Gauge Spring 2023

GAUGE

EXEC BOARD

EDITORS-IN-CHIEF:

Paulina Subia

Gale Melendez

Jose Barrera Aguire

CREATIVE DIRECTORS:

Kimstelle Merisma

Elena Dickson

HEAD DESIGNER:

Monika Krueger

HEAD PHOTOGRAPHER:

Jenna Triest

HEAD COPYEDITOR:

Anna Phillips

FACULTY ADVISOR:

Kyanna Sutton

GENERAL STAFF WRITERS:

Olivia Trzaski

Sydney Flaherty

Caleigh K McCrink

Sage Greenwood

Elisa Davidson

Margo Heller

Elena Dickson

Lily Brown

Annabelle Adams

Gabriella Pérez

Lily Suckow Ziemer

Ensor Stull

PHOTOGRAPHERS:

Lily Brown

Lex Jimenez

Cooper Rich

Samantha Edelman

Lily Farr

Fer Cantu Zaragoza

Rian Nelson

Kasey Armstrong

Xinzhu Dong

Emma Cahill

Jimena Cleza

Danasia Bennett

Harlem Rogers

READERS/EDITORS:

Nate Lentocha

Elisa Davidson

Justin Blumberg

Mel Jones

Anatasia Petridis

Margo Heller

Olivia Trzaski

Lily Suckow Ziemer

Eleniz Cary

Annabelle Adams

COPYEDITORS:

Maria Gil De Leon

Mel Jones

Nate Lentocha

Anne O’Leary

Ellye Sevier

DESIGNERS:

Ning Chen

Moe Wang

Elena Dickson

Kimstelle Merisma

Jose Barrera Aguire Cooper Rich

Delirium Realms

PHOTOGRAPHY: FER CANTU ZARAGOZA

CREATIVE DIRECTION: FER CANTU ZARAGOZA

MODEL: CAMILLADIAZ DURAN

MAKEUP ARTIST: FER CANTU ZARAGOZA

Guide to Modern Pedestrianism

Contortion:

The city is the occupational hazard of living in the city. Necessary skills are the following— masquerade, mutilation, panoptic attention, intimidation, cruelty, speed, decisiveness, indignity, premeditation, contortion.

“Becoming” a pedestrian will be equivalent to “becoming” something you haven’t seen in yourself. It isn’t acting. Your personae are the culmination of your primal urges and responses. Together, I will teach you how to twist them to your will. You will learn to strategically give into the wild. You will be safe and arrive at your destination. Eventually, this process will come naturally, and you will be able to fluidly weaponize your adrenaline. Each woman’s practice differs from the next. However, below are some useful archetypes to draw from.

The Knife & Whetstone:

Consider a whetstone. Thinning your blade is analogous to thinning the murk in your brain. With each step, hone the other side of the knife. Right, left, right, left, right, left, ad nauseum. Become calculation. The average reaction time of a human is around 0.25 seconds, so aim for 0.13. At all times, awake yourself to the certainty that you are being hunted. The flesh that is rushing past you is capable of [everything]. Contact is volatile, unpredictable, and will result in—

Consider a knife. The knife doesn’t lift itself and descend upon its victim. In fact, the knife is the victim, an instrument of severing. People cut what they choose using the body of the knife. Every knife has no qualities besides— sharpness, weight, and serration. However, touching a blade will cause bleeding. Be this. Emanate caution. Be unwise to handle. Sharpen your skin with the whetstone until human contact makes all parties bleed. Keep a running count of the surrounding arms nearby, and which veins to split should they outreach. Observe those around you. Discern their motive. Know that you’re wrong. Know that all things are lethal. Do not be child-proof.

The Man:

You are now a man. You are now a passing caricature of confidence. To the untrained eye, embody carelessness. To the trained eye, embody competence. As if you’ve never been groped. As if you are hungry for lunch. As if the muscle in your back is assurance enough to keep walking. Control your breathing to leisure. Force a yawn even. Load your step to fall heavy. You urinate in the street. You have abrasive stubble. You haven’t considered anything today, except for the gorgeous ass on the crying woman walking ahead of you. You, for fun, provoke her into quickening her pace. Be dirt.

The Coyote:

You are now a coyote. Actually, you may choose any predator you wish. When deciding upon your animal, consider the following criteria— untamed, gnashing, wicked, stalking, carnivorous, crazed, deafening. Examples of successful predators include hyena, cassowary, or cannibal. However, for the purpose of this guide, you are a coyote.

