Sirens - Allahna Johnson

I take great interest in bodies. The shape. The texture. The scars and marks. The things that make people special. I take great interest in the art of it – the real

beauty of humanity. Different eyes, different hair, beauty marks, birthmarks, tattoos. The things we’re born with and the things we choose that make us different,

and make everyone know it. I pay more attention than most. I see when people get lost in the crowd and question if any of it’s even worth it. I see the little things,

the histories that move the masses. Most people are too easily swayed by the concept of life, the seemingly flavorful fruits of monotonous labor, and fail to see

what really matters. People, in any way imaginable. I practice humanity’s lost art of observation and appreciation.

I make paper dolls. I crease the paper and cut the most precise lines to represent even the oddest of folks honestly. Everyone deserves a microscope moment.

Everyone just lets life go by and doesn’t give each other even a second of attention. They don’t care about each other. They couldn’t hone in on the details like I do

—the shadows that bring out your eyes, the way you didn’t curl your eyelashes today, that kind of stuff. When I account for those kinds of things, I try to make

them as realistic as possible. Generally, I always do people the favor of attention when I make my dolls. Are they fat? Skinny? Do they care about their dress?

What about when no one’s watching? Those kinds of things you can slip into pieces like mine. I bet no one at work knows about that beauty mark you must have

inherited from your mother—the one that lives on you; a rash-like contagion, pushing people away like a poorly- veiled prognostication. You may not be able to

put your finger on it just yet, but it’s the separator between you and them.

I honor that you know. I capture it in a way that no one else has. Like I know just the colors that sit uncomfortably in the crook of your elbow. That beauty mark

could let everyone in on the colors, too, if they looked hard enough. They feel it sure, but no one else ever sees it, knows it. Not like I do.

See, if I were depicting an elbow beauty mark, I would mix the ultramarine blue and the burnt umber to make a dark natural black. I’d never just use pure black.

It distracts from the cool undertones and is too harsh. But any real artist knows that. Even better, I know that impressionist artists like Monet in his more mature

era avoided the shade entirely. Artists of the time theorized that black and white simply did not exist in nature. Everything, once you look closer, is something

else entirely. People even get glory out of it. Simply knowing and doing what no one else has. New and exciting, Old and unremarkable. Same, different. That’s all

it really boils down to. I know if people just looked a bit closer they would see the blues and browns. When most people think of serial killers’ victims, they think

of Jane Does, boys next door, plain-faced people. People who mean very little. People who can be forgotten. Everyone who just says black is black.

Those are the perfect victims.

I don’t see it that way. I’m fair. Any type of person can be killed. Death is one thing we all have in common. Technically, we all have life in common as well, but when it comes down to it, life isn’t fair.

I just brought in a five-foot redhead with broad shoulders and a square jaw. She’s got a pinkish scar on her right elbow.

It likely makes her look like a goddamn moron in the real world. People probably laugh and wonder what an imbicilic girl like that is doing anywhere other than

quiet and still, sitting in her room in front of a vanity. “A clumsy fool,” that’s what they say. I think, perhaps, she got it rollerskating on her sister’s twelfth birthday.

Maybe she fell skating, or maybe she tripped rushing to pick up the cake. Nonetheless, “A clumsy fool”. I’m sure that’s what they say. I’d never think something

like that. I always take great care thinking of the real reasons. Sure, no one’s a saint, but no one sees good like I do. No one thinks twice about calling a five-foot

redhead with broad shoulders and a square jaw an imbecile or a clumsy fool. It’s a shame. I stabbed her twice. One in the neck and one in the side. I used two

differently shaped knives. I think she’d appreciate that. Even before I stopped at her place of work, I could tell from the dry patch on her wrists that she was a

baker. Surely, she’d see the value in two differently shaped knives. Anyway, I waited until she got to my house before I removed the knives from her body and let

her really drain out. Less mess in the alley behind the bakery. More time to analyze the details. It just makes sense that way.

