? As I wasted my high school days away in a fragile bubble of innocence, it certainly felt like I was.
It was early fall when he contacted me after I left a comment on the author’s socials: Yen Mah is my Cinderella! I remember being thrilled to find a message in my usually empty inbox.
Insomniac__: hey. i read ur book review. r u in high school?
This sucked. On principle, I never opted to share the fact I was homeschooled until someone knew me well. The homeschool groups I’d joined were awkward, trepidatious, and full of slimy hands and buck teeth, and the few other students I related to were just as fearful of social interaction as myself. Would he even talk to me if I told him? I eventually decided on a vague and unassuming response.
Orchid: Hi @Insomniac__! Thanks for checking it out! I am in high school. Isn’t Yen Mah’s prose just stunning? Insomniac__: i’m in high school too.
He dropped the subject of education after that. I was grateful. What’s funny was, I quickly realized he didn’t want to talk about Fallen Leaves. He didn’t seem remotely interested in reading at all, for that matter.
Insomniac__: how old r u?
Orchid: Sixteen.
He told me he was nineteen. It didn’t make a difference to me.
We talked about the randomest of things. I told him why I gave myself the nickname Orchid - for my delicacy and class. His responses were short and to the point: that’s cool or lmfao. I suppose calling the name beautiful would have been too much to ask. I had kind of hoped he would.
He was pragmatic, if not harsh at times. He was also astoundingly artificial; I would spill my heart out to him in a prompt on a screen, and his response would be computer-generated. If anything, it was the process of writing that wrapped a blanket around my naked heart, but I convinced myself it was his companionship.
Then one day, I powered on my device to find a picture of him staring up at me, all pixels and skin gradients. He was tall and lanky, with a gap-toothed frown and a scraggly bunch of black hair that flopped onto his forehead like a bird’s nest, and his skin looked sickly and pale, like he didn’t spend enough time outdoors.
He’d written: i want to see what u look like ;).
I hid behind my waves. They tangled in front of me in thick, dark clumps. And I began to imagine what it would be like to send that to him, to have him scrutinize every inch of my face, every inch of my being. I was riddled with imperfections. My breaths quickened, and I began to type. The keys always felt sticky against my fingers when I lied.
Orchid: You look amazing, @Insomniac__! I would love to send you a picture of myself, but my parents don’t want pictures of me on the internet. Is it OK if we just keep talking for now?
Insomniac__: it’s not the internet. it’s just me.
I swallowed, unsure of what to say. Eventually, I settled on:
Orchid: They like you, but they’re still saying no.
Insomniac__: what’s the point of
talking to u if i don’t even know what you look like?!
I waited for a few moments until I realized that was all he had to say. I was too scared to message him back. I’d ruined everything.
*
As college approached, I grew incessantly paranoid, each waking moment filled with thoughts of loneliness and timidity. I couldn’t even sleep without the lights on. How would I function in a dorm room?
One morning, in the late spring, I gave in and wrote a long message to him confessing my worries. Despite our past conversation, I still considered him my only friend. I was heartbroken when I received no response.
Had I bored him? Even worse, had I weirded him out?
The days continued to drift away like petals on a dying rose.
*
In Yen Mah’s Falling Leaves, Mah is a member of a wealthy Chinese family in a port city north of Shanghai.
My parents immigrated from Shanghai. They used to tell me an old expression. In
America, we say, “An apple doesn’t fall far from the tree.” In Shanghai, they say, "The leaves fall close to the roots." It’s supposed to mean that, no matter how long or how far the journey, one will always have an old abode to return to.
As I stepped onto the crowded college campus, I couldn’t help but feel I would never return home.
My mother stood beside me, looking stiff and sharp-edged amidst the swathes of laissez-faire college students. But her expression was remarkably gentle as she cupped her hand against my cheek. I leaned into her.
To my mother, I had lived my childhood years as the perfect guai Chinese daughter, obedient and demure. In other words, I was absolutely and unequivocally unremarkable in every way. I wonder what she would’ve thought then if I’d told her about the long nights spent messaging a boy three years my senior to ease a loneliness she didn’t know I felt.
Still, she loved me. And as her gentle fingertips left my chin, I found myself clinging to the imprints they left behind.
The first day I was gripped with an unfathomable lethargy. I had slept little the night before, my mind plagued with visions of inconceivable monsters lurking in the dark and the mattress itchy and rock-solid beneath my diminutive frame.
The hours wasted away. Eventually, I forced myself out the door, feet dragging against the frayed carpet of my dorm building. I collapsed into a sofa chair in the Starbucks next door.
I was still shifting uncomfortably on the worn leather when a voice broke through the bustling atmosphere.
“Hey! I think I saw you in one of my classes. You’re a frosh, right?”
I nodded hesitantly.
The girl’s brow furrowed slightly as if confused by my reluctance, but she plowed on.
“I’m Charlotte.”
