In a final battle with herself, Victoria must decide whether to put her faith in her own inventions, or a man she cannot control.

1. X Marks the Spot
Lauren Svoboda

2. 1
You worthless, putrid, toxic, wretch. You’re sickening, grotesque, disgusting. It’s
no surprise that everything you care for dies.
I open the door to my apartment and walk through while I try to calm
Charley so I don’t step on her again and make her scream like I hate. I feed her and
go through my mental checklist. Dog fed? Check. Door locked? Check. Blinds closed?
Check.
Go ahead. Adhere to your routines if it makes you feel some sort of control.
You’re not in control. You’ll never be in control.
He starts giggling like a maniac, so I walk to my refrigerator and set about
making a meal of turkey, Ramen noodles and ignorance.
You delinquent, you degenerate, you disgusting whore, y-
My phone rings. I almost jump from my very skin, but at least he’d shut up.
“Comment ça va, ma petit?” God, I love the sound of Cesar’s voice. I wish it
lived up there with the rest.
“Cesar, mon amor. How are you, yourself?” I sound downright merry. Damn,
I’m getting good at this. “I’m doing swimmingly, as per the usual.”
“I just got out of work. Listen, I was wondering if you’d…”
Hang up the phone. Hang it up. He’s trying to get in your pants. Hang up the
phone.
“No.” I say.
“Oh. Geez. I was, uh, really hoping you’d be able to. It was actually pretty hard
to get tickets.”
“Wha-? Oh, no. No. I wasn’t speaking to you Cesar. Repeat what you just said.”

3. 2
“Um, ok. I got these tickets to Rusko in Austin tomorrow night. I was hoping
you’d want to come, since you’re the one who introduced me to him.”
Rusko? How do I say ‘duh’ without sounding like a douche?
Why is he wasting his time on you? You’re so stupid. Why do you bother? Die
already. Do the world a favor you insignificant waste of resources.
I have to pause for a moment because that last one was a doozy.
“Victoria?” comes Cesar’s unsure tone.
“Yeah, yeah. I’m here, sorry. I’d absolutely love to go. I-“
Lying bitch.
“-I, uh. I’ve always wanted to see Rusko. You know he doesn’t wear shoes on
stage? I hear he-“
He’s only doing it to fuck you. He doesn’t like you. Maybe those legs and that
ass, but-
“-jumps straight from the ground onto the table next to his controller!” I
didn’t mean for that last part to come out like that. The following several seconds of
pregnant silence fill the conversation for me. I can practically hear him trying to
figure out if I’m crazy or distracted. I almost giggle because he has no idea.
“All right, then” came his eventual reply, sounding more like ‘what did I just
get myself into?’ than ‘all right, then’. This always happens. This is why I should text.
You can’t interrupt someone via text. “I’ll pick you up at your place tomorrow at
around six?”
“Perfecto.” I tell him. And with a series of awkward goodbye sentiments, the
plans are set in stone.

4. 3
Idiot.
“Shut up, asshole.”
Bitch.
“Stop.”
Whore.
I refuse to continue the conversation. I shake my head again and continue
making my sandwich and soup, which by now’s got my stomach grumbling like
some pissed-off old veteran. I instantly feel bad for thinking that.
Eventually there’s a sandwich and soup sitting in front of me, though I have
no distinct recollection of how exactly it got finished and put on the table. Whatever.
I flick on the TV and turn to Netflix so I can start aimlessly scrolling through dozens
of TV shows and movies I don’t – nor will I ever – care about.
Watch that one.
No, watch that one.
I told her to watch that one.
Well I told her-
“I’m watching The Tudors.” I say out loud, but they just keep arguing so I set
myself to eating and watching and ignoring. Henry VIII’s affections were a death
sentence, I realize. Poor, poor Katherine. Poor Anne Boleyn, the wench. Lights and
noises flicker in front of me and I do my best to focus on them instead of the
argument in my head.
And then something on screen catches my attention and I can’t help but think
that I’m forgetting something. I’m looking at the television, but I can’t place it so I