I take pictures of the body using my mother’s YEAR XXXcameraXXX while thick red seeps down the bath drain. The (CAMERA) gives me the best image of XXX.

know the blood can take away from the full picture, but I made sure to prop her right arm up on the ledge. It doesn’t stay, so I decide to tie her hand to the water

knob using her hair tie. Girls are always resourceful like that, and it always makes me feel connected to the client when I can make something that’s theirs,

something of my own.

While the body drains, I head back to my home studio. I get started on the doll, making sure I can get every layer just right. I start with the bone structure, of

course. The shadow under her left collarbone is a bit more pronounced than under the right, and it’s not just from how she was positioned in the tub. Trust me, I

checked. The basic skeleton was assembled from pieces of cheap construction paper and included significantly fewer than the full 206 bones. She’s on the

curvier side, and by the way she carried herself while working, I knew she wanted no attention paid to it. I can’t lie though, so I crafted her as she was crafted,

round and uneven. The second layer was the fatty layer. Her skin and hips and breasts. It’s all just huge. I knew she’d want me to make her smaller than she was.

Part of me was glad the number on the scale would go down from the exsanguination, but I was equally torn since no one would ever know she dropped 10

pounds. I added the fat layer by first choosing a skin tone. She was quite pale, but a near-perfect shade match lived in my cabinet. I’d certainly need to tweak a

few things, sure, but in that sense, the pale five-foot redhead with broad shoulders and a square jaw was an ideal victim. Using all pre-owned materials, I cut a

basic model from craft foam. The varied thickness was ideal for this layer. I made sure I got every detail, then I laid it right over her big bones.

Next are the body details. This is my favorite part. It’s where I rouge the knees and add the freckles hidden on her waistline. This is where I’l add that elbow

scar. It sits less than exactly in the crook. It’s pink and ragged. I made it using the smallest bit of sandpaper, and it was yet another perfect match! The mixed

pink undertones really came through and that texture was equally unsettling in the replica. I then detailed the knees, freckles, and other aspects, but those didn’t

captivate me nearly as much as that scar.

Finally, I add the undergarments, clothing, makeup, and hair. It’s nowhere near as exciting as the previous step, but it must be done. I want to show the details,

but I need the focus to be on the stuff that really matters. She was wearing a teal long sleeve shirt with a lettuce hem and some lightwash bell bottom pants, but I

left out the hand-embroidered roses on the outer hem of the right pant leg. It’s not what she does, it’s who she is. Next was the makeup, and then the hair.

She didn’t wear much, just some mascara and chapstick, so I didn’t lay it on too heavy. Her hair was likely straightened and then neatly braided. Her

makeup and hair choices were likely informed by her absolutely barbaric place of work, but it’s what she decided that day, so here it remains. I finish up the

final details and make a mental note that I’ll go back to drop the finished product back at that alley later, so they know it’s me.

A thick, harsh rapping assaults my ears. I’ve just finished, so it doesn’t bother me much. However, I did fail to look through the peephole before opening the front

door. That was my first mistake. Although this situation could have been amended, it would have certainly helped to have had time to properly close up shop and

freshen up, knowing what I know now. Two officers in quite restrictive uniforms stood in front of me, and their faces told me they knew nothing of my pastimes.

The short, round one had bushy eyebrows and facial hair that matched his eyes. They were brown. The taller, thinner one, ‘Andrews’ his badge read, was a clean-

shaven blonde. His uniform fit tightly and gave a charming view of his biceps. They sat neatly under highly masculine deltoids that were attached to hulking

shoulders. He was a newer officer. Straight out of the academy maybe. He trained hard for that look. The other one asked my name and some common

pleasantries. I answered honestly with some semblance of a mildly cheery countenance. I thought I did well. I was quickly corrected when my door was pushed

open rather harshly by the shorter gentleman, and I was tasked with a less cursory set of questions.

Not impossible though. “Where were you on the night of whatever between the hours of 9am and 5pm?”, “Do you know anyone by the name Jane Doe?”, the who /

what / when / where / why”; those types of questions. I don’t recall exactly what I said, but I managed to keep my cool. At first, the shorter man was the one full of

questions, so I turned my attention to the taller gentleman. I knew I could get him on my side.

