Heyman 1

Nicole Heyman
nh12d@my.fsu.edu

about 2,400 words

HEGEMONY
By Nicole Heyman

I press my four fingers to the black of the dashboard and swipe quickly, releasing what
seems to be thousands of dust particles into the thick, nicotine-scented air of my car. I spend a
few seconds watching them before I carefully arrange two lines of cocaine. Their dancing
mesmerizes me, they look like the little angels that I once believed in: tiny, pale and weightless. I
refocus my attention to my tangible angels; the ones who have taken the only remaining
redeemable quality of my life. I think about my involuntary subordination and how it has
followed me around for a majority of my life.
#
I used to beg my mother to scratch my back with her fingernails so I could feel my skin
stretch to slightly rise in perfectly paralleled red lines. I think thats when it all started. I was
fascinated with lines, and it wasnt long until I preferred them to be white. In grade school, I was
somewhat of a recluse; hiding away in my room to avoid inquisitive eyes all over my bruised
body. I was knocked around a lot; the victim of a mother fighting for control after a devastating
heartbreak. My shrink called me depressed, like it meant something.

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I rode the cocaine train for a pretty minute, pretended that this artificial happiness was
enough to get me out of my room, until my mother forced me into rehab by putting a gun to my
head. Youve borrowed the Devils tools for too long! she used to say. But twelve months of
smelling like antiseptic is only enough time to fool yourself into thinking you have dominance
over addiction, not enough time to actually break the walls of subordination you have built
around yourself.
The only good thing that came from rehab was meeting my wife, Joy. She was in for
painkillers, and family abuse just like me. We got out on the same morning, so I asked her to
lunch. What a story, two recovering addicts fall in love. It all seemed so perfect. But no, nothing
is ever perfect. After getting out, I got a job at the small health insurance agency down the road,
and Joy applied to every preschool and daycare in the county. Once the news of her dance with
the devil came about, the preschools and daycares saw her as unfit to take care of small
children. She wanted a child more than anything; we both did. Our baby would be a second
chance for us; a new beginning; we wouldnt let our baby become the devils we were. I made
good money at the small insurance agency, so we settled down and got a house. After a year, Joy
put the positive stick on the counter and we opened a bottle of wine. We were getting our second
chance. I promised myself I would not let the devils tools come between me and my baby.
Months went by and the news finally came: we were having a girl.
Three trimesters later Joy was finally ready. The doctor told me I could cut the cord. I
thought about my mother and how resentful she would be of Joy, getting to deliver her child with
her husband by her side. I was proud to be the father of this beautiful girl, about to come into the
world. I would never leave her, never leave Joy to raise her alone; my chance at making a life for
myself that I actually wanted.

Heyman 3
The doctor prepped Joy, broke her water and gave her an epidural. She took some deep
breaths, told me she never wanted me touching her again, and squeezed our girl out of her womb.
Ive always been told that hearing your baby cry for the first time is when you really internalize
your parenthood. But I stood there cutting the cord of a silent baby. I asked the doctor what was
wrong, and they took our girl away hastily, in the hopes of evoking a cry with a pat on her ass.
#
The absence of her cries has haunted me every night since Joy and I left the hospital
without our baby girl. Depressed finally means something. I constantly crave the only thing I
know that will always bring a smile to my face: my angels. Joy locks herself in her room, cannot
speak without sobbing, and seems to only be able to look at me for a few seconds before wishing
I were dead. She blames me for this. She blames our stillborn daughter on me. What she doesnt
understand is that while she lost a daughter, because of this, I have lost a daughter and a wife. I
sleep on the couch every night, trying to ignore the coarse sound of Joys lonely sobs. I wish she
would let me comfort her, but she doesnt think I have a right to be sad, and I cannot bring
myself to comfort a woman who cannot bring herself to understand my sadness. I lost a baby,
too. And now I am slowly losing Joy. Despite the impending loss coming from every corner of
my life, I decided to turn to my angels, the ones who have always shown me the love that I
thought I deserved, and now I cannot turn back.
My erratic behavior was hard to hide once the angels and I got close again. So much so,
that my boss implemented a routine drug testing system for all employees (just me). The drug
test was invasive, someone watched me piss; couldnt even use a detox, the system would catch
that. The results of the test came in today.

Heyman 4
I didnt do too hot, and because of that I am sitting in my car, outside of the small health
insurance agency I have just been fired from, with two lines of the whitest cocaine I have ever
seen. I do not even consider hiding my actions, because I think the drug test made it clear to
everyone how I prefer to spend my time, these days.
I admire the lines. I recall the red parallels that used to emerge on my back. I roll up one
of the only dollar bills in my wallet. I think about how I am going to break it to Joy that there
wont be any money coming in for a while. We have barely spoken in weeks, how I am supposed
to deliver her this news, now? She wont be able to handle herself. Should I lie? I could. I could
spend every day looking for a new job, while she thinks Im at this one. No. I cannot risk her
finding out and losing the last shred of trust she has in me.
I press the rolled dollar to the dashboard, my nose to the edge of the dollar. The feeling of
the angels being wisped into my nose is one of the best I have ever felt, running a close second to
watching Joy walk down the isle. I guess I have a thing for traveling whites. I finish the first line.
I snort the second one slower; I want to preserve this feeling. I think about Joy sitting at home,
on the couch watching Dr. Phil. Thats all she does now, it distracts her from the lack of child. I
imagine her crying over other peoples problems, fooling herself into thinking that what shes
feeling has nothing to do with our dead daughter. How am I supposed to tell the emotional wreck
of my wife that I cannot pay rent? I finish the second line. It starts to rain, and my heart starts to
race.
I pull out of the parking lot of the small health insurance agency that I dreaded pulling
into every day. Its hard not to hate a place filled with bleak, old metal desks and twenty restless
legs, jumping around while their hosts decide who lives and who dies. I was bad at my job,
anyway. I never denied anyone coverage; who was I to sentence an old man with diabetes to