5. 4
pause it, hoping to glean something from the still frame in front of me. It’s a pretty
gory scene, actually. Cardinal Fischer’s about to get his head chopped off.
The red ‘x’.
The red ‘x’. The red ‘x’. I keep staring at the screen hoping something will
jump out at me, and then boom. There it is. Cardinal Fischer’s kneeling there with
his head on the chopping block and behind him is this red cross on a banner. I leap
from the couch and run to my bedroom to find my calendar. I see it, and there,
staring back at me like a posy in my pocket is this red sharpie ‘x’ marked through
tomorrow’s date.
Oh shit.
I told you you were a liar. I told you.
She told you.
I told you.
I sit there staring at the thing for a minute with a mix of elation and
disappointment. Rusko, man. Damn Rusko for coming tomorrow. Damn me for
making plans. And suddenly I’m irate. How dare Rusko ruin this for me? How dare
Cesar call me and ask me to go? How dare they? I can feel the color in my cheeks and
it’s pissing me off even more, so I have to turn away and go sit back down on the
couch. I try to take a bite of my sandwich but I’ve already finished it. I don’t
remember that either. Figures. I stand up and put my plates in the sink, making sure
to run a little bit of water over them so as not to let them crust. I want to go lie down
but instead I turn around and lean against the counter, the cool linoleum or
whatever it is pleasant on my lower back.

6. 5
How could I have forgotten? I have to call Cesar and cancel. But he’d said the
tickets had been hard to get, and I really do want to see his face when Rusko jumps
up on the table all rolling balls and full of music.
Get it over with. He’s going to end it once he’s done with you anyway. Why
prolong it?
You’re not just hurting yourself. What if he starts to like you?
He doesn’t like her. He wants to fuck her.
What if he starts to like you and then you…you know?
They’re right, I realize. I take out my phone to call him, but the bright white
numbers on the screen make me realize it’s midnight. Jesus, how long had I been
watching TV? I resolve to call him tomorrow, first thing, and I go to bed.
I wake up like any other day, before sunrise amidst screaming and name-
calling. I try to shut them up but they’re particularly resilient today. I can’t imagine
why and then, poof. Oh yeah. I’m not as excited as I thought I’d be. I was pretty damn
emotional when I took the sharpie to that glossy paper. I roll out of bed and walk to
the bathroom, where I’m met with myself.
Look at your pimples. Look at your big nose and your buck teeth and your
muffin top and your tiny ears and your...
I squeeze the toothpaste onto my toothbrush, but way too much squirts out
and now there’s a giant hunk of minty goop on my counter. Glorious.
Ha. Good job, retard. You insipid, clumsy, useless fucking retard.

7. 6
“Just today?” I implore looking down at the Mount Everest of toothpaste.
“Just this one day could I please finish without…? Just please stop.”
That was stupid. They all start yelling and screaming at me so now I can’t
even make out any words. It’s all just muddled, angry nonsense. Yelling, muddled,
angry nonsense. I have to put the heels of my hands to my temples to try to
compress them all into one voice. But it’s not working. They’re all yelling and it’s
loud and I can’t understand it and it’s not working. I back up to the wall and squeeze
my eyes shut, leaning forward and then falling back onto the wall. Forward and
back, forward and back, forward and back, yelling, muddled, angry nonsense.
And then, suddenly, it’s quiet. My hands are still at my temples but my eyes
open and I see that my knees are bent and my toes are curled like I’m being tickled. I
stay that way for a long minute, just in case they chime in again. But they’re still
quiet, and as much as I enjoy it, it’s a strange silence after that onslaught. I take my
hands away. Still silence. I straighten myself and look back into the mirror, to the
same reflection that I saw only a few moments ago, though now it doesn’t seem
quite so bad. I brush my teeth, clean up Mount Toothpaste, brush my hair and walk
back into my bedroom to look for something to wear.
Nothing will look good on you anyway.
That’s better.
I throw on a blue and white striped shirt, some jeans and my favorite kicks.
Nothing can go wrong on a day with white high-top chucks. I’m about to go to the
bathroom again to make sure I don’t look like a lunatic, and the irony is not lost on
me, but I remember so I turn around and walk to the living room. I plop down on the

