During the interview, they ask her if it happened in his childhood bedroom or in the Canuck laundry or in the ACME backroom. They don't ask if she lay down herself or if she was on her back for other reasons, like reading Emma or sleeping off a hangover. They don't ask if the linted feathers from the pillow pinched her shoulder blades or if the ground left marks in unexpected places like the soles of her feet.
Instead, they tell her what happens to girls who lie. How some set of faceless and “countless” women put the truth on its back.
How, if it was them in that basement, they wouldn't have gone lying down.
Basement, she repeats. That’s oddly specific.
They exchange a look and bear down and, like she did then, she pictures snow angels, arms sifting feathered dust as they try to remember how to fly.
Salena Casha's work has appeared in over 100 publications in the last decade. Her most recent work can be found on HAD, Ghost Parachute, and Wrong Turn Lit. She survives New England winters on good beer and black coffee. Subscribe to her substack at salenacasha.substack.com
This story won second prize in the March 24 Monthly Micro Competition.