Inside
by Ania Fierro
Ania is a writer and undergraduate student in the English and American Literature and Creative Writing programs at the University of Texas at El Paso (UTEP). They plan to graduate next Spring 2025.
On a windy October morning, Aracely woke up to an empty bed. She avoided looking at his pillow or the emptiness that lingered beside her. His side had remained untouched since the day he left. She began pulling herself out of bed when a scent escaped from between the sheets. The smell rose from the gap between her skin and her comforter, and it wrapped itself only around Aracely’s uncovered face. It settled between her nostrils and made itself known. It was rancid. Horribly pungent and strong. If Aracely had not known any better, she would have guessed a skunk crawled inside her bed, cuddled with her, and died before it could escape, leaving behind this foul smell. But besides Aracely, the bed was empty. She had washed her linen the night before and gone to sleep on pristine sheets and comforter. Wherever it came from, it was real, and it had chosen to make her bed its home.
Aracely managed to get out of her rancid bed and, avoiding the many shoes scattered on her floor, walked over to her restroom. She made a note on her phone to buy more of the nice fabric softener and to wash the sheets again after work.
As she undressed to take her morning shower, she remembered the important task she had been avoiding. She had promised his family she would go to his apartment today to collect her belongings. His mother had kindly urged her to go today, as they needed to terminate his lease soon. They had given her one month to collect herself before going back to their abandoned joint home. Hundreds of months could pass by, and she would not be ready to return. But she had to go this afternoon to ease her mother-in-law off her back and off her phone. She sent Magda a text message to confirm that she was going today, and she stepped into the shower. She wanted to rinse out the foul smell and her nagging loneliness.
After her shower, she put on black slacks, a plain beige blouse, and her favorite cream cardigan. Her sense of fashion had left her when she graduated from college. Her wardrobe housed only modest, kid-friendly clothing now. She sparsely applied concealer under her eyes and blush on her dull cheeks. She brushed her eyebrows and applied minimal mascara. Her face brightened, looking slightly more awake than before. She piled her stiff, dry curls in a massive claw clip. She looked at herself in the mirror and saw only the ghost of the woman Andrew had fallen in love with four years before.
With her appearance taken care of, she walked to her kitchen to prepare her morning coffee. The clean smell of her kitchen made her smile. Aracely was strict with herself in keeping her apartment clean. Cleaning made her forget her worries, and having a tidy place to live in made her day a little brighter. Besides, now that it was just her, there were hardly ever any messes to clean up.
Her arms and hands knew what to do before she did. They picked up her cheap to-go cup, filled it with sink water, and placed it in the microwave. It was a ritual for her to prepare her coffee. She could prepare it at school and socialize with the other teachers, but she preferred the comfort of her own kitchen with its warm, yellow ceiling lights.
While she waited for her water to heat, Aracely opened the fridge to look for her creamer. The bright, white light of her almost empty fridge blinded her momentarily. Her sleepy eyes adjusted to the new light slowly while they scanned the bare shelves for the small jug of milk. The cold breeze blowing from the inside gently hugged her arms and face, helping her regain her sight and senses. She found the milk behind a tower of leftover containers.
As she placed the jug of milk on her counter, she saw a sharp movement from the corner of her eye. She turned quickly and saw a cluster of fruit flies floating by the sink. Like most people, Aracely hated fruit flies and their ability to reproduce incessantly to take over her kitchen. She approached the sink, swatting the fruit flies out, trying to find the culprit of their apparition. But her sink was clean. Spotless, even. It mystified her how she had not noticed them when she had filled up her coffee cup.
Using her most potent degreaser, Aracely sprayed the miniature, persistent creatures. But, before she could battle them any longer, the microwave beeped its usual tune, and Aracely returned to her instant coffee ritual.
Aracely knew she would be late to work this morning, just like she was late the day before and the day before that. But no principal, school administrator, or teacher would call an almost widow out for tardiness. Her heart tightened at her lack of a label. They were recently engaged when he died. She could not be his widow because she was never his wife. She looked down at the bright, small jewel on her ring finger. Its luminescence contrasted harshly with the dull silver band. She gently rubbed it with her right hand’s thumb.
The aggressive September wind slapped her back into her day as soon as she opened her door. It was cold and dry at the same time, unpleasant but much better than the hot, wet humidity she had grown up with back home. She hurried into her car and had her usual struggle to start the engine. She had learned to let the engine “warm up” after many arguments with Andrew about her horrible car maintenance tendencies. Shivering alone in her car, she would love nothing more than for her engine to overheat and her coolant tank to explode with boiling liquid, only for him to come back and fix it for her. Breathe in. Breathe out. She reversed and made her way to school.
At school, as expected, she had no repercussions for being late, and Aracely began her daily lesson as usual. She was trying her best to keep her smile relaxed and natural, all while making her voice high-pitched enough to keep the kids’ attention but stern enough to make them behave. She had been lucky this school year to be assigned to the second grade again. She knew the material well enough to teach without having to think much. She could stand in front of all her children and let her mouth speak for her.
