Kelley’s Bio:

Kelley is a nature enthusiast who volunteers at a South Florida preserve and enjoys writing interpretive guides and educational materials. She has a Bachelor of Science degree in Natural Resource Conservation from Cornell University and spends as much time outdoors as possible.

She has been writing since she was thirteen. Her mother tells the story of Kelley, before she could talk, sitting in her crib, pointing at family members in a photo book and babbling about them as if telling stories. She has been a member of The Backroom Writers for 20 years, but has only recently begun sharing her essays with the public. Her work has been published in ReVisions (a college anthology) and The Sun Magazine.

She lives with her husband and son in South Florida.

The Hole

By Kelley Allen

 

There is a hole in the wall.

There is a hole in the wall in front of me.

There is a hole in the concrete block wall about shoulder height in front of me.

My mind returns slowly.

I am sitting in bed in the basement of my parent’s house staring at a hole in the wall.

The hole is in the middle of a pale gray cinderblock, far away from the mortar. The hole is small, pencil-sized, and conical. There are grains in various stages of falling out of the hole, but I do not help them stay or fall. I cannot move.

My abdomen hurts, the pain dull and deep. I try to remember why, but my mind skitters away, like a foot placed awkwardly on ice.

I don’t know how long I have been staring at the hole. It’s been hours, I think. No one has come into the basement while I’ve been here.

I need to go to the bathroom, but I do not move. Somehow, my body and brain are disconnected. Something’s happened. I don’t know what.

I want Ronnie to be here, then I don’t. I remember him driving me today. I remember my heart breaking. I only lived with him so I wouldn’t be alone, but now I’m more alone than I’ve ever been before. Something vital is missing. My mind skitters across the ice again.

Now I can turn my head.

I look at the phone squatting on my nightstand. It’s a rotary one. Tan.

Should I call someone? I still can’t move.

I think about the last three months with Ronnie. Being seventeen, he supplied me with alcohol, pills, cocaine and speed, even though I don’t like speed. I remember becoming depressed, alone in his little apartment while he worked. I wanted to die, but I was too tired to try anything.

The pain is strong. The nurse said I’d be sore for a while. She said to take ibuprofen and use a heating pad.

Slowly, slowly, I flex my fingers. Can I move yet? Yes. A little.

I lean to the side and grasp the phone’s handset. I manage to pick it up, but I am so confused I put it back down and stare at the hole again.

I’m glad I’m not with Ronnie anymore. But who else can I talk to? Who else can I tell? I’ve committed a great crime. My mind does not skitter away. I think long about what I’ve done. I think about the hole inside me. There was no other way. There was no one else to help. I did too many drugs. I was too afraid. For me, for it. My face is wet. Tears.

It occurs to me that I can call my friend Tess. She will know how to help.

It takes me a while to remember Tess’s number.

I lift the receiver and dial. First one number: Click, click, click, click, click. Then the next, each click counting out the number until I spin the dial again.

“Hello?” she answers, but I can’t speak. I make a croaking sound.

“Who is this?”

I croak again.

“Kelley? Is this Kelley?”

“Me.” I whisper.

But she hears me. And she understands.

“I’ll be there in ten minutes.”

Tess is my angel.

I stare at the hole some more. She is coming. It’s a start.

I will be okay again.

Despite being stuck between relief and grief.

Despite the abortion.

 

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