Part 2: She Cried Tears of Crimson

It’s been seven years since my mother died and I’m now twenty. My father got me a voucher for a therapy session as my birthday present in January: he said it’s never too late.
I don’t think my therapist is licensed.
Tana lives downtown, in a small apartment with four cats, the ones with the flat noses which makes them appear angry. Her home is filled with orange light lamps covered in fabrics and soft rugs, so the lighting is a warmly vibrating red. She has an old couch by the fireplace where I usually sit on rainy days, covered in cat fur and velvet cushions. Her bathroom is dark and gloomy, with burned down candles on every shelf and on the sides of the tub. She has that sort of weird odor that old people have, but she is only forty and mixes it up with some Gucci Bloom perfume and essential oils: lavender, tea tree, frankincense. And weed, of course.
When I visit her once a week, we sit on the rooftop of her building and smoke pot, if the weather allows. It’s usually night time, so we watch the sunset in silence, or she asks me questions, after all it’s a therapy session, something must be unfolded, discussed.
Today it’s cloudy so we’re inside and she made pasta for herself. I’m sipping cheap wine she found in the back of her cabinet. It’s sweet and bitter at the same time and I grimace after every sip.
‘So, how is the modeling going?’ she asks. I shrug; it’s all the same, easy to find jobs in LA.
‘Alright. Nothing changes in the industry, really’ I answer.
‘So, have you felt the need to starve yourself recently?’ she asks. This is one of our usual discussions, fishing for eating disorders in models is like looking for earthworms after a rain. Not delightful, but lucrative. And, of course, she has to ask these questions so she can prescribe me my usual dose of Prozac.
‘Not really’ I say, and it’s true. I don’t feel the need to starve myself. I just have it. She nods with agreement.
‘That’s great. I’ve always been jealous of people with fast metabolism; what a blessing to have.’
She eats her pasta in silence and I pet her cat, Lyla, who jumps up next to me on the couch. It’s late, but I don’t feel like going home yet. My car is almost out of gas and it’s a long way from her house back to LA. She lives in Santa Clarita, so I would have to drive through the Angeles National forest, which is not the best experience in the middle of the night.
By the time she finishes her pasta it starts raining. It's the kind of rain that carries a heavier one in its belly, and I can almost hear the clouds stretching, tearing; waiting to release their contents. I hate driving in a storm, so I say my goodbyes to Tana and put on my thin coat and boots, both thrifted from the cheapest shops in LA that I could find.
The vine feels warm and heavy in my stomach as I walk to my car and almost jump into the driver's seat to escape the rain; it’s too late. My cropped shirt is sticking to my chest and my hair is dripping from water, leaving drops on the seat. I become overly aware of my body and my surroundings so I close my eyes and try taking long breaths. Five seconds in. Six seconds out. At least I learned something from the past few months of therapy sessions, between the silences of smoking and looking at the stars.
As I start my car and drive onto the road leading through the forest, I think of Tana. Maybe I am wrong to assume she is a bad therapist. Maybe being silent is a form of therapy in itself, the awkward stillness between two people who barely know each other, just out there, not filled with words or sounds. Maybe I should do it more often, be silent. I turn on the radio and listen to the muffled sounds of generic pop music through the white noise of the rain.
The road is dark and the trees tower above me like old monuments growing out of the raw soil. The storm is getting stronger, lightning slashes through the sky, followed by thunder. I feel my body shaking in the cold, despite the heating in my car. As I watch the narrow path illuminated by my headlights, I notice a figure in the distance, covered by the curtain of raindrops. I slow down: it’s a car, abandoned by the road. Who would leave their car here? And why?
I don’t get out: memories flash before my eyes, of women being gang raped, robbed, sliced up, cannibalized, whatever brutality the news dared to spook the public with, after discovering a car by a deserted road. But the car seems unusual, not one owned by mass murderers and rapists. It’s a pink convertible Porsche, with Hello Kitty stickers on its windows, as if a child had put them there, unorganised, random. I stop completely. I notice my heartbeat in my ears. I look into the darkness of the forest. Do I see lights, or is it just the moonlight dimly refracting on the wet leaves?