8. 7
couch and stare at the black face of my oversized TV. The whole room is dark. I
haven’t turned on any lights and the sun isn’t out yet. I can’t help but feel cozy.
Darkness doesn’t judge. Quiet doesn’t kill.
But then there’s a noise. A shuffling, of sorts, that’s here and then gone. I try
to make up an explanation in my head, but the ones that I keep coming up with are
scaring me. I listen hard for it but don’t hear it again.
And now the darkness doesn’t seem so comfortable. The window is
whispering about someone on the other side of it, looking in. I have to go peek out of
the blinds, just to make sure. But by the time I sit back down on the couch it’s
whispering again, and I’m back at the window, looking out between two sheets of
yellowed plastic like an old racist with a black neighbor. The chair next to the
window knows. I sit down on the butt-shaped indentation pressed into the worn
armrest and I stare out. No one’s there. But here I am staring.
I somehow notice Charley’s standing at the door so I peer out into the
darkness for a few more seconds before walking over to her. I lift my hand to open it
but something stops it mid-reach, and as I’m looking down confused, it strikes me
that floating there it looks a lot like the butler from The Addams Family.
Check first, you imbecile.
Right. Almost forgot. I part the blinds and look out into the black, cold
morning from another angle. My heart skips a beat and my breath catches in my
chest as I see this black van parked in the second of the spaces to the left. I freeze.
There’s someone in there.

9. 8
I start to breathe more heavily, more quickly. I stare at it, sort of humored by
the fact that I just felt like an old racist lady and now I’m here afraid of a big, black
van. After about five minutes of standing there frozen, staring, what with Charley
scratching at the door and whining to be let out, I open the door only enough for her
tiny little body to squeeze through. I shut it just as she clears the doorframe. She
walks a few steps, looks back at me like ‘please?’ and then turns around and walks
away, doesn’t even wait to see if I followed her.
I can’t stop staring at that damn van. I’ve never seen it before. What’s it doing
here? Whose is it? Who sent it? I stare and stare and stare, and I think I see someone
in the driver’s seat, but nothing moves.
And then, as I’m looking at it more and more closely in the thin light of the
streetlight on the corner of the parking lot, I realize it’s not a van. It’s a hearse. It’s a
fucking hearse. My breath catches and knots in my throat and I feel like I’m going to
be sick, but I can’t make myself leave the door to go to the bathroom. I just stare, not
breathing, not understanding. What is it doing here? What could it possibly be doing
here? Does it know?
I just about crap myself when Charley comes bounding out of the dark like
Bambi before his mom gets shot. I open the door, again just enough for her to come
inside. She doesn’t. She stops about five feet out and stares at me.
Don’t you go out there. Don’t you dare.
“Come on, Charley.” I call, a quivering shade above a whisper. She just stands
there, knowing.
Close the door. Leave her out there. Let her die.

10. 9
“Charley-Boo, come on.” I try again. Those big, brown eyes do me in every
time. “Come on, Boo Bear, please.”
And then the bitch lies down. I try to control my instant rage as I look back at
the hearse and contemplate the many devices I could use to pull her in from the
safety of my shelter. I open my mouth to speak again, and whether because I’m
terrified or because I want to punt Charley, I can’t.
Leave her. The hearse, you have to close the door now. Leave her there.
But no amount of imaginary bullshit will make me leave my dog outside in
this fifty-degree Texas blizzard.
Stop. Don’t do it.
I stick my foot through the crack in the door and slide my leg up to my hip.
It’s cold, and now I’m cursing that little black shit for making me do this. I squeeze
my hip through and pause for a second.
You have to stop.
The hearse. Don’t go.
My heart’s beating like you do on a dead horse and I’m afraid I’ll start
shaking. I don’t want to open the door any more than I have to, so I push myself
through in one quick effort and snatch her up off the ground. She squeals the way a
pig does when you’ve got it by a back leg, but I don’t care. I literally throw her into
the house, jump inside and shut the door, locking all three locks behind me. For
those next few moments, I stand there trying to figure out whether I should peek
back outside the blinds. They’re telling me to, like they always do, but I’ve had
enough.

