“We are each our own devil, and we make this world our hell.”
― Oscar Wilde

Fear.
You start at the carousel on the first day of your working summer. She’s a big old girl—more than twenty pounds of metal perpetually rusting since the sixties, a mass of carefully crafted boards screwed to her sides. You’ve lived in the same town since you were five years old, rode the carousel since six and still you find her beautiful. And now the conductor is you, a girl in a headband and ponytail combo with a t-shirt that hugs all your unflattering curves. The conductor is you and the button you press, bright green with potential.

     It’s the first day of your working summer and the crowds are non-existent. This is a relief, because it’s always harder when there are people to see your knees quiver, to shake your sweaty palms. The music plays in the background, old folk classics with the flair of accordions. As the months go by, you begin to know the CD track numbers from a mile away and wait each time for “Over There” to start playing since it’s your favorite tune of the lot.

     The train horn blasts through the second chorus of CD 4, track 3, and your body rebels in a tightening of muscle tendons and the press of teeth to your bottom lip. The index and middle fingers of your right hand pulse with blood and memory; if you look closely, the lines from the train’s accelerator knob are still there, an echo of endless pulling and pain. You survived training—you’re a ride operator now—but you’ve heard the stories and don’t want to go back.

          “If it rains, the wheels will spin but grip to nothing.”

          “We just derailed the other day.”

          “If you see smoke, it’s some excess oil leaking on the engine.”

     Your boss tells you the stories. Your brain plays them on repeat till you know the order by heart. It takes a name, a song and a fabricated relationship to make you want to go back to the train and its tracks. Even then, you take a long breath when you reach for the ignition key, attempting to ignore the nervous lightning in your chest.

Gluttony.
You dig out a bag of Flamin’ Hot Cheeto Puffs, along with a carton of Great Value salami and the jar of manzanillas you had left over from making kabobs. You had some string cheese and tomatoes yesterday, but those had gone the way your new snacks were about to, and there really isn’t time to mourn the lack of more diverse flavors.

     The ten-year-old Dell before you buzzes with effort as you click on your purple penguin avatar and key up the next episode of NCIS. Netflix has been so kind to you this year, fueling a barrage of binge-watched show obsessions. 

     You finish the bag of puffs by the time the murderer is found; there’s irony in how the red dust coating your fingers mirrors the blood on a killer’s hands, though he slew a human and you slew your stomach. There are patches of red coating the edge on the salami box, some more smeared on the gray bed sheets bunched between your crossed legs. You groan at the thought of laundry but brighten when the theme song rings out. Season 1, episode 13: a new personal best in only half a week. 

     The bed frame cries at the shift in your weight. You answer with a grunt of contentment, back and shoulders settled in the comfortable caress of pillows.

 Jealousy
     You jump at the scrape of metal on metal, the slam of the locker inches from your nose. The blonde-framed face of your best friend is on the other side. His mouth is curled in a Cheshire’s grin that matches the fluffy locks of his hair and the tail-like movements of his backpack straps. His hands are locked behind his back; his torso bends at the hinge they make when he leans his face towards yours, a conspiratorial whisper waiting on his lips.

     “I’ve got it.” A second passes before you realize that he’s not referring to drugs. The plan. He’s got it. 

     You don’t answer him verbally, don’t have time to as he slips the paperboard square from its hiding place. The rainbow star hanging from its chain casts flecks of color to your cheeks. It’s more complex than you could have imagined. The thought of proposal crosses your mind (later you consider the event exactly such, when your middle school crush slips into a deep-set longing), but it flees in a rush of adrenaline and action. He’s given you the necklace. It’s your move next.

     The plan is simple: a girl you know dates a guy you like—this is the scenario you attempt to change—and your best friend (the accomplice) backs you up. You and him swap a token of affection, mimicking the grandiose splendor of cheesy Hallmark movies without needing to dole out lots of “dough.” The guy you like gets jealous of your accomplice and comes running into your arms. It’s foolproof…until it’s not. 

     That girl dating the guy you like, she’s your friend too. You spend hours of science class together; no one else respects you enough to perform with you in homemade, educational musicals with titles such as “Veins, Arteries and Heart” or renditions of “YMCA” about the oddest virus you could find: xenotropic murine leukemia virus-related virus, or XMRV. You’ve been to her house, binge-watched anime ‘till two in the morning, dressed alike for “Twin Day” during Spirit Week. She’s the closest female friend you’ve got, and when she hears about your plot against her she is furious. She confronts you about it, a similar scene with a slammed locker door and her face near yours, unlike that of your blonde accomplice. This face bears tears and smears of mascara. 