As if the car was pulling me towards it, I get out. In my head I curse myself, but the half bottle of wine gives me courage. I look around, there is no one near. The rain feels like a bucket of water is being poured on my head, flowing down my shoulders. I walk around the car, looking behind me every second, because the rain makes me feel as if I have lost my senses. Inside I see nothing except for a few empty coffee cups and bottles of water, a pack of cigarettes on the backseat. There are smudged lipstick marks on the edge of the cups. For a second, I think: should I call the police? Maybe they are in danger, something has happened. But again, why would someone leave their car out here, get out in the middle of the road? As I’m about to walk back to my car, I notice something in the wet soil under the trees. Footprints. But they are not ordinary footprints: they appear to be three pairs of stiletto heels walking straight into the forest, the little holes and larger triangles slowly filled up with muddy water. There are no other prints, no men’s, or animal’s. No sign that anything bad has happened. For a few seconds I just stand there, mesmerized by the sight. And then I hear it. A scream, no, shriek, from deep within the woods, tearing over the sound of the rain. I freeze. It doesn’t sound like an animal, but I can’t imagine a human making such noise. Lightning flashes the trees before me, and the light disappears a few feet within the branches. I stumble back into my car, fiddle with my keys and start the engine.
The car roars and I step on the gas: my tires screech on the wet asphalt and with shaking hands I drive away as fast as I can, leaving behind the Porsche and the footprints, and whatever, human or animal, might be lurking in the woods. As I drive through the forest, I could swear I feel someone watching me from behind the thicket of the rain and trees and bushes, hiding deep within the forest.


I wake up in the dark. For a second, I can’t place myself in space and time so I tap around until I find my phone; it’s three in the morning. Raindrops pound on the roof of my small studio apartment at the very top of an old building, they roll down on the tilted windows. As I’m about to lay back down, my phone buzzes with an Instagram notification: someone requested to follow my private page. I take my phone and stare at the profile picture of a very beautiful, very young girl, her piercing blue eyes stare at me from the screen: her username _theyloooovegigi. We don’t have any mutual followers, and I can’t recall ever meeting her; I hit the “Accept” and follow her back. I scroll through her feed: she must be a model, her face perfectly symmetrical, always captured from professionally lit, shadeless angles. Her makeup is done in a way that accentuates those huge eyes that seem to penetrate my skin. A few minutes pass and another notification pops up:
‘Hey girly! I’m new in the city, looking for friends in the scene!’
By the “scene” she means the modeling world, I suppose. At the end, she added three hearts and a princess emoji. I open her message and walk out into the kitchen.
‘Hi, how did you find me?’ I type as I light a cigarette and open the window. The smell of the rain hits my face and I frown, looking at the three dots which appear as she types.
‘We will be at the same shoot tomorrow! I saw your name at the casting.’ I breathe in the smoke and think. It’s very unusual to hold two separate castings, and even more unusual to write out the names of the other models; but I suppose it’s not impossible, and there is no other way she could’ve found my account. Another notification.
‘Hope Gigi didn’t disturb you!!!!’ I scoff and open the message.
‘It’s okay, I was up already. We can go out tomorrow night if you want’ I look out onto the night city, which seems unnaturally bright. No matter how much time I spend in L.A., I’ll never get used to seeing no stars in the sky.
‘Oh. My. God. That’s amazing!!! I’ll bring my friends along if you don’t mind! They will LOVE you I’m sure!’
Friends? I scroll back a bit to her first text which clearly states she’s looking for friends. I hesitate, but then she starts typing again.
‘They are new here too, we travel together a lot!’ she adds, as if sensing my confusion. A group of traveling related emojis follow: bikini, palm trees, an airplane. I try to imagine how traveling as a group of models could work, since they probably wouldn’t all get signed at all times by the same agency. Not to mention, it is already difficult to find a job and settle down in one city: changing agencies can be a nightmare. A reminder appears on my screen: shoot tomorrow at seven in the morning. I have about three hours left to sleep.
‘Well see you tomorrow then. Goodnight’
I put out the cigarette and close the window: the white noise of the rain dulls and I throw myself on the bed. Slowly, with the taste of the cigarette still in my mouth, I drift off into a shallow, disturbed sleep heavy from the events of the day.