Mania is constructive. Overpower it. Bathe in it. Manipulate it to the point of its orgasm. Your fear will elevate you, but fear isn’t enough. What happens if someone touches/grabs/takes/grips/deforms/gets you? And they’d laugh about it after. Kill or be killed. You haven’t thought that far ahead yet, have you? Ridiculous girl. Stupid. Idiotic. Your stride is so timid. Walk faster. We’re hunting.

In preparation: Walk with premeditation. In your head, rehearse how to snap a neck. Obsess over the details, the feeling in your hands. It should simulate a wrenching motion. Before it happens, you should already anticipate the vibration of bone crumbling through the back of the throat and esophagus. Optionally, carry an unloaded gun. Optionally, load it. Continue walking.

EDITORIAL: ENSOR STULL

PHOTOGRAPHY: SAMANTHA EDELMAN

CREATIVE DIRECTION: ENSOR STULL

MODEL: MARGARET NELSON

In the event of an approaching vehicle: Your animal eyes should be glassy and reflective—anticipatory. The driver should be able to see themselves in the whites as clearly as if they checked their rearview mirror. Remind them that if they hit you, they would be met with your soft carcass. Remind them they would have to dispose of your disgusting body and their disgusting guilt. Continue walking.

In the event of a threat: In your jowls, howl and howl and howl and howl and clamp down and crunch through and swallow and devour and lick your mangled lips. Look down at the concrete. Huh, it’s red. Take a moment to enjoy yourself briefly, but continue walking.

BLo Od SuMmER

it rained red in the streets for seven days before the dogs came running.

thick and burning hot, it poured in wretched waves and suffocated the air. people drowned standing up. it was a biblical baptism, how the blood filled the dry cracks in our skin like rivers and never washed off our teeth completely. if you were lucky enough to smile, you’d still have a permanent reminder, forever tainted.

you’d think that horror might be retribution enough, but the angels above weren’t satisfied; with gnashing jaws and horrid eyes, the hounds caught and killed the ones we left behind. man’s best friend became our chilling reapers as they ripped their throats indifferent and mauled anything left to roadkill meat.

we were naive to think that was the worst of it. soon after, the rotting flesh set a new terror in motion. it ate away at the minds of men, and their sick mouths crawled the streets. listening to screams of agony turn to hungry, aching growls was the most gutting. boys i knew from school tried to tear me apart.

we boarded up and didn’t see sun for a year. after some time, the knocking stopped, and i’m still not sure if it was mercy or a curse. bodies returned to the dark soils within a matter of days, like carcasses in a museum of distant history. it didn’t help. the red, like a conscious acid, killed the grasses, made the land unworkable. it was up to time–how long we had left.

mama was right: everything was going to kill something. i just never thought it would happen like this. when the heat started to fade, you had to decide between yourself and everybody else. there were no more indifferent nightmare plagues to kill us off. it became a battle of survival, and who wanted it more. i was swallowed by it, and i think now that the worst punishment of all was having to make that choice.

the mirror is not me for many reasons, besides the grime and sunken eyes. the summer is coming to an end, and i’m not sure whether or not to be scared of daylight turning. what comes next for the ones who are left?

i still remember brightness and softness, the way things used to be, but there’s no point in mourning something you’ll never get back. even the winds–that once scratched at our windows for anyone’s listening ear–are quiet now.

the fields never fed us; maybe it was just a bad spell.

EDITORIAL: MARGO HELLER

PHOTOGRAPHY: HARLEM ROGERS

EASTER SUNDAY

EDITORIAL: ELENA DICKSON

ILLSUTRATIONS: NING CHEN

Mother always said never go into the forest alone.

The grandchildren ran through the yard after Easter Mass. We searched for eggs and candies. I wanted the creme eggs.

As I searched for eggs in my white linen socks and patent leather Mary Janes, I felt the weeds and blades grow around me. My pastel plaid dress swished in and out of bugs and grass and clumps of dirt. Children yelling “Found it!” swelled inside my ears.

My breath grew short.

My mind raced.

I would not find one. My basket was exceedingly light, an embarrassing weight, like a baby’s weight. I was no baby. I was six. I was a big girl. I should have had more eggs.