I tilted my head up towards him, got just a bit closer, and gave him a slight chuckle to take the attention away from the interrogation. I gave him the look of a

friend. He received it well. I felt his eyes drift past my left shoulder landing precisely to a box on the counter.

“How often do you visit the Adams’ bakery down on 53rd Street?”. Shit. I kept my voice steady and explained how I visited for the first time 3 days ago on a work

thing. Never once before then. Of course that was a lie, but he didn’t push it.“What do you do?”. Unashamedly I’m free at the moment. But what can I say, I’m an

artist.“And what kind of art do you make?”. Jesus, that guy wouldn’t let up! I could forgive it when he flashed me a smile. Looking for what, some kind of sympathy.

But my god it was hard!

I had to get away. I watched as the short man took note of random items in my apartment. A lavender pen, a hairbrush, a collection of Baldwin poems, a hairpin.

It’s like they’ve got me painted out to be some kind of softie. But upon a more focused glance, the antagonizing question ”girl vics?!?” sat squarely in red in the top

left corner of their shared yellow notepad. Now the short, round one thought I was a femicidal maniac! That I killed her because she’s a woman. He’s that stupid.

He brought the clipboard from somewhere behind his oversized back, and like a magician, convoluted the truth until I was suddenly some kind of bigoted

monster. His red pen, a magic wand against the purity of humanity. He’d get to writing and POOF! Suddenly I’m the asshole.

Convincing them to get them off my back, I quickly signed some poorly articulated documents. Something about a warrant or a suspect. The only thing keeping

me from shoving them both down my apartment’s 18th century staircase was the blonde’s surprisingly sane countenance. My only sense of sense in the legal

system. That narrow face turned from his savage of a partner’s back to mine as he handed me a pen not too dissimilar to my own. I was to sign some final

document before they could leave me to my peace. My hands were uncharacteristically moist, and I frequently found myself needing to smooth my shirt. I gave a

vibe of a more casual confidence. I say that to say the pen nearly slipped my hand, but that signature was one of my best. Not that it stated my real name.

Those bastards unhurriedly made their way out at around 5:20 that day, so I had roughly 40 minutes before my broad shouldered redhead’s tough-skin wristed

coworkers came bumbling through my exhibit. I got in my XX Chevy at around 5:25 and took that short drive down 53rd. I landed unassumingly in the back lot by

5:37. My masterpiece was set squarely XXX by 5:45 and I was back in my beauty of a car by 5:51. I’d had a hell of a day and 9 minutes to spare. Or at least that had

been my line of thought before I was interrupted by the wailing cry of those pests from earlier. Rotating red and blue hues grew larger and more opaque on the

umber brick. A ceaseless torture to my eyes and ears. That's all they were to me. All day. I put the will of Mary in my accelerator and tried to make that 12

minute ride more like an instant. I barely tripped off the front curb before the cops and I reconnected. Old friends. That’s what they could be to me for the next 8

minutes before my artistic endeavors became the business of a slew of familiar bakers. Just old friends.

I put on my friendly facade. Standing in the summer sun now dotted pinkish watercolors down my nape, and forehead, and into my eyelashes. The sun rays

vibrant and moving. I saw the taller and shorter figures approach me. The figment melding into one. Then technically two again. The pigmentation of a mother

cradling a young girl in her arms became more apparent to me now as a large cloud took the strain off my eyes. The hands of an artist and the hands of an

innocent. She gripped her daughter ferociously in her arms, callouses lightly scratching the skin, her rosary dangling loosely on her daughter’s small

relaxed forehead. The white cross bringing contrast to her dark brown hair. The illusion of innocence on the evident grief. Seemingly an artistic motif.

I felt a mass grow in the pit of my stomach as they approached. Something between anxiety and hunger. Nevertheless a need. I always needed my mother. And

my father and babysister; who was nothing less than a blessed final stroke. A last brush to the nuclear family image. A perfect shade, a contrast to darkness, the

semblance of innocence in the place of an absence. Which is what I was and what I got in return. Or what my sister and I both got rather. At some point at least,

anyway.