A mass of dark chocolate curls fell loftily onto her slim shoulders, and the twinkle in her eye told me she was outgoing as well as beautiful. I introduced myself, and she brightened a bit.
“We have a group chat for some freshmen in our dorm,” she told me. “Let me add you and we can schedule something!” I said OK.
*
It was everyone’s idea except mine to go out that night. I said yes even though I didn’t want to.
Parvati, an Indian girl with a strong FOMO, was a quintessential pre-med. She had thick dark lashes and wore too much makeup. Sara was a business major, short with a perpetual smile and an overbearing personality. I didn’t mind her.
We walked and walked, a messy jumble of high heels and skinny legs until suddenly the setting changed.
I had never been to a club before. It was a different kind of overwhelming, swimming through a sea of pulsating adults. It seemed oddly childish.
Each brush of bare shoulder or errant elbow against my fragile figure sent sparks tingling down my spine. The air was tainted with the fumes of cheap liquor. I shivered.
Then Charlotte tapped on my shoulder and shoved a thick glass into my fist. She somehow still managed to look stunning in the artificial light. My chest prickled with something that might’ve been envy.
The glass was warm against my sweaty palms, but I shoved down the disgust and forced it towards my mouth. The foam felt soft and airy against my lips, and itchy as it dribbled down my chin. Then the bubbles burst inside my stomach.
Maybe in some masochistic way, I enjoyed the pressure, the feeling of it building, bubbling up inside of me as my insides burst into flames. Better to feel pain than nothing at all. My eyes were lit with a manic fervor as I plugged my nose and emptied the glass.
*
I don't know if this is a myth, but when I was younger, I used to read that in the old black-and-white movies, if the woman was older, they put Vaseline on the lenses of the cameras to soften and blur any wrinkles.
I was viewing the world through a Vaseline lens.
Everything was muted. All my worries and needs, the perpetual knot in my stomach they’d all been quenched by the roaring tide. If only I was always like this… I’d be able to sleep every night.
Time sped up, and the night ran by as I floated on a cloud. At one point, Parvati screamed, “Let’s take a picture!”
I was jostled around until we were all squished together into a tight Lego brick. The flash was brighter than any light I’d ever seen.
Parvati created a profile for me (with my usual username Orchid) and tagged it on the post. I’d never been in a picture on social media before.
Finally, we were outside, the whimsical breezes of the morning rolling over my back. Charlotte was crying for some reason or another; apparently Sara had said something. She kept peeking over like she wanted me to lick her wounds, but it was hard to feel sympathy for something so shallow.
As we neared the dorms, I was surprised to feel a teardrop tracing a path down my cheek.
Charlotte’s tears will dry and leave no trace, but mine will leave a permanent stain.
*
I woke the next morning with chapped lips and a pounding headache. Charlotte came knocking thirty minutes later, hands wrapped around a steaming thermos of black coffee.
She lowered herself elegantly onto my couch, perched on the edge of the cushion with her legs crossed like a model. I sat like a duck.
My phone buzzed.
Insomniac__: hey, were u out last night? i think i saw a post u were tagged on. been thinking abt u…
I stared, and Charlotte’s eyes lit up. “Who is that?”
“Oh, just a friend from high school,” I whispered, my eyes still glued to the screen.
“Is he cute?” Charlotte asked slyly.
“He’s fine,” I mumbled.
“Look!” She pointed, and my eyes followed her beautifully painted nail back to the screen. “He’s totally into you. If he’s near here, you guys should meet up!”
“I-” I stammered. “We haven’t talked in a while.”
“Do you know him well?”
“I used to,” I admitted begrudgingly. “But I still don’t even know his name.” “Mysterious,” Charlotte smirked. “How’d you meet?”
“He messaged me about a book,” I said.
“Aww, that’s so cute!” Charlotte squealed. She punched me teasingly in the shoulder. “Two book nerds. A match made in heaven.”
“I don’t think he even likes reading.”
“Stop being so pessimistic. Give me that!” she said, wrenching the phone from my hand. She paused upon seeing my name. “Orchid. That’s… fitting. I’m going to schedule something.” She started to type.
Orchid: yeah me too! u want to hang out sometime?
We waited for a few halting moments until another bubble lit up the screen.
Insomniac__: ya i’m down. r u still in the same area?
I opened my mouth to say something, and Charlotte gave me a look.
“You’re going,” she told me.
“Can you come?” The words escaped me before I could even comprehend them.
She raised her eyebrows. “You really want me to come?”
“I’ll ask him myself,” I said, taking the phone back from her.
Orchid: I am. Is it OK if my friend comes too?
It took a while for him to respond to this one.
Insomniac__: i’d prefer it if u came alone.
At Charlotte’s insistence, we still arranged to meet that night. Charlotte told me if he wanted to take me into a bar, I should stand still and look pretty, and he would deal with the rest. I was doubtful but nodded anyway. That might have worked for her, but we didn’t look the same. I wondered if he’d know what I was talking about if I asked him about Falling Leaves. Something told me he wouldn’t.
