For Becca by Maddy Yukich

For Becca

fiction by Maddy Yukich

Lola took off her sleep mask and rummaged through the layers of blankets on top of her duvet to silence her alarm. Her temples were pulsing and her mouth was void of any moisture. “Jesus, I only had one drink. Welcome to my late twenties, I guess,” she mumbled to herself. “Good morning, gorgeous,” said Damiano from the pink chaise lounge across from Lola’s bed, espresso cup in hand. His head was perfectly centered with a framed poster of Dr. Jane Goodall holding a baby chimpanzee. Lola sprung up. “What the fuck are you doing here?” “I don’t think the profanity is neces…” Damiano began to say. “Oh, my bad. Pretty, pretty please, can you tell me what the actual fuck are you doing here?” Lola exclaimed. He might have said something in defense, but Lola’s attention was drawn to the porcelain teacup on her nightstand. She picked it up and examined the thick, dark red liquid inside. The pulsing in her temples slowed, but the dryness in her mouth became nearly unbearable. “What is this?” Lola asked Damiano without taking her eyes off of the teacup. “Ah, that would be AB positive. My personal favorite. Others prefer O negative, but I find it too bitter,” said Damiano. “I have some errands to run, but I should be back in an hour or so. Before I go, let me give you some advice: do not open any of the curtains, do not go outside under any circumstances, and decide if you’re going to drink that sooner rather than later. You won’t last for too much longer without it. See you later.” Damiano winked at Lola and left her apartment.

. . . . . . As a kid, Lola loved all of the animal residents of her family’s farm, but Becca the Pig was her favorite. Lola did everything with Becca: collecting eggs from the chickens, reading under the willow tree, swimming in the pond, and drawing with her 72-pack of crayons at the picnic table. She even snuck Becca into her room every night and had

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97 her sleep in the miniature barn Harry, Lola’s oldest brother, built for her seventh birthday. Lola never got along well with the other kids at school, but she didn’t mind as long as Becca was waiting for her back at home. One morning, Lola woke up and found that Becca wasn’t in her room. “Becca?” Lola whispered. Lola got out of bed and asked her brother if he had seen her. “Um, I think dad took her outside,” Harry told Lola. Lola’s eyes widened. “Oh no,” she gasped. He promised her that he would leave Becca alone. He pinky promised. Lola turned and ran toward the kitchen. “Lola, wait, come back!” Harry yelled after her, but it was too late. He heard the back door slam shut. “Dad, Dad, stop, don’t hurt her!” Lola shouted, tears blurring her vision. She opened the door to the barn and froze in her tracks. Dozens of pigs waited behind a metal gate, waiting for their turn. Greg, Tonya, Winston, Fred, Eloise. The walls were splattered with blood, and the air was thick with the scent of iron the bleach just couldn’t erase. In the center of the barn was a dark silhouette of a man standing over his prey. No, not prey. Prey have a shot at survival. They aren’t bound with rope, or trapped in a horror house with their family and friends. Lola looked down at the pig’s hooves: blue with reflective star stickers. She wanted to match with Becca, so last night she sacrificed the rest of her nail polish to paint each of her four hooves. She pleaded once more, “Dad, please, no! You promised!” Her pleas were answered with a sharp squeal.

. . . . . . Before stepping into the restaurant, Lola took one last look at her pig-shaped compact. “Shit,” Lola said under her breath as she scrubbed off a spot of blue paint on her forehead. Lola had been up since three in the morning working on her latest piece. She hoped that the drugstore makeup she purchased two hours ago hid her exhaustion well enough. She would have canceled the date and enjoyed the solitude of her studio like every other Saturday evening, but her best and only friend, Angela, would never let