I’ve always needed my mother. She could show love like it was nobody’s business. She loved my father dearly before he betrayed us. She held to that family he

gave her like it was her lifeblood. And it was. One might think that after the passing of a child as perfect as my baby sister Mary, a mother would become a

recluse. But, my mother was anything but typical in the face of both death and life.

The days my sister and I were born were just another Tuesday and Friday to my mother. We were nothing but a collective 17-month nuisance with a lifetime of

consequence. We went nights without dinner, or lunch, or breakfast. As a matter of fact, we went nights without seeing her at all. With my father out for good,

the house grew large and my internal need for a mother’s love to fill it grew larger and larger in tandem.

I don’t blame my father though. People can’t be changed to be unfickle or more trusting. That’s who they are. Through the turmoil of my childhood this has

reigned true. Everyone just is who they are. And when someone shows you just who that is, you listen. If someone forgets your birthday in December, a special

something will slip your mind every February. If a secret of yours slips their tongue in the face of someone you despise, what is near and dear to them may

suddenly find itself missing. It’s only natural.

The only thing to ever deviate from this pattern is the most natural something of all. My mother was cold, absent, and missed my entire childhood. Paintings with

no applause. Report cards filled with A’s, but no signature. The day my baby sister was struck by one of those red/blue siren wielding bastards was the day that all

of that changed.

I’d seen the facet of my mother that was unloving and cruel. I’d grown to trust that reality. I’d adjusted the color palate and made sense of the missing shades.

Adapting to colorblindness wasn’t easy. The cool tones became the whole picture. Framed, sold, and stored. The Thursday forever seared into my mothers mind

did something to that picture. The reddish undertones of the blue came to life, and the orange hidden oddly in the purples just had to make itself seen. But as the

gifts and apologies poured in from neighbors and friends of hers, the pink made itself the boldest of them all. The warmest color and the most innocent hue

combined to make the totality of this new mother. One who was pointedly warm and open. Who showered bounds and bounds of love. The most infuriating

aspect was that the subject of this newfound devotion was a photograph on an armoire. Not a son turned psuedo-father. No amount of gratitude for the one who

stepped in where she failed. Who loved while she did whatever she did on her week long endeavours. No amounts of sealant to bring in the remnants of a family

so perfect when imagined. No impulse to make it real.

The pit in my stomach’s ache vibrates more profoundly in my knees. I feel them reach for the ground umbilically. Clinging for life in the gravel. Just inches from

my mother’s feet. When my palms reach the gray mess just a second after, more images evade my brainspace. Every heavenly birthday, every anecdote to former

friends and teachers, every night hearing my mother’s wails from the bedroom over. Love and perfection fully captured only in death. Now she saw that my sister

was worth loving. Now she regretted missing double digits and first dates.Now she regretted cruel names and vacant hallways. And all that grief for a photograph

on an armoire!

When people tell you who they are, you listen. The few months after my baby sister Mary passed were the few months in which people affirmed over and over

and over that love and perfection will only be fully captured in death. And I listened. I pay attention more than most and I’ve been holding that truth every day

since.

Since I know that nobody else will, it has been my job to capture the oddest of people honestly. My job to paint, and carve, and mold. Like it was my job to tend,

care for, and raise Mary for the 12 years she was alive. It’s my job to curate perfection, and if that has to end in death, so be it. Humanity told me what it is, and it’s

been my job to reveal its beauty despite that ever since.

As the center of my forehead graces the gravel in a final attempt at stability, one single sense permeates my mind. In all my years I have fixated on what I can see,

but in the instant that seems to define this distortion of my strongly held reality, all that truly matters is hearing. In these past seemingly vital moments, all I can

recollect is the years-old wail of sirens repeating senselessly forever. I miss you Mary.

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Allahna Johnson (she/her) is a sophomore studying Social Welfare and Spanish. She usually writes poetry but wanted to experiment with a short story for this submission. She is passionate about musical theater, mental health advocacy, and creating on a multitude of levels.