*
The streets of Old Town District were cobblestone, long and narrow and thin like someone had drawn them in with a pencil. Lampposts lined the dark corridors, shoved between tightly packed houses and the occasional dilapidated restaurant. Each building seemed to have a personality of its own; the stained-glass windows blinked like weary eyes adorned with eyelashes of dust. I wanted to curl up beneath the peeling paint and sleep forever.
The sky darkened as I approached. My heart leaped to my chest when I noticed a figure in the shadows.
“Orchid?” a voice said. He stepped into the lantern light. My breath caught in my throat he hadn’t changed a bit since he sent me that picture.
“Yes,” I breathed.
He grins. “You look stunning.” Blood rushed to my cheeks, but not from appreciation.
“What’s your name?” I blurted.
He pauses. “My na - you don’t know my name?”
“You don’t know my name either.”
“Yeah, but you're my… my -” He stopped again, frowning. “Nevermind.”
What’s that supposed to mean?
“Your name?” I pressed when the silence stretched for several awkward moments.
“Will,” he said. He stared at me. His eyes had a wolfish glint. I waited for a little while until I realized he wasn’t going to ask for mine.
Good. I’d prefer to remain Orchid for tonight.
“Would you like to get food?” he said eventually.
“Sure.”
Neither of us spoke as we walked toward an errant taco stand at the end of the street. He came back sooner than I’d hoped, arms laden with food and drink: four tacos and two cans of beer. He handed me the can he’d already opened, and then we sat on the curb as I watched him eat, taking tentative sips. I wouldn’t have had a taco even if he’d bothered to offer me one; I doubted I could stomach food right now.
After finishing, he gestured toward the other end of the street. “Do you want to - uh…”
“Yeah.” I laughed nervously, and he smirked, straightening his shoulders. It hadn’t been a happy laugh.
“Come on then.” He wrapped his arm around my shoulder, and I winced at his touch. He smelled like cheap cologne and body odor.
We walked for a bit, the minutes moving along at a sluggish pace. He seemed perfectly content to not say a word. I wished Charlotte was there.
We trudged down an empty alleyway, and suddenly he looked around and stopped, his grip tightening. Then he smiled, and all I could think about was how his teeth looked oddly yellow in the lantern light.
He reached to grab my other shoulder and massaged it slightly. His face was now mere inches from mine, and his acne looked like dried blood. I gasped and tried to pull away, but his fingernails were nailed into my skin, holding me in place.
“Hey,” he said, laughing slightly. “It’s just me. You want this.”
I looked deep into his alien gaze, trying to make sense of the Cheshire Cat before me, but all I could see was a stranger who wouldn’t let me go.
“Falling Leaves,” I gasped, scrabbling for anything but skin and claws.
“Yen Mah artfully depicts the cruelties of twentieth-century China…”
“What are you talking about?” He shook me angrily, and my bones rattled.
“Get a grip!”
I thrashed and kicked until something connected. It was my fist, and his jaw shattered beneath it.
“What the hell!?”
I turned, my ankles threatening to shatter as my heels collided with the fragmented road. He grabbed my wrist and spun me back around.
“That hurt,” he hissed. He grasped my upper arms. “Just listen to me. Deep breaths.” I relaxed a little. “I don’t want to…”
“I get it,” he said. “I’m not going to make you do anything you don’t want to do. Just… don’t be so rough.”
I nodded tentatively, unsure, but then he seized my hips and pinned me against the grime-covered wall. The dirt tumbled down my spine in a waterfall of filth.
He crushed his lips against mine, and when his spit dribbled down my chin, something inside me broke and I began to cry. Snot mingled with tears on my soft cheeks as all struggle abandoned me. I was a ragdoll.
A grizzled hand cupped my face. The calluses on his thumb cut into my skin as he wiped me dry. It felt nothing like my mother’s.
My shoulders shook. He kissed my neck with kitten teeth, gnawing softly on paper skin.
My lips had begun to bleed, droplets of red staining my soft blouse, but he didn’t seem to mind, murmuring softly under his breath as he peeled away the fragile layer.
I felt distant. I was viewing the world through a rapidly closing lens. My eyes began to flutter.
“You’ll be fine, sweetheart,” he whispered. “We’re going to have some fun together, and then my friends will take care of you, and you can meet some other guys. You won’t remember a thing.”
A lavender haze engulfed my vision, and I heard the screech of van tires in the distance. The last thing I felt was the brush of cold metal against my belly button as he unbuttoned my pants.
***
Shiv Mehrotra-Varma is a youth fiction writer from Central California. His work has been previously recognized by organizations such as the Scholastic Art & Writing Awards, appearing in the LA Times, Fresno Bee, TeenInk Magazine, and much more. Beyond fiction, he enjoys writing research and opinion articles and competing in debate competitions.
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