At times, she would drift off, and her hands and lips would be demonstrating the importance of this or that, and she could only think of him. She was safe in her mind—safe to think and to leave and to pretend. She could only hope that the children would only see the teacher in her and not the abandoned wife-to-be.
“Miss Aracely, can we please go to art class now?” a distant child’s voice said.
The sound of someone else’s voice startled Aracely and woke her from her make-believe slumber. Someone was throwing pebbles at the window of her hidden tower, forcing her to leave the safety of her plush bed and look out the window to see who was calling.
Aracely looked down and saw the kind eyes of Esteban, the smallest child in her class. His face gleamed with anticipation at Aracely’s response. In those small, eager eyes, Aracely could also see he was worried for her. She should have expected it; it was as if he could see right through her façade, and he knew how to bring her back to the classroom.
"Oh, it is time now, isn’t it?” Aracely replied with small tears pooling around her eyes. “Of course, mijo, you can all go to Mr. Raul’s class. Leave your bags here; I’ll walk you there.”
Aracely walked back to her classroom alone, closing the door behind her. When the children left for their “fun” classes, Aracely usually stayed in and graded their homework, quizzes, or exams. She crashed down into her chair and stared at the mess of papers and half-eaten granola bars she had. She slowly started moving her papers to find what she needed to grade the most.
Lately, she did not remember what she was assigning or what she needed to grade. Every day since he left, Aracely felt like she was failing these children. She knew they deserved a better teacher. A teacher who was present and who could care for them. It pained her to know that she was not doing any better for them. That she could not do any better. She was a terrible teacher-the kind of teacher Andrew would have hated.
She could not hold the tears in her heavy eyes any longer, and they started falling one by one. She let them trickle down from her cheeks to her desk. Aracely had climbed up a cloud of pure numbness and was drifting away as the tears watered her paperwork.
In her empty, dark classroom, she wept in silence. She held back her sobs while letting her tears fall freely around her desk. It was the dry kind of crying. Her face was dry and quiet; she could feel her lips chap as she held them shut, and her tears and snot slowly hydrated her face.
After some time, she opened her eyes, and in front of her, on a clean post-it note, a small bug stood frozen. When it noticed Aracely’s wondering stare on it, it stretched out its tiny, prickly legs, showing them off to her, and it set forth.
Aracely’s blurry eyes followed the bug as it crawled around her desk, becoming familiar with the curves and ridges of her papers. She noticed its bright yellow spots contrasting with its long black body. It was an odd little thing. The bug moved across the desk and explored Aracely’s tear stains like a child playing in small puddles. It amazed her how this bug had suddenly appeared like dust falling from the ceiling. And she did not want to move it or kill it; she just wanted to see it play in her mountain of ungraded papers.
Aracely wiped away her remaining tears and carefully tidied her desk around her small new acquaintance. Her day continued as normal; not one of her students would know about her odd encounter with the yellow-spotted bug. By the end of the school day, the bug had left Aracely’s desk.
After pickup, Aracely packed her bag and made her way to her car. She had been at work with her children for hours, and she could not remember most of what she had done. Her wonted guilt began to creep up in her mind when she remembered the important task she had to finish today. She had to drive to Andrew’s neighborhood, walk into his apartment, look at his and their belongings, and determine what was worthy of going to her apartment. By the time Aracely understood her thoughts, she heard a fly buzzing, and her vision cleared. She was in her car, driving, already on her way to her second home, his apartment.
She drove for some time down the familiar roads and shopping centers, and, almost automatically, she found her old spot and parked in it. She could see their home perfectly. The dusty, russet-colored building with dozens of white doors and windows facing the small, very green courtyard with its old wooden bench and its massive oak tree that partly covered Andrew’s bedroom window. The building was one of ten, but they loved his building the best because it was the closest to this small park. They would talk about getting a dog, walking it around the buildings, and playing with it by the park. “Our baby before our baby,” they would say to each other.
She exited her car and walked up the stairs to his apartment. It was both familiar and foreign for her to be there. She was both the resident and the intruder in a home she had not been inside of for weeks. Her key slid in and twisted on its own, and the door swung open. The walls stretched and groaned, welcoming her. It was dark, but she could see the silhouette of his antique bookcase, filled with so many books that it looked bloated.
She remained outside, staring at the apartment and its shapes and shadows for some time. She was in awe of it and how it had all remained the same despite him not being there to care for it. She was looking at a picture of an old building while standing in its renovated form.
Eventually, she stepped in and breathed the stagnant air that had awaited her. She closed the door gently and turned on the lights. Without thinking about it, she took off her shoes and left them by the door. Next to it, there were three cardboard boxes and a roll of moving tape. Her mother-in-law had probably left them there for her. Aracely could hear the old woman’s voice in her head saying, “No excuses.”
She walked around, taking in the memories each corner of this small apartment held. She touched the plain gray couch, trying to remember how it felt when they would both sit on it. She picked up one of the tiny, limited-edition figurines he had scattered around, standing proud on any available surface. She held it loosely like she would a pen before writing