By Vivi Estaris
I eat an apple a day to keep the doctor away because I lost my health insurance.
I was laid off two months ago. Now my job is looking for jobs. I keep a spreadsheet to track all the jobs I’ve applied to, and I’m close to breaking a hundred. I’m subscribed to eight different job hunting sites. I type “I look forward to hearing from you” like a prayer at the end of all my cover letters.
* * *
- 5 things I can see: The ceiling fan, the mirror, the door, my desk, my pillow rolling like a hill in the blurred inches beyond my very near sight.
- 4 things I can touch: My sheets, my clothes, my hair, my face.
- 3 things I can hear: The hum of the air conditioning, the crickets outside, my upstairs neighbor’s footsteps.
- 2 things I can smell: The shampoo in my hair, the moisturizer on my face.
- 1 thing I can taste: Leftover toothpaste behind my molar.
* * *
from: Lucid Solutions Recruitment <recruitment@lucidsolutions.com>
to: Maryann Enrique <maryannenrique94@seemail.com>
date: Monday, October 7, 2024 9:38 AM
subject: Regarding Your Lucid Solutions Application
Good morning, [CANDIDATE NAME]!
Thank you for your interest in the role of [JOB POSITION]. We wanted to let you know that this position has been filled. The team has identified a candidate whose background and experience closely align with their current needs.
We wish you the best of luck in your job search.
Sincerely,
Lucid Solutions Recruitment
* * *
I inhale through my nose for four seconds. I hold my breath for four seconds. I exhale through my mouth for four seconds. I do this four times.
* * *
I sleep during the day because I cannot sleep at night. I wake up in the afternoon and run an apple underneath some hot water and wonder each time if this tap water is actually cleaning my produce or making it worse.
I chew and eat and swallow slowly. I tongue the smooth outer skin and feel the fruit soften and crumble sand-like between my teeth.
I buy as many varieties as I can. When I need a morale boost, I savor the sharp tang of a granny apple. On sunny days, I hold bites of honeycrisp against the roof of my mouth and suck at them until morsels of juice roll out. I hate red delicious, and I force it down my throat when I deserve to be punished.
* * *
I take long walks at sunset because I know I shouldn’t stay in my apartment for too long. I try to enjoy the orange dregs of the daylight. I think of what I should do when I get home, as if it would be anything other than watching episodes of the same sitcom over and over until the dread of being unwell drives me to apply for more jobs and eat more apples.
* * *
from: Samuel Clark <s.clark@novative.com>
to: Maryann Enrique <maryannenrique94@seemail.com>
date: Monday, October 14, 2024 12:03 PM
subject: Re: Application, Digital Marketer
Maryann,
Thank you for your application for the role of Digital Marketer. While your resume and credentials are impressive, we were disappointed to note that your cover letter was obviously generated by AI. Please refrain from using an LLM in your future applications, and I’m sure you’ll find success in your job search.
Best,
Samuel Clark
Director of Human Resources
* * *
A white woman on YouTube teaches me yoga poses for beginners. It’s hard for me to concentrate because I can’t stop thinking of how big her house is.
* * *
I remember when I was in first grade and wanted to be a marine biologist. We all did. We wanted to be marine biologists, astronauts, and presidents.
My friends wanted to be marine biologists because they loved dolphins. I wanted to be a marine biologist because I love sharks.
I came home from school one day, crying. I had learned about the word “endangered,” and the idea that one day there might not be any more sandtiger sharks. Pollution, overfishing, extinction, mortality, the innocence of nature, the futility of good intentions, being the last of one’s kind, all in one school day. Nothing could have hurt worse in that moment.
My mom tried to comfort me, telling me that while it is sad, there’s always something to be done. There is always a way to help.
I told my mom I wanted to be a marine biologist, and she thought that was a great idea. My dad told me I had to be good at science and math, and the way he said it deflated me, although my seven-year-old brain could not parse why.