I ran frantically, pushing weeds away from my face, and cutting my legs. I ran until the grass grew shorter. I ran until sweat dripped down my brow. I ran until the sweat mixed with the tears that wouldn’t stop

I promised Father I wouldn’t cry this year. He liked to say, “For such a little body, there never seems to be enough tears.” I felt big feelings. Grandmother said I would grow into them. I was just overwhelmed, I would get used to the world around me.

With every stomp, tears seemed to fall harder. I couldn’t stop. I threw myself onto the ground, burying my head in my arms and praying to the strange man that woke up from a long nap that day. My Sunday school teacher had said that Jesus fell asleep for three days and that during His sleep He made it so that we could meet God. I wasn’t sure what that meant, but I wish I could take a three-day nap too. I don’t know if I want to meet Him. My teacher said he doesn’t have a body. I don’t understand why.

When I finally felt my tears slow down, I removed my head from my arms and looked up. The trees shrunk and shriveled and my grandparents’ home looked like the birdhouses in my grandfather’s workshop. I stared in awe as the Appalachian foothills unfolded before me like the lumps under a comforter straight from the dryer. My clothes fit me just the same, the patent leather shoes still covered in mud. I hope my dress doesn’t stay stretched; Mother would have a cow.

My new view did not scare me. My seat in the meadow did not feel daunting. The water tower my cousins and I would meet at was closer than it was before. I did not need to hold Grandfather’s hand to reach this destination. I could no longer find respite on the tire swing and look to the tree branches like skyscrapers. As I stood, I could hear the crunch of trees being pushed beneath me. My feet no longer fit on the path laid before me. My basket stayed small, its empty body looking even sadder than before.

As the tear stains evaporated from my cheeks, my toes began to wiggle and squirm within the shoes that I was not sure would ever shine again. Grandmother would be upset that she would need to shine my shoes again. I stood, feet surrounded by foliage and head surrounded by clouds, and shook. With nowhere to sit, nowhere to go, I still could not bring myself to cry.

Grandmother was right, I would grow into my emotions one day.

Grandfather could not console me with a candy now.

“I will never grow into them,” I thought. I stomped my feet in the mud, forgetting my mother’s warning to not scuff my brand-new Mary Janes. I had already held back tears when she buckled them on my feet before Mass. I hated the blisters that formed along my heels. My grandfather handed me a butterscotch after seeing his reflection on my toes. That was his way of telling me he was on my side.

Me and My “Friend”

didn’t feel my knuckles hit the wood. Waiting for her to open the door was excruciating. Of course, all of my thoughts were racing. It didn’t help that there was no response.

EDITORIAL: LILYBROWN

CREATIVE DIRECTION: LILYBROWN

MODEL: MELODYCHEN

Cara has been my friend for as long as I can remember. We grew up connected at the hip, practically living in the same house. She made me smile whenever she walked into a room. We would tell each other stories, create inside jokes, and even finish each other’s sentences as casually as anything. When it was just us, we could be kids forever.

And honestly, I miss having fun with her. We would hang out almost every day after school. I loved fighting dragons in the castle, casting magical spells in the forest, and searching for buried treasure hidden beneath the desert sand. Our soft giggles carried us through each day.

I really thought our friendship was everlasting, but something’s been off recently.

Lately, Cara has been distant. I barely see her anymore. At first, I thought it was nothing. (You know, everyone has their bad weeks.) But I was always there during those moments; we were each other’s rocks, always there for each other. I just feel so empty.

But enough.

Even though things have been weird, I needed to grow up. I’m just going to go over to her house and talk with her. I have to go see her and sort everything out. I am growing sick of waiting for her to come to me, and I want to get this crumbling friendship delusion out of my head. Everything is going to be fine. I told myself, I know it.

Running up the all-too-familiar front steps planted a smile on my face. Immediately, I opened their front door and let myself in as usual, sprinting to Cara’s room hoping she was home. While it was her house, I knew the place like the back of my hand. Within a minute, I was standing in front of her white-painted door.

I was hesitant to knock at first, but after a deep breath, I tapped three times. I knocked so fast I almost

I probably stood there for five minutes before I knocked again; still no answer. Maybe she wasn’t home, but I was not going to leave before checking. Twisting the metallic knob, I slowly opened Cara’s door. Her room was always one of my favorite places. The carnationcolored walls and floral decals were every child’s dream. Once the door was fully open, I noticed her lamp was on, and she was right there sitting at her desk, just staring at her computer screen.

“Hey, Cara!” I began, a smile still on my face.