11. 10
I look at my watch. 5:17am. I sigh, walk back to my bedroom, strip off my
clothes without bothering to replace them, and pass out.
When I wake up again, light’s pouring through the window. Pouring like
honey on a snooty little girl’s long hair. I fight the urge to roll back over and ignore
life.
Get up. Get up, you worthless, lazy wretch. Get up.
“Fine,” I mutter. I sit upright and rub my eyes, then I look over at the digital
clock next to my bed. I get confused for a second. That can’t be right. 4:49pm? How
on earth had I slept so long? I just sit there for a second, stunned, and then it all
comes rushing back to me. Red ‘x’, Cesar, Rusko, Austin. I have to call him. I fumble
around for my phone as though I don’t know exactly where it is. I grab it and punch
the necessary buttons to call Cesar, lifting it to my face, thinking what I’m going to
say to him. The phone rings, my body grows tense. It rings again. And again, and
again, and again.
“Hello,” Cesar croons. Oh, that voice.
“Cesar, it’s me, Vic -“
“Thank you for calling Cesar Amozurrutia. I regrettably can’t come to the
phone right now, but if you leave a message…”
My heart sinks and I hang up, not bothering to leave one.
You see what you’ve done? I’m not surprised. None of us are.
We’re not surprised.

12. 11
I can’t say I’m surprised either. I always do this. I guess all I can do now is
wait for him to call me back.
I go to the kitchen and whip myself up another sandwich and a bowl of
Oriental Ramen, my favorite. Back to the couch, back to Netflix. Sir Thomas More is
on the chopping block this time, and that sucks. I really like that guy. And not just in
the show, the real Thomas More, Utopia’s Thomas More, the one who wouldn’t
compromise his morals and thus, lost his head.
Just like you lost yours.
Ha. That was a good one. I sit and watch as the king looks down at the scene,
the dramatic music plays, Sir Thomas makes his speech and kneels, offering his neck
for dichotomizing. And then it’s done, and Henry is screaming, and I can’t help but
think how stupid that is. You’re the one who put him there, asshole. It’s your fault
he’s dead now.
It’s your fault he’s dead now.
It’s your fault.
It’s your fucking fault.
“Not this time.” I say. But they keep going.
It’s your fault. Cesar’s going to come over and he’s going to find you and he’s
never going to forget it and it’s going to be your fault.
“No.” I say again.
What did you expect? Did you expect for today to come and go without a hitch?
Without a scream or a cry or a little bit of blood? No, you expected blood.
We expect blood.

13. 12
And at that moment I truly realize what day it is. Today’s date has a red ‘x’ on
it. Today has been marked.
The reality of it hits me all at once, and suddenly I’m short of breath. I
stumble to the bathroom and grab the toilet seat. Puking has never been a strong
suit of mine. I can never get the stuff to stay in the bowl. In a few minutes it’s over,
and I slouch to the side, leaning against the bathtub. I press a hand to my forehead.
It’s clammy, my hand or my face, I can’t tell.
Get ready.
I obey. I stand to plug up the bathtub and turn on the water. I walk to the
kitchen and fill Charley’s water bowl first, then her food, making sure to leave
enough to last her several days, just in case. I tidy up the house, putting this here
and that there, wiping the counters, the TV, the table. Eventually I make my way
back to the bathtub, which is almost full by now. I turn off the water and strip down
to my bare skin. I want to get in, but something is missing.
“What is it?” I ask myself out loud, pensive.
The red ‘x’. The red ‘x’. The red ‘x’. The red ‘x’.
They’re chanting now, like monks. I walk around aimlessly hoping my eyes
will suddenly alight upon that which I seek, and after several confused moments,
they do. Two shining, silver strips of metal laying on top of all of the textbooks
cluttering my desk, just to the right of the calendar. The second I see them I
remember I put them there so that I wouldn’t forget. I take them gently and make
my way to the tub, never taking my eyes from them. I cradle them like baby birds,

