(26) Shelby Rice: a list of the contents of my backpack
one (1) high-powered handheld flashlight[1]
one (1) pair of thick framed red glasses, in case
three (3) pens, red, black, blue ink, no caps[2]
one (1) broken bobby pin[3]
eighteen (18) buttons of various types and origins (political, literary, musical)[4]
one (1) unused spiral-bound notebook, college ruled, pages blank
one (1) pair of scissors, blue handles[5]
one (1) half-broken red-and-black checked umbrella, collapsed[6]
[1] retinitis pigmentosa is one of the most common forms of retinal degeneration. when the opsin gene mutates incorrectly, photoreceptors in the eye fail, leading to a decreased visual field and night-blindness. walking at night, I use a military-grade flashlight. it lights a large circumference around me and provides relief from the blackness which cradles me in skeletal arms. still, I trip over uneven sidewalks and unnoticed tree roots which loom in the sides where I still can’t see, even with the aid of my light.
[2] my sophomore year of high school my best friend gave me a fountain pen for my birthday. smooth and slim and black, it fit my hand perfectly, the nib pouring out inky-black words onto fine paper. I adored the feeling of it beneath my palm, took immense pleasure in crafting each character flowing from my hand. now the words swim in front of my eyes, fading and murky, rendering any physical act of writing mostly moot. I still grip the pen whenever I can.
[3] as an elementary schooler, I wanted nothing more than dark, dark hair. I wanted a mane which matched the leather of my thoroughly-abused fake leather jacket, tresses which would blend into the night. I wanted to rip the blond hairs out of my scalp one by one until my skin blossomed ruby and there was nothing left, so the light hairs there wouldn’t prompt elderly women to coo and middle-aged mothers to call me a beauty, a princess, an angel, a heartbreaker. I never wanted to break a heart. I never wanted someone to asphyxiate on their feelings because of me. I wanted every single follicle to fall out and never regrow; no hair was better than what I had.
[4] politically, I lean so far left I’m almost tipping over (much to the consternation of my grandmother). black flag anarchist, baby.
[5] my preschool teacher failed me on my cutting skills. I’ve long since noted the irony of this, the long line of scars up and down my body thinks the contrary; I once thought dryly that if I ever saw her again I could submit them for extra credit. some doctors call cutting an addiction, others a coping mechanism; my mother calls it sadistic, attention-seeking and deplorable. the first time I thought about cutting myself I was in first grade and it was mostly out of scientific curiosity because when I looked at my veins I wondered if they’d bleed out black tar. so strange how someone so young can detest themselves to the degree that they wonder if they’re even human, wonder if they don’t bleed red like everyone else; but not without cause. I’d been told everything I’d felt so far was unholy, against God’s laws, so it stood to reason…
[6] long fingers fiddle with tan pants as a woman in front of us talks about scalpings. I used to be able to see out of the corners of my eyes but now I have to turn my whole head in order to check where his fingertips lay (unfortunately still splayed over his too-long legs); I pass it off as a quick smile and eyes dart back forward. my hand stretches out on my thigh like a shy foolish middle schooler; yes you can hold my hand if you want to; I rush to put on fingerless gloves to soak in the sweat. he’s two heads taller than me and he blocks the snow, my broken umbrella stretched out in front of us and with clean teeth and snow in my hair, i’ve never felt more beautiful. the night blanketing my imperfections aids my wholeness. I don’t take out my flashlight but grip his arm instead, and I let the blackness cradle me softly.
Shelby Rice often finds her fiction blowing in the wind. She is treasurer for Oxford's chapter of YDSA and is editor-in-chief for a leftist magazine centered in that same town, and also reads for Miami University Press. She won the Montaine Award for Creative Nonfiction in 2020. She has been published in the Oxford Observer, the Oxford Journal-News, the Miami Student, the Femellectual, Inklings Literary Magazine, the Happy Captive, and more. Originally from Dayton, Ohio, she is biding her time until Starfleet is established; in the meantime, you can find her in any nearby library, worrying over whether or not the amulet she bought from Goodwill for three dollars is cursed. You can follow her on twitter at @orcmischief (if you dare).