“Sorry to just barge in, but I just wanted to come and say, hi!”

She barely moved, solely focused on what was in front of her. I started making my way toward the desk.

“I know you’re probably busy, and I’m so sorry if I’m bothering you, but I really think we should talk. Is everything ok?” Cara continued to not make any acknowledgment of my presence, and my expression started to fade.

Why is she ignoring me? Is she mad? I asked what was wrong, but she wouldn’t answer me. I must have done something really bad. As I walked up to her, I placed my hand on her shoulder.

“Are you ok?” I asked. Cara didn’t even flinch. Now worried, I started to freak out.

“Hey, look at me.” Her stoic expression was not changing. I tried shaking her out of this state, yelling, “Cara, please! Listen to me! PLEASE!”

Nothing was working.

Was this really happening? I left Cara to go find someone else in the house to prove I was physically there and was just being ignored by my best friend. Bolting downstairs, I stumbled upon her mother in the kitchen. I sighed in relief. Her parents loved me. They always used to greet me with a chuckle, Greetings Captain Gina. What mighty adventures are you up to

today? She was busy washing dishes, but that didn’t stop me from trying to gain her attention. However, this time I wasn’t met with the same cheery welcome.

Instead, she also pretended that I wasn’t there. I tried everything from physically pushing to practically screaming at her. I did not exist. I began to cry. No, this isn’t real. It can’t be. Am I real? Of course I am. That’s insane. Am I dreaming? Why can’t anyone see me? What’s going on?

I ran back up to Cara’s room absolutely sobbing. A mess and simply not knowing what to do, I collapsed onto Cara’s bed and continued to break down while she continued doing her algebra homework, completely unphased by my bawling.

Stop crying. Just relax. Take a breath. My place of comfort suddenly feels like a trap. Don’t stress. Just breathe. Ground yourself. I began looking around Cara’s room, and it has changed a lot. Crayons replaced with nail polish. Photos we took together were replaced with ones of just her.

Seeing some of the little items and toys we used to play with still here was making me even more emotional. The cotton covers underneath my hands reminded me of the late-night sleepovers we used to have. We often found ourselves under the thin sheets

telling each other our deepest secrets. The NSYNC and Spice Girls posters taped against her walls reminded me of when we used to blast their music and sing our lungs out. I missed our dance parties, and I will never forget how horrible some of our moves were, looking back. I feel out of breath as I did then.

And there was Uni the Unicorn, the only stuffed animal left. It was simply resting on top of her bookcase. What a magical creature from our past. That little plush toy came with us on all of the adventures we played on her carpeted floor. We were so creative when imagining which worlds we would explore daily. I will never forget pretending to play princess with our royal horse or simply having tea time together in the afternoon. He was the very essence of our childhood. (It’s funny how a made-up being can mean so much to someone.)

Rediscovering pieces from our childhood suddenly feels off. Is it all a bad dream, a nightmare in which I kept missing a key factor that would explain everything? I always used to help Cara through these wild thoughts, but now I’m dealing with them alone.

I sat there, motionless, as I raised my head to her ceiling. Tears streamed down my face slowly as our life flashed before my eyes. I was reminiscing about all of our play dates. I loved dressing each other up. I still laugh at all of our jokes. I miss when we used to hold each other, but now she cannot even feel me there. I wish someone would have told me how fast the years go by. It is truly difficult to come to terms that she moved on. Was I a good friend? I wish I could have stayed longer with her. Friendships come and go, but I never thought it would be ours. Everything is temporary, and I was merely one of those things. I miss how I made her happy, but does she miss me like I do–I will—miss her?

Scared. I’m doing my best to see the bright side. I’m trying to say goodbye. I never knew today would be our last day together, never thought that I’d be leaving my childhood home.

Now numb. Trying to pretend this isn’t real. No, don’t cry. I need to be strong for Cara. I can’t let her go just yet even though she has already left me. It felt like it was yesterday that we were each other’s best friends. I was there for all of the good and bad moments.

What felt like a lifetime was merely only a moment.

Little by little, I slowly started to fade. The numbness deteriorated as I disappeared into nothing.

This was expected as I was only imaginary, a mere thought created by my friend. But it’s alright. I’ve done everything that I could, and I will always cherish our time together.

Despite my broken heart, I offer Cara one last smile she will never forget.

“Thank you for being my friend.”