14. 13
afraid of what might happen if I dropped them, afraid I wouldn’t be able to pick
them back up.
I step into the tub. I’ve made the water uncomfortably hot. I don’t like that.
It’s not the way I imagined. But I inch my way in slowly anyway, being careful not to
scald anything particularly sensitive.
And now here I am, lying in this boiling water with them in my hands. These
beautiful silver exclamation points, these glorious metal wings. I set one down on
the lip of the tub. It will have to wait its turn. I turn one arm so that the wrist is
facing me, with its blue and purple rivers winding all around. I touch the metal to it.
It’s colder than I anticipated, and the slight shock makes me pause for a second.
Red ‘x’, red ‘x’, red ‘x’, red ‘x’…
I press down gently, the sharp pain quickening my pulse, kick-starting my
adrenaline. I think I must look like Dr. Jekyll as I watch little red rubies begin to roll
from the silver spot.
Charley starts barking her head off and I damn near launch the razor across
the bathroom. I let my heart start beating again and look over to the door. I should
have closed it. I contemplate getting out to do so but think better of it and turn my
attention back to my arm. I steady my hand, clutch the razor more tightly and
gingerly place it back on the spot it had just come from. It stays there for several
seconds. But Charley’s barking and I’m reminded of that stupid hearse and I can’t
press down.

15. 14
“Shut up!” I holler at her without moving my eyes from the spot. I can’t take
my eyes from there ever again. I breathe deeply and refocus. But Charley’s barking
and all I can hear is her them.
‘X’, ‘X’, ‘X’, ‘X’…
I can’t do this. Not this way. I set the razor down without much care as to
where it lands and step out of the tub. I’m about to walk out to see what she’s
fussing about when I realize my arm is bleeding. I grab the closest towel to me, a red
one, as it were, and wrap it around the incriminating stain. I throw on my bathrobe
and step out to the living room where Charley’s got her face poking through the
blinds and I can see a huge figure behind them. And then I realize it’s Cesar. It’s six
o’clock, and it’s Cesar, and we’re going to see Rusko, and I’m too late.
I have to stop myself from hyperventilating. The instant onslaught of voices is
pointless because I can’t distinguish them. It’s all just syllables and consonants. I
swoon a little bit and have to catch myself on the arm of my couch. I stare at the
door hoping he’ll turn away and assume I’m not home. But he doesn’t. He must have
seen me already. I take a deep breath and stand up straight, taking care to make sure
my towel doesn’t slip. I mentally steel myself before I step to the door and unlock all
three locks, sliding it open and pushing the blinds to the side.
His smile catches me off-guard. I wasn’t expecting that. I don’t know why, but
I was so ready for him to leave without my opening the door that the fact that he’s
standing here in front of me smiling is ludicrous. I manage to smile back, and he
steps in without asking permission. He doesn’t try to touch me, seeing that I’m wet
and toweled.

16. 15
“It’s a good thing I said 6:00, I guess.” He said, his crooked smile fracturing
the resolve I’d had only moments ago. “The concert doesn’t start until 9:00. I figured
we could get a bite to eat first.”
“I, uh-“ I stammer, starting to feel as awkward as I must look. “I actually can’t.
I, uh-”
“I’m not taking no for an answer.” He says. I realize suddenly that he didn’t
pick up earlier for a reason. I open my mouth to argue, but something in the way
he’s looking at me makes me shut it.
I stare at him hard for a few seconds, formulating an argument, but for some
reason when I open my mouth to talk the words that come out mean something
completely different.
“Um, ok then. Can you just give me a minute to finish getting ready?”
He nods and moves to the couch in one quick movement, as if he’d been
doing it his whole life.
“Sure, I have to make a call anyway. Take your time.”
I turn around and make my way to my room without another word. In a daze,
I unwrap my wrist and bandage it, then put on a long shirt, the kind with the holes in
the sleeves that you’re supposed to put your thumbs through. I would usually put on
makeup, but that seems stupid now. I go to the bathroom to make sure I don’t look
like a lunatic, and when I look up, I realize I haven’t heard Them since he got here. I
pause, not moving, silent and I wait. And they’re not there. Several minutes pass and
all I can do is stare at the mirror, at my own incredulous face, and wait for them. But
all I can hear is Cesar’s voice coming from the next room.

17. 16
I look over to the red ‘x’ on my calendar, on today’s date, January 31st. And
with sudden clarity, I unstop the tub and let it drain. I pick up those beautiful silver
songbirds and toss them in the trash bin by the toilet. I finish getting dressed and
fiddle uselessly with my hair knowing there’s nothing I can do with it while it’s wet.
I work up the will to make my way to the living room, but just before I leave, I walk
over to the calendar and lean over so my eyes are even with today. And then I lift my
arm and, with a smile, I pull the pin from the wall and flip the page to February.