her hear the end of it. According to Angela, Lola needed to get out there and secure a suitable partner before her eggs shriveled up and left her uterus with cobwebs and tumbleweeds. Lola took a deep breath and opened the door. The restaurant was industrial themed: brick walls, black metal pipes and beams across the ceiling, hanging lighting fixtures with carbon filament bulbs, wooden tables accompanied by black chairs, and a bar underneath the glow of an illuminated, wall-sized shelf filled with liquor bottles of every brand. Sitting on one of the bar’s iron stools was a man wearing gray distressed jeans, a black leather jacket, and a cigarette behind his ear, chatting with the bartender with a thick Italian accent. That man’s unusually pale for an Italian. Lola approached him and tapped his shoulder. “Hi, are you Damiano?” Lola asked. “Yes! You must be Lola. Wow, you’re even more beautiful than the photos,” Damiano said with a grin. His black shirt was only buttoned up halfway, revealing the dragon tattoo across his chest. Lola laughed and tucked her hair behind her ear. She took the seat next to him. “How was that dinner party you were telling me about?” asked Lola. “Oh, it was such fun. I got to catch up with some friends I haven’t seen in centuries,” Damiano replied. He took a sip from his Cabernet and asked Lola,”Would you like a drink?” “Sure,” Lola said. She turned to the bartender. ”Excuse me? Can I please have a Negroni?” The bartender responded with a nod, and a quick glance at Damiano. Damiano returned the glance with a smirk, and then turned back to Lola. “Did you know that the Negroni was invented in my hometown?” “I figured it had to be from Italy, but, no, I did not know it was from Florence specifically. Do you miss living there, or do you prefer LA?” said Lola. The bartender placed the Negroni in front of her and returned to the guests at the other end of the bar. Damiano looked down at his glass and swirled it. “I miss Florence with all my heart, but it was the right decision to leave.” “Why was it…” Lola started, but was interrupted by the host. “Your table is ready. Right this way,” said the host.

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99 “Ah, perfect timing,” said Damiano. After looking over the menu, Lola’s brow furrowed. She looked at her neighbor’s dish and winced as he cut into his steak, blood oozing out and pooling in the plate. Lo, it’s just a pig, they don’t have feelings. She hasn’t spoken to her dad in years, but his words from that day will always haunt her. Lola looked up at Damiano, who had already put his menu down, ready to order. “Um, Damiano, there isn’t anything vegan on here,” said Lola. Damiano frowned. “Is that a problem?” “Well, yeah, I’m vegan. It was in my bio. The little leaf emoji?” replied Lola. “Oh, I am so sorry. I thought that meant something else entirely. Why don’t you finish your Negroni and we will go somewhere else,” said Damiano. “That would be great, thank you for being understanding. Most guys would just order their food to go and ghost me,” said Lola. Damiano laughed and said, ”Don’t worry, I’m no ghost.”

. . . . . . Lola and Damiano walked around the Arts District for half an hour looking for a new restaurant. The ones they had found so far were either closed or fully booked, or not vegan friendly, which was quite shocking to her. Los Angeles was the mecca of all the health nuts out there; there were eight Erewhon’s, Lola’s favorite grocery store, countless pilates studios, too many hiking trails, and for every Tesla there were ten smoothie joints. It was getting late, and Lola just wanted to go home, crack open one of her fifteen cold-pressed juices, and pick up where she left off in her rewatching of My Octopus Teacher. “You know, we could just go back to my place for dinner. Most of my pasta recipes can be veganized,” said Damiano. He took the cigarette from behind his ear and lit it.

“Don’t take this personally, but I’d rather not. My rule for the first date is that it has to be in a public space,” said Lola. Damiano blew out a puff of smoke “Oh come on, I promise I won’t bite.” “I’m sorry, but rules are rules. I’ve had a great time, but I think I should go home.

I’m exhausted. Why don’t we raincheck for next weekend?” said Lola.