MULTIPLE ME

PHOTOGRAPHY: KASEY ARMSTRONG

CREATIVE DIRECTION: KASEY ARMSTRONG

MODELS: KHUSHI UPADHYAYA

AVA BELCHEZ

LILY FARCY LAYLA WILLIAMS

CHLOE DESROSIERS

MAKEUP ARTIST: ELENA RUIZ

STYLING: SASHA WINETT

DOES SHE LIKE YOU BACK?

How often do you talk?

I hear her whispering in my ear when she’s not here.

She asks you out to a fancy restaurant off the highway. What do you order?

Raw meat and look in her eyes as the blood trickles down your chin

Does eye contact count?

EDITORIAL:SydneyFlaherty

A salad you eat too quickly, the remnants of a crouton stick in between your teeth when you tell her you love her, you watch her face fall and the ceasar dressing lingers on your tongue

Where do you hide the bodies?

Under the bed you share with her, she knows. You both breathe in the smell of rotting bodies every night

The fridge in the garage

It’s been 20 years, you start taking small bites out of her every night. She doesn’t notice, why do you do it?

To feel her in your body and now she’ll never leave

To put bandaids over each cut every morning

How do you die?

She kills you first

Look again and realize it wasn’t her, release the breath you didn’t know you were holding

It’s years from now and you see her in the grocery store, you: Ask her if she got the bread you guys like and check it off the grocery store list she made that morning

It’s before and you’re standing at the altar when she walks in.

The floorboards squeak and you: Kill the fiance with your bare hands and run away with her

Look away and divorce him two years later, marry her as soon as the paperwork is done

A ghost is following you around. What do you do?

Say that you’re sorry, but you don’t really mean it

Get up close and breathe it in through your nose, feel it choking you forever

You’re reincarnated and look up at the clouds to see:

A man laughing at you, you hear her voice come out of his lips

Her face smiling like the first time you met her, you see her everywhere

The day you met, in the crowded hallways of a high school in the middle of nowhere you noticed: The two freckles under her eye and the way she laughs Something you don’t remember anymore

She meets your parents, you’re too nervous to eat the lasagna your dad made. Afterwards, you and your mom do the dishes and she tells you:

She’s too good for you, you always ruin what you like the most She’s exactly like you said she’d be, a big smile on her face

You don’t

She probably doesn’t like you, but don’t give up! I mean, hey, she did choose to kill you.

Maybe! Try talking to her more at school, she might feel the same! You deserve someone who will blush at everything you say!

She sits next to you while you’re dying, you hear your grandkids in the hallway. You regret: Everything Nothing

She definitely does! You go girl! Try asking her out, we know she’ll say yes.

What is a Cliche?

1. If Jonathan has 24 oranges and he gives 25 to his friend, how many oranges does he have left? Show your work.

L+E

2. Translate “Where am I?” into French.

Merryweather High School

8/28 SCHOOL BEGINS

WELCOME BACK

Liked by Tyler_genu and others urbanalex 1h what is she even doing forthegraham 1h @urbanalex though she wasn’t coming back after last year

BFF Forever <3

3. Analyze the passage below. Underline sections where syntax is used.

meet me on the roof.

INTRODUCTORY PHYSICS

FIFTH EDITION

George Evanson

HOW TO SUPPORT YOUR CHILD’S

MENTAL HEALTH

SUCK MY DICK

What are you doing back here

FAG

Sunkist

3102-USA

Account Balance: $3.68

Believe. Achieve. Inspire.

L: Where are you

L: Do you see me?

Bus

Locker #402 13-25-16

6. Label the diagram below:

1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 * 0 #

Hello! My name is...

NIKE CONVERSE

Guidance Office

Great job! U r a star!

If you’re reading this you’re too close.

7. Tell me about your summer. Use complete sentences.

“Don’t cry because it’s over. Smile because it happened.” - Dr. Seuss

Grade History

Attendence History

Have a great first day of school!

L: You ok?

L: I can come to you just tell me where you are

L: Liz?

See something, say something!

8. What is a cliche?

I’m sorry

22 23

PHOTOGRAPHY: DANASIA BENNETT

CREATIVE DIRECTION: KIMSTELLE MERISMA

MODELS: SADIA ABOHUSSIEN

KIMSTELLE MERISMA

MAKEUP: SADIA ABOHUSSIEN

[THE DREAMWALKER]? HAVE YOU SEEN

Cracks in the City’s Eye

I walk down a sidewalk littered with red-blue shadows and glass, barefoot and complaining, like I didn’t put it there, like I’m not breaking down this glass city. I am not allowed sharp objects so there is a lollipop in my hands or not a lollipop, a butter knife.