Now I have an app on my phone that tracks sharks that have been tagged by marine biologists and conservationists. Each shark gets a name. I can press a button and learn all the places they’ve been since they were tagged. My eyes follow a line created by a shark named Leela. Leela is a dusky shark. Leela is nine feet and six inches long, and weighs in at three hundred and eighteen pounds. Leela spends most of her time along the east coast, swimming along the shores of northern Florida and making her way as far as Myrtle Beach.
Dusky sharks are endangered.
* * *
I pick up my pen and run my fingers along the side, feeling the cold metal and plastic, concentrating on its weight in my hand.
* * *
Mom: I’m sure you’ll find something soon.
Mom: Have you given any thought to moving back in?
Mom: You wouldn’t have to worry about rent, and you know I’m always happy to cook for my favorite daughter!
Me: Thanks, Mom, but I still don’t feel comfortable being around him.
Mom: I understand. You know he loves you, though, right?
Me: I’m sorry.
* * *
I try to list my favorite foods, but all I can come up with are apples. Apples and apple pies and apple turnovers and apple cider and candied apples and apple sauce and caramelized apples and spiced apple crisps.
I find myself sitting at my dining room table one afternoon, watching the white and naked insides of my apple slices, watching the inner ridges oxidize and brown.
I watch a fly land on top. I leave it there, hoping that I’ve done some good for today.
* * *
I’m hearing something. A sound finds me on the edge of all my thoughts, prodding the outermost corners of my skull. I cannot listen for too long, or else it will become louder. It is like a thousand wet whispers, rippling, undulating. I listen to loud music to stave off the wet noises.
* * *
from: Brooke Allan <brookeallan@mindfullmarketing.com>
to: Maryann Enrique <maryannenrique94@seemail.com>
date: Tuesday, October 22, 2024 10:22 AM
subject: Re: Application, Digital Content Strategist
Good afternoon, Maryann,
Thank you for your interest in our Digital Content Strategist position. I wanted to reach out and let you know that while our manager was impressed by your resume, we are looking for candidates who have more experience with large language model tools.
We wish you the best in your future endeavors!
Sincerely,
Brooke Allan
* * *
I sit on my couch and stare at my reflection in my television.
* * *
Researchers have found lesions on Leela, and they’re trying to treat her for what they think is a bacterial infection.
They post pictures, blocky jpeg images of the top of Leela’s head, where you can see cloudy black freckles scattered just above her gills. In the middle of the freckles are round, pink wounds, with ugly scarring like someone has gouged out several layers of flesh.
I cry for Leela, and when I do, I cry loud enough that I cannot hear the wriggling noises that buzz like moist static in my ear canal.
* * *
I take a walk that turns into a run because the sounds are growing louder, more demanding, and I feel them on my heels and tickling at the pores of my exposed skin. The run turns into a sprint. I can’t get away from any of it. They’re always just out of sight, lingering and curling, as close as my shadow. When I get home, I am panting and drenched in sweat. I can feel the eyes of my neighbors upon me as I shut the front door.
* * *
I bake an apple pie. I use my fingers to mix and crumble the flour, the butter, and the ice water together. When I roll it out, I have to be careful not to overwork the dough, or else the crust will be too tough. I stab holes in the bottom with a fork.
I realize I don’t have enough apples to make the filling because I’ve been eating them as I bake.
I sit on the floor of my kitchen with flour on my arms, chewing on the raw dough.
* * *
I keep my hands under running water. I let the water get so cold that my fingertips go numb. I let the water get so hot that I tear up.
* * *
The twisting and snaking sounds have crawled into my peripheral vision. If I stare at anything for too long, I see their heads and the sickening way they move and twist around. They are writhing over themselves to be known.
* * *
I inhale through my nose for four seconds. I hold my breath until my chest hurts. I exhale and cough and flakes of red delicious skins fly out of my mouth.