     “What do you think you’re doing?” The question hits you like a physical blow, words pummeling your body both inside and out. Silver chainlinks dig into the soft folds of your neck, the shimmering star like lead about to drag you into the deep. Water doesn’t manifest around you to drown you, but it does pour out in beaded streams from your eyes.

     “I’m sorry.” It’s all you can say. Apologies work like a sock stuffed in your windpipe then pulled free; the residue leaves scratches until water takes the pain away.

     She looks at you from beneath the fringe of her bangs. Her irises lighten like a barcode scanner after an item has passed through.

     “Don’t do it again,” she says. You head towards science class, acceptance soothing the scars in your throat.

Sloth
     The sun slips through your blinds. Barbs of focused light poke warmth into your eyelids, flare in splotches of orange against a black canvas. You force your body into submission, into sleep. It’s Sunday, your eight-year-old brain tells you. Avoid people. Stay in bed. The subconscious reminds you that you’ve played this game before. No matter how cringey church relationships can be sometimes, you can’t skip out by pretending to sleep. Or maybe you could if you weren’t so curious.

     Your ears catch Dad’s voice from the kitchen, the crinkles of granola bar wrappers as he rifles for his breakfast, the snarky replies from the twins when they don’t appreciate their father’s humor. It’s the simple laze of Sunday morning conversation that makes you want to leap to your feet and be a part of your favorite collective. Doing so ruins the plan. It always ruins the plan.

     As the ticking of minutes drills into your skull—a perfect back beat to the rising roar from the kitchen—you give in to laziness, give up your plan and submit to human interaction for at least one day more.      

Lust
     You follow them on your Facebook feed: girls in white dresses, boys in tailored suits, accessories for sale once the big event is over. You even get invited to attend a wedding one Sunday. The invitation looks nice—thick, laminated paper and a close-up photo of the groom and his bride—so you decide to go even though the date and time inconvenience you. It’s as beautiful as a Baptist wedding can be. 

     You are proud of the new couple, but behind the haze of wedding bliss lurks a hint of anger and jealousy, twined together and bathed in the pink glow of lust. You wonder what hands would feel like clamped to the corners of your hips, pulling frantically at the skin there. You ponder which is softer, the skin of one’s lips or the thin membrane of flesh that sweeps along a straining neck. You crave both a carnal entwining of tongues (as passionate as those in the science-fiction romance you once bought for $1.25 at Dollar General) and the slightest brush of fingertips as you walk home after a first date. You sneeze when your thoughts stray a little too far into tumultuous red before turning over, an afterglow of fuzziness dragging you into a deep slumber.

Wrath
     She hit you, that means you can fight back. The throbbing rhythm of the welt emerging from your reddening forehead seems to beat in agreement. Remember what she did back then? The staccato speaks as a trusted friend whispering secrets straight into your ear. Remember how she bit you, how she dug her fingernails into your arm. Why do you sit defenseless? You have already grabbed the hairbrush before anything else can reply to your pain’s questions. The target, in all of its monstrous glory, sits unaware in the old brown sofa. It bears no face to your sight, just a pool of black and a line of sharpened teeth. Its grin speaks of the evil thoughts that must be whirling within its wicked brain and it gazes upwards only as you fling your spiked missile directly at its awful expression. 

     What are you doing? Some other voice cries out from the back of your brain, from the place where your memories dwell. The target morphs from shadow, from snarling beast into your sister that you’ve been raised to cherish, your sister that bonds with you over games and a shared love of creation. Your breath releases only when the brush thunks behind her head, missing skin. Your sister is unscathed, and you are sent to your room for a moment of reflection.

     The wall is now peeled in the place where the hairbrush landed—has been for several years. You think perhaps you are the only one who remembers what happened. The faint remnants of anger won’t let you forget.

Pride
     The interview is going well, you think. It’s sometimes hard to tell when the person interviewing you maintains eye-contact while you talk—only wavering when switching topics—but you see more smiles than frowns, and the boss already likes your dad so perhaps she likes you too. The questions never stray from the norm: a mix of proposed scenarios and personal inquiries, what-would-you-do-ifs and describe-a-time-whens. You are only a few minutes in when one of your favorite questions comes out: “What is your biggest flaw?”

    It doesn’t take you long at all to formulate an answer. You’ve spent a lot of time preparing for this one; you’ve found it’s easier to preen with money on the line. You say a word that lets you flaunt, a symbol of having power and knowing it. Your mind never wanders to other possibilities, even if they exist.

     “Pride.” It’s a singular fault, a singular explanation. Surely the job will be yours.

– Amanda Trout

Note: This piece was originally published in the 2020 issue of the Cow Creek Review (PSU’s student literary magazine).