Damiano sighed. “I’m afraid it’s too late.” “Um, okay, I’m going to wait in that bar for my Uber. Have a good night,” said Lola. She turned around to walk over to the bar on the corner, but Damiano grabbed her and covered her mouth with his hand. “I’m sorry about this,” said Damiano with his cigarette between his teeth. He placed his other hand on her neck and snapped it in one swift motion.

. . . . . . . Lola frowned at the teacup and set it back down on the nightstand next to the polaroid of her and Becca sitting by the pond. She licked her lips and cringed at the texture of the flakes of dry skin. Lola got out of bed, dragged her feet to the bathroom, and gasped at the figure in the mirror; her skin was whiter than a sheet of paper, her neck was covered with blue and purple splotches, her irises were bright red, and when she opened her mouth, her canines were extended and sharp at the tip. She had previously thought that borrowing her ex-boyfriend’s fur coat for one night at Coachella was rock bottom, but she was wrong. Going on a date with a random Italian dude, getting murdered by said Italian dude, and then having to choose between living, and completely compromising her morals, or dying at the ripe age of twenty-eight was definitely her new rock bottom. Lola went to the kitchen to find something to eat, cradling the teacup in her hand. She didn’t know why she bothered to bring it, there’s no way she was going to drink actual blood. Not only would she be betraying Becca, she would become a borderline cannibal. Not that she owed her species anything. Humans ruin everything they touch, and Lola knew that all too well; she wrote a twenty-page essay on the impact humanity has had on the environment back in college. Lola found some comfort in the familiar feeling of hunger in the morning. If she’s hungry that means she wants normal, human food, and not a cup of blood. She opened her fridge and felt nauseated. She tried to eat a banana despite the nausea, and threw it right back up a few minutes later. She sliced a bagel in half, shoved it into the toaster, and took out some plant-based cream cheese. While she waited for the bagel to finish toasting, she made herself a cappuccino with oat milk. To Lola’s relief, the cappuccino went down quite easily. Unfortunately, the same cannot be said about the bagel.

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101 Lola paced in the kitchen for about an hour, occasionally glancing at the teacup on the center island. She wasn’t just uncomfortably hungry anymore; she was starving. The cramps in her upper abdomen turned into stomach contractions, and the gnawing sensation started to feel like her insides were collapsing on itself. Damiano walked into the kitchen and put a bundle of shopping bags on the counter. “Oh good, you’re still alive. Ish. Have you decided yet?” “Why did you do this to me?” Lola asked. Damiano sat at the island and rested his chin in his hand. “I was bored.” Lola clenched her fists. Before she could yell at him, or punch him in the face, she was surprised with warm tears sliding down her cheeks, and turned away from him. “Anyway, there’s nothing you can do about it now. Drink the blood or die. I guess you don’t have to worry about your eggs shriveling up anymore,” Damiano laughed. Lola froze. “What did you say?” “Oh, right, I forgot to mention that we have a mutual friend. Angela was at that dinner party I told you about. I hadn’t seen her since that cruise we went on back in 1912. Small world, eh?” said Damiano. “You were all she could talk about. Lola this. Lola that. And then I remembered that I, what’s the term? I ‘matched’ with a Lola on a dating app. I showed her your photo and she was like, ‘Oh. My. God. That’s her!’ And now here we are.” Lola started to feel her legs give way, so she sat down on the stool next to Damiano. She put her face in her hands. “This is too much. This is all just too much.” “Drink it. Everything will feel much better, I promise you.” Damiano whispered as he pushed the teacup in front of Lola. Lola peeked between her trembling fingers and stared at the cup. She would do anything to relieve her of this pain; her headache made it nearly impossible to process anything Damiano has said since he walked through the door, and her insides were dangerously close to imploding entirely. Lola looked past the teacup at her silver fridge where a drawing of Becca sleeping in the miniature barn was hanging by a Piglet magnet. “But it’s wrong. I have spent the last twenty years avenging Becca. I went to every

PETA protest in the LA area, I burned my stupid ex-boyfriend’s fur coat, I even cut my