The Shell
by Jezebel Harper
She leans over, puts on her makeup in the shining vanity mirror. Her red lips curve upward, and her long, black lashes flutter as she covers her lids with sparkly, blue powder. She is young. She is beautiful. She is me, but fresh, joyful, lively. “Just about ready!” She calls to her husband standing in the hall—tall and handsome. Dark eyes, dark skin, dark hair, dark tone—the kind of man I always dreamed of. He leans in, gives a somewhat trusting nod, then disappears down the corridor.
How old are they now? Thirty? Yes, it must be thirty-something.
I stand across the room as a shadow, unnoticed and disturbed, contemplating my eternal age of twenty-six. A dreadful age. An age where many deaths occur, giving way to many new lives. I myself was a barista in life. That monotony chip, chip, chipped away at me until I was a husk—this spirit on the outside looking in. The shadow I am now. I watched the shell of me go about her days, feeling content that I was taking no part in such things. Smug—almost. My nose would wrinkle, and my clear lips often turned into an obnoxious sort of smirk.
The coffees got spilled and patrons would yell and yell and yell—but the shell never cried. She never could. Nothing was inside. No spirit would want a home there after all—what kind of life was that? The body was pretty but vacant. Many looked into those light blue eyes and saw them for what they were. Dead. Gone. Upright and warm, but missing that necessary spark humans must have. A sad little thing.
Then, the man came along. His face held a grimness to it. A somber aura, a familiar emptiness. His frame was slight, and his face was unshaven. His arms were filled with fading tattoos that once held much more color and artistry.
When their dull eyes met, it was over. Something started again. A warmth spread. New words bubbled to the surface for the first time in months or maybe years. And they kept flowing. A spark sparked between them and it kept growing and growing. Soon enough, both bodies were filled again with a new sort of thing, vibrant and strange and light.
New jobs were taken—a building gig for him and a design job for her. The kind of jobs the living do. A house was bought. One filled with bright spirits and few gray moments. It held—and continues to hold—plenty of antiques, psychedelic tapestries, neon lights, and flowers, along with me, forgotten in the corner. “Shayla.” I gather all my energy to eek it out—the tiniest, gravelliest voice one could imagine. “Shayla.”
She continues painting her pale face, dotting a rosy pink powder across her round cheeks. Her gaze stays firm in the mirror, unwavering. Did she hear me? She must have. Deep in me, I know she couldn’t have missed it. I try again. “Shayla.” This time she pauses.
I drag myself over to the velvety chair she rests on, and I reach out my cold hand, hoping for a touch of the light, a bit of attention, maybe even a recollection or two. But as my fingers graze her skin, she pulls away, looks off toward the hall, and scurries off. “Coming out now!” She yells after her husband hastily.
Soon enough, she fades into the darkness of the hallway, and I am left waiting for her return, readying myself to call out to her once more.
Jezebel Harper is a writer currently residing in southeast Alabama and obtaining her BA in Creative Writing. She specializes in speculative fiction and surrealist pieces but dabbles in reading and writing just about any genre or form. Outside of literary endeavors, she spends her time traveling and studying history and philosophy.