Messy by Choice

Mess 2 (Ally)

I sketch with my feet up against the bay window of our modest old Victorian kitchen while Vee spoils my senses with her faint kitchen ASMR and irresistible smell of frying chicken.

It is beyond ideal and idyllic. A pure tangible presence of bliss that is too good to last when four 25-year-old girls all share the same two-story townhome.

"I'm not being overly dramatic!" Aur yells, waving a kitchen knife like a flag. "I will cut off my hand right now in a sacrifice to whatever god or demon that will let me get this research grant!"

"Sister, please!" Sharon cries, holding Aur back by the shoulders. "You're on the path to becoming a doctor! You need your hands!"

"A one-handed doctor is better than nothing!"

Final week is coming, and after college, we now understand why Ned Stark was so forewarning when he said, Winter is Coming. I also have finals for grad school, which is the sketch project I'm working on now. But the grading is so subjective and frustrating that I'm as likely to pass as fail whether I spend two hours or twenty-two months perfecting it. Though on the bright side, I nanny for my professor's kids, so she has to at least let me pass or risk the collapse of her nuclear family unit.

After the knife swings too close to my head, I intervene and strip Aur of her weapon. "Aur," I say calmly. "You're getting a doctorate in bio-congregate chemistry. I'm not even sure what that is, but I'm pretty sure you do need both hands."

Her dark brown wild curls frame her manic but still beautiful eyes. "Then should I offer a foot instead?"

"Yours aren't pretty enough," I reply, handing Vee the knife. She uses it to cut up the scallions without turning around to acknowledge the chaos.

Chaos is common enough here, but Vee is also exceptionally stable and well-rounded in all aspects. Her killer culinary skill is a testament to that, as well as how she girl bosses the fuck out of her job to become head of her marketing division at 25.

"It's scary how quick you resort to self-mutilation," I remark as I gather the dishes and place settings.

"No, Allybeth. It's a sign of the panic disorder I'm developing from post-traumatic stress," Aur responds rationally. She's always quick to get serious when it comes to a medical diagnosis.

"That knife wouldn't have been able to cleave through your tendons, but here," Vee says, finding the meat cleaver.

"Much appreciate the support, Vee," Aur replies. But Vee has just finished with dinner and sets it before our watering mouths. And Aur is at least momentarily drawn away from sacrificial self-harm.

"Panic disorder?" Sharon repeats, her freckled face sweat-drenched with the toll it has taken to keep Aur's limbs attached. "You're showing signs of possession! And I think it's about time we perform a cleansing ritual." She rushes for the kitchen catch-all drawer.

"No, not the sage, Sharon!" We all complain and groan. "Not on the food!"

"The sage saves!" Sharon yells, igniting the bundle. She begins drenching Aur in its smoke, chanting some witch's prayer she probably bought off Etsy, like she did her cauldron that's currently in our fridge storing leftover salsa.

Sharon fancies herself a Wiccan, and us her coven. So we're often subjected to witchy nonsense. It makes things fun, and it's usually lighthearted, but I swear I see demonic eyes and claws coming forth out of the smoke around Aur. I scoot my chair farther away.

"Better?" Sharon asks.

Aur nods but is probably healing more from the brain-tingling chicken lettuce wraps than anything else.