* * *
Dad: Please call your mom back. She’s worried about you.
Me: Please don’t contact me anymore.
Dad: Don’t be an ungrateful brat. I don’t care what you have against me. This is about your mother.
Dad: I put you through college and for what? You still can’t find a job? Don’t you dare treat me like the failure. You don’t know what I’ve sacrificed to take care of this family.
Me: Were you taking care of me when you blew off my graduation ceremony to meet your mistress?
Dad: Call your mother, ungrateful bitch.
* * *
I pick up my phone and put it down. I pick up my phone and put it down. I pick up my phone and put it down. I pick up my phone and put it down. I pick up my phone and put it down. I pick up my phone and I drop it onto the floor and watch the screen shatter and spray tinted shards across the floor.
* * *
There’s a smell stuck in my nostrils. It smells like the earth that keeps the orchard, the soil that embraces the roots, the smell of life and decomposition, the rich loam that feeds us and consumes us.
The thought of death brings me to the brink of a panic attack. But I think it would not be so bad to simply lie in a bed of dirt in a garden groomed for growing delicious granny smith apples. If I could not move my arms or legs, if I were so full of cider that I could not stay awake, if I didn’t have anywhere to be, it might be nice to have soil brushed over me like a blanket, and to sleep under a canopy of apple tree branches.
* * *
I run my fingers under hot water until I scream.
* * *
I get a notification that Leela has been cured and released. I cry again. I am so happy for Leela the dusky shark. She is lonely and she swims in polluted waters, but the marine biologists decided she deserves to be healthy, to be cured, to be okay.
* * *
- 5 things I can see: Shadows that coil, shadows that spiral, fleshy tails, slimy ridges, smooth heads.
- 4 things I can touch: The skin on my arm that rises and falls like waves, the clammy film that coats my fingers, the contours of fusiform shells that I spit into my palm, the grainy matter of another apple slice left to brown on the kitchen counter.
- 3 things I can hear: The wriggling, the writhing, the pitter and the patter of little life.
- 2 things I can smell: Dirt, the sweet scent on the air immediately following a heavy rainfall.
- 1 thing I can taste: Rotten apples.
* * *
I finally cave and go to the urgent care clinic.
The receptionist asks me if I have insurance and I fight to swallow something that fights back.
To be in this waiting room is to squirm. The anatomy of the squirm: the plummet of the anchor, the major disconnect, the grand convulsion—shivers and goosebumps cascading in one drop. The pinch harmonic into the dive bomb. Limbs and neck jolt, repulsed, trying to get away from the core, the engine of disgust. I sweat and I keep my head down. I am feverish, but I am full. I am engorged. There is too much inside of me. There is not enough left of me.
They know I am lost at sea. They see me squirm and they know I am sinking. I want them to see me the way the marine biologists saw Leela. Please! My waters are polluted! I want to be taken into the arms of a scuba-diving veterinarian, capsized with my white belly facing up, feeling the electroreceptors on my sensitive snout caressed. Am I not worth it?
My skin crawls, but there is nowhere to go. Down my arms and legs, up my neck and to my jaw, my skin crawls. I am bursting at the seams. Lumps and bumps that rise and fall! The thrashing and gnashing in my ears and eyes, slinking up my esophagus!
I begin to choke. The man sitting beside me jumps up and calls for a nurse. My vision is blurring. Someone in medical scrubs comes to my side and asks me what’s wrong.
Everyone in the waiting room shrieks and lurches back as heaps of worms—pale, eyeless, coiling over each other—fall out of my open mouth and onto the floor.
* * *
Vivi Estaris is chock full of worms and lives in New Orleans. They delight in writing stories about things that undulate and squelch, especially as they relate to queer and ethnic identity. Vivi’s work has appeared or is forthcoming in Cosmic Horror Monthly, Tales to Terrify, and Tales of Horror. You can read more at www.viviofthevoid.com.
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