Heyman 5
death because my agency didnt want to pay for his insulin? Everyone deserves a chance at life,
but apparently God missed that memo when he took my daughters before she even left the
womb. As the grey buildings image fades into nothing from my rear view, I think of how happy
Joy was when I got the job. Thats wonderful! she would say, in her high pitched, adorably
excited tone. She used to ask me how my days were; until it was obvious that my days at work
were spent thinking about things outside of work, things like mortality and dead babies. We both
knew how the days were, after that. So I prayed, the only way I knew how.
#
I felt alone. Joys beauty was absorbed in her dismay over the loss of our daughter. The
glimmer in her eyes was taken from her when the nurse stripped our still daughters body from
Joys pathetic embrace. My ability to comfort my own wife, lost in the growing distance between
us. My Joy, how I wish I couldve given her everything she deserves. But instead, I hid in my
car. I set fire to my insides for fun, and I used my angels to do it.
#
I work(ed) four miles from my house. I have four miles to come up with a decent way to
break Joys heart all over again, four miles to reshatter her world. How am I going to support this
family? I should get her flowers. She loves daisies. Maybe if I bring her flowers, shell think that
I have everything under control. My mother always said only men with things under control,
think to bring their women flowers. She was always full of shit.
I turn left for the flower shop. The light ahead is green. I accelerate. Yellow. I accelerate.
Red. I screech to a stop. There is no one else at this intersection, so I play with my angels. I
arrange them into two more lines, these shorter than the ones before. I dont have much time. I

Heyman 6
reroll the dollar bill. I press it to the dashboard, my nose to the dollar, and Joy walks down the
isle, once more. I lose myself, a little, in this image.
My attention is commanded back to reality by an overcompensating asshole, who seems
to be very impatient. I look in my rear view, his lips shape the words the lights fucking green,
fuckhead! I press my foot to the gas pedal. The flower shop is just passed the next intersection. I
know the daisies will make Joy feel better. I press the gas even more. The light in the distance is
green, so I push on. Still a good distance away, the light turns yellow, the angels materialize
behind my car and push it even faster.
The light turns red, but I cannot stop. Its only a matter of seconds before I see a car
turning left, from the other side of the intersection. I press my breaks hard enough to crush my
bones against them, but there isnt enough time. I throw my angels into the glove box and beg
God for survival. My car collides with the center, passenger side of the other. My eyes close.
Seconds later, the thick smoke awakens me. The intersection looks as though it has been
set on fire. The heat caused by the friction of the colliding cars has met the cold rain and together
they have raised a family of black clouds in the intersection. I manage to push my door open. My
legs are cut up, my knees are bleeding. I remember that I have been in an accident, and I muster
up enough energy to get out of the car. I stumble over to the car I have mutilated, stepping over
shards of glass that once made up a passenger window. I wave the smoke away so I can see if the
passengers are alive.
I try to pry open the passenger door, with all of the strength that I have. I can hear sirens
in the distance. Theyre getting closer. The door is jammed, and the dust particles are in my eyes.
I use my shirt to wipe them. As my vision comes back, I being to recognize the body of the
passenger in the car I have totaled. My cut up legs suddenly cannot support the weight of my

Heyman 7
body. My bleeding knees smash into the glass ridden pavement. I let out a small cry, an apology,
a real prayer. I find enough strength to get up again, ignoring the glass pieces wedged so far into
my dermis that I cannot feel them; I make sure my vision is in tact by wiping my eyes with my
shirt, once more. I use all of my force to open the door of the car, and sitting in the passenger
seat, bloody and broken, is a woman, about my age, gripping her pregnant stomach.
I step back. I remember Joys face when she showed me the positive stick. I remember
how much she loved shopping for maternity pants and baby toys, weeks before we even knew
the gender of our child. Pregnancy gave Joy the happiness she had been deprived of for her entire
life, and my angels have just deprived this poor woman of that exact happiness. Losing my baby
set fire to my insides, and now I have passed the torch to another. My angels have not made me
happy, not this time.
Sir, can you tell me what happened here? the officer has just stepped on scene. Are
you alright?
I was hindered by the walls of subordination that I have secluded myself inside, and now
I have placed a woman into the very situation that sent me into this seclusion. I prayed to my
angels, and they ruined the very happiness I prayed for them to bring me. They have misguided
me, this time. They have led me astray. Down the rabbit hole, I went; and into a harsh reality, I
fell.
I turn to the officer, who is now shining his flashlight all over my car. In this moment I
realize that it is finally time for me to return the Devils tools.

END