There is a not-sharp some-thing in my hands that I can’t see. It tastes sticky-sweet and metal. I still can’t tell, but I smash it into the red-blue glass windows until they shatter on the sidewalk, on my sticky-glassy-bloody-red-blue hands.

Everything is sharp now so I am bleeding and complaining and complaining because

. . . I am bleeding and it’s all a real mess. Just a real fucking mess. But

the shatter is neat like a television show or a dream.

The breaking is always perfect in dreams.

HAIR: BLACK

EYES: BROWN

HEIGHT: 5’2”

LAST SEEN: —

EDITORIAL: SAGE GREENWOOD

PHOTOGRAPHY: RIAN NELSON

MODEL: JINAHYOON

If you have seen this person, TURN OFF THE LIGHTS. READ THE TIME. COUNT YOUR FINGERS.

Dolorius Damnation

PHOTOGRAPHY: LEXJIMENEZ

CREATIVE DIRECTOR: LEXJIMENEZ

ASSISTANT DIRECTOR: ARI YAFFE-INOUE

MODELS: CAROLINE MCGINN

GENEVIEVE PETERS

KAITLIN HARNESS

It’s better this way

EDITORIAL: LILY SUCKOW ZIEMER

PHOTOGRAPHY: FER CANTU ZARAGOZA

CREATIVE DIRECTION: LILY SUCKOW ZIEMER

WhenI was eight, Mom would take me out on the boat to wade in the sandbars. On that mini beach, water only up to my calves, I loved to look out at the rest of the lake. I felt stranded. Without Mom and the boat, there would be no way to get back except a mile-long swim to the rocky shore. It’s unlikely my skinny arms would be able to pull me all that way, even now. It was just Mom and I, surrounded by the lake. I don’t go out there anymore; I no longer need it to create that stranded feeling.

*

Everything outside is dead. The spindly branches of trees clack against my window, and brown shreds of grass appear through gaps of the melting snow. It should be depressing, but it’s all I’ve ever known. I can’t imagine seeing anything else outside my window. It’s hard to get out of bed on a day I know the sun will never show through the clouds, but I can’t lie here forever.

Someone put the empty milk carton back in the fridge, meaning dry cereal for now. I sit at the kitchen island, dry-turned-slimy cereal now stuck in the divots of my molars. I can see the lake from here, still and dark but no longer frozen. There are a few boats out, but they aren’t being driven, just floating without purpose in the small waves.

Usually I bike to town, but today I know no one else will be using the car. I back out of the large driveway, away from our newly renovated house. We used to live in a trailer on this land, and we’d go outside on summer nights to run around with my sister Jennie while Mom and Dad drank beer and tossed the boxes into the bonfire. Mom left soon after the construction finished on our house near the road. Dad and Jennie have tried to make it feel like home, but with him working and her moving away for college, the house still feels wrapped in packaging.

It seems like there’s a red light at every intersection today. I don’t know why I still stop, it’s not like there’s any other cars. Mari says I’m too rule bound, that “it’s only natural for high schoolers like us to rebel.” Maybe if I’d tried harder to be like her we’d still hang out, but I think it’s for the best. Her new friends suit her; they like to go to the Walmart parking lot to smoke and jump into the lake with their clothes on at night. It’s good, I’m sure she’s happy. Besides, I’m fine on my own. It’s better for us to “naturally” drift apart.

The cereal wasn’t enough, so I pull into Marty’s Diner. The open sign is bright against the day’s dark fog, and the bell rings loud and purposelessly in my ears when I open the door, alerting no one of my entrance. I walk past the line of empty booths to duck under the counter. It took me a while to learn how to use the grill by myself, but by now I’ve gotten it down to a science. It’s better this way, with no one here helping me. I can make my burger just the way I like it.

I go to Pick ‘N Save next, the wheels of the car gliding over the pavement of the large, empty parking lot. It’s always a little eerie to walk through the sliding doors and hear the local pop station play over the speakers, without any other noise. No rolling carts, beeping of scanners, or friendly chatter. Mom used to take me on her grocery runs every Saturday. She’d always run into people she knew, filling up half our trip with chatter. All those run-ins stopped when she left. It’s better this way. I can just shop in peace.

