Cut Apart

A 1,200 Words Short Story

Miranda was in bed after her last day of work, and it wasn’t voluntary. She was fired for unnamed reasons. People were uncomfortable with the way she acted, warm one minute and cold another. It was frustrating that people couldn’t connect with her unscrupulous personality. Her extreme emotions were unfathomable. That should’ve been okay. Maybe she had to change — go on mood stabilizers, and get therapy. Her warm comforter didn’t care about her mood swings. It cared about nothing, because it didn’t have feelings. That made Miranda a little sad.

She didn’t care what other people thought. Making herself accountable to them terrified her. It was too much pressure.

The door opened. April’s footsteps drummed through the hallway, matching Miranda’s beating heart. The motivation to get up from bed appeared out of thin air. She put on some clothes, looking at the empty bed she wanted someone to fill. April was the one she wanted.

Miranda walked into their living room and sat down with a bowl of cereal in her lap. She munched away, thinking about the day she moved in with a stranger. She was in love with that stranger now, April. There were questions asked, answers given by text, and meetings over coffee. Dragging her luggage up a flight and across the threshold she would share with April.

And April was there that day in a long pleated skirt with a blue t-shirt. That’s when it happened. Miranda tried to fight the images flooding her brain, but after a while, she didn’t want to anymore. Her fantasies were too much to ignore try as she might. Miranda wanted to feel the touch of those pretty red lips against her skin — against her own. She wanted to kiss April against a wall until she couldn’t breathe — until she didn’t feel alone anymore — until she didn’t feel bad anymore.

April was in a towel, still pearly with moisture, standing in the hallway before her. She wanted April more than anything, and nothing else was left in her life.

“Hey, Miranda.”

“Hey.”

“Going out tonight?”

“I could be convinced.”

April took Miranda’s hand and pulled her up.

Those hints, signs that all hope wasn’t lost kept Miranda trying. Those little moments of connection were enough.

April flashed her brilliant smile. “I need a night out in the stars. Music would be nice.”

“You mean that club down the block?” They lived in a loft somewhere in the warehouse district. Clubs were all around. They just had to pick.


The black silk was smooth and cool against Miranda’s skin. Music raged through the room and people danced in frenzy. The room was warm — the air electric. There they were, dancing the lonely night away. The music drove a relentless beat to escape the confines of mundanity. To forget everything wrong with the world and live free.

The fierce thrumming waxed and waned from this track to the next. They were up against the bar for drinks. April looked pretty, her green dress playing off her blonde strands.

In the colored lights, Miranda was interested in the love, the beauty that evaded her. And there it was. The chance she’d wanted. Drinks and drinks numbed her fears, and her loathsome worries dissipated for just long enough. They’d been talking about work, the trouble with guys, the politics of ignorance — of the familiar, and the impermanence of it all.

Miranda used the desire, the locked away need. She took April around the waist away from the crowded bar. They walked to an empty spot along the wall. The music rocked them back and forth. April turned Miranda’s head. The music was too loud to speak, so just April’s lips moved to words. Miranda swore that the words were obvious and true. April leaned in. Miranda couldn’t believe it was going to happen. After all these months waiting, they were going to kiss. Miranda leaned in and found April’s soft lips teasing of cream and strawberry.

Miranda saw shock in April’s eyes. Then a hint of sadness flowed over, turning them dark. It was obvious to Miranda. April didn’t feel the same way, and things would never be the same again. There’d always be the frustrating question between them. You like me? Can I like you? There’d always be awkwardness between them — something ephemeral — something visible in the distance but blurry, indecipherable.

Miranda ran through the pressing crowd. She stood in line hurting and paralyzed into avoidance. Rejection stung, but it wasn’t minor. Her whole world was imploding in on itself. There was nothing she could do, except stand there and watch it happen. The gaping hole at her center grew and grew. She wanted it to stop. She wanted it to end.

Or she didn’t want to feel it happen. Her throat cried out for tears. She was gasping with the pain at her heart. They had names for that. It was sadness but for her, grief of a loved one lost. The possibility of loving April was dead. She mourned in line outside the bathroom, wanting an anesthetic to wipe away her woes and diminish her hurt. It was minutes away at the end of a razor.

Miranda pushed the heavy door out of the way. Flickering light filled the room as the door slipped shut. Inked lines plastered the walls. Water dripped from the faucet, and everything was pale in the yellow light. Down her purse went. Out her razor blade came and everything else she needed. She never left home without.

Sitting on the counter, her hands shook from the pain of rejection. Miranda uncovered her thigh hidden under her skirt. There in the web of scars, she needed to cut, somewhere no one could see or question her. The razor felt warm against her skin as she pressed. The blade slid through her scarred skin. Pain wasn’t on her mind. The slicing blade silenced her mind, cut off her emotions.

Pounding went around the room. “People need to pee out here too.”

The door jumped in the frame, and Miranda’s razor went a little too deep. She pulled the razor. Blood spurted out of her inner thigh. Miranda clamped a hand over her gushing leg, but blood drained down between her fingers. She wrapped her oozing leg in gauze and walked out the door with a limp.

Walking through the party, she felt cold seeping down her leg. It was too dark to notice. It was like a heavy period, right? She wobbled down the street and across to their apartment — get away. She couldn’t risk another cut or running into April.

She sat in their apartment, a belt cinching her thigh. Pressure applied didn’t stop the bleed. Her body was burning, head spinning, and heart pounding. Black came in around her vision. Miranda got her phone. 9–1–1 was across her phone screen. She tried to call, and the phone clattered to the floor.

Miranda opened her eyes to the light flicking on. April screamed and ran to her. The nightmare wasn’t over yet. April panicked. Miranda bent in half and made the call. Her voice was weak. “I need help. I’m bleeding out.”

Lights and sirens, rough hands covered in latex, stitches and a needle in her arm, happy nurses and sad doctors, therapy and medication. That was what she needed — a break from reality.

A cut too deep was what she needed to find a new way forward.

Finding a way to recovery is like seeing a map. There’s no way to know if Miranda could walk the path she discovered. Only time would tell.

GK