I get a half gallon of milk from the back and bring it to checkout lane four. It’s fun, almost like a childhood game, to scan and bag, to press buttons and watch the cash drawer pop out so fast it almost hits me in the stomach.

It’s then that I feel a presence behind me. My hairs stand up with the electricity that tells you to turn around.

“Hey,” an awkward voice says, “you can’t be back here, man.”

I’m frozen for a second, staring at the young man in a Pick ‘N Save baseball cap. I can tell he’s about to say something more when I see movement over his shoulder. A woman in her twenties is two lanes over, scanning groceries for an elderly man and trying not to make it obvious she’s looking at me.

I hook my fingers around the handle of my plastic bag and speed walk away. I should say something, sorry, maybe, but I know better than to talk to anyone. Talking makes them real.

It only gets worse as I make my way out of the store. The parking lot is full now. A mother unbuckles her daughter from her car seat, a man pushes his cart up to his trunk, a car goes the wrong direction down the lane.

No. This can’t be happening, not again.

I get in my car as quickly as possible and make my way back home. They’re back. Why do they always have to come back? I make a turn a little too fast, and the milk falls on its side in the passenger seat.

There’s more and more people appearing, walking down the street, filling up space inside store windows. Why does this keep happening? I’ve found peace alone, so why do they keep coming back?

I feel tears on the edge of falling onto my face and violently rub them away so they don’t blur my vision. I just need to make it home, make it to my room. I’ll be alone there. Nobody can leave me when I’m alone. No one can hurt me when I’m stranded on my sandbar.

Except Mom, of course. But that’s not an issue anymore. She left me and took the boat. I used to think about waving down another one, trying to get help, but I can’t trust anyone. I’ve learned to live in the middle of the lake. I enjoy it.

Yet every time a boat passes I almost lift my arm, thinking maybe there’s something out there, somewhere better they can take me.

It’s a stupid hope, so I pretend not to see them. It’s just me here. It’s just me and I’m doing fine.

Photography: CooperRich

Model: Elena Dickson

EYES EVERYWHERE

Don’t look at them. Focus on me. I’m breathing. I’m alive, I think. I don’t let them look me too closely in the eye, or maybe they’ll reach out and grab mine, twist them out of their sockets. They’ll stare at you, almost urging you to look at them. But you can’t, you hear me? It’s only going to make things worse for you later on.

Reach out, touch your toes. Make sure they’re still there. Don’t just look at them, COUNT them. Sometimes, they take one when you’re not looking, just to fuck with you. They know when you’re getting weaker, so let sleep come to you when it needs to. But don’t think you’re going to wake up feeling better than you do right now. You won’t. You’ll still be stuck here tomorrow, and the day after that. It’s hard enough as it is living through this, but it’s harder if you convince yourself this is a dream you’ll wake up from.

It’s the eyes you’ve gotta watch out for. They’re everywhere. They hide in trees and rivers, and one moment to another, you’ll turn around, and they’re staring at you. It makes it hard to think, hard to do anything. They think I’m crazy, but I’m the only one rational enough to adapt, you know? If I was like everyone else and convinced myself my mind was going, I’d be strapped in a chair right now. Listen to your breathing. How does it sound? Raspy and hurried or calm? Is it your breath? That’s the important question, that last one. Be careful with that.

I’m trying really hard to explain all of this to you right now, but I just realized I don’t even know who you are. You didn’t really tell me, did you? So…. Eyeballs? Toes? Anything you want from me? I know you’re taking pieces of me when I’m not looking. Soon, I’ll just be a brain flopping around, tendrils everywhere.

I can’t see as well in the dark. That must be why I didn’t notice at first. Let me see you. Let me feel your hands and know that I’m touching skin. After all, I don’t want to peel it off and see s omething different. Flesh, robbed and worn—dripping with blood. That’s how I’ll know. Oh, don’t look away now. Meet my eyes. Don’t pretend this disgusts you. You’re one of them, aren’t you? Own it.

Look at me.

Editorial: Elisa Davidson

Photography: Emma Cahill

Model: Kelly Chen

Makeup: Sae Phillips

Styling: Elisa Davidson

PHOTOGRAPHY: JIMENACIEZA

CREATIVE DIRECTION: JIMENACIEZA

MODEL: MARGARETNELSON

MAKEUP: MARGARETNELSON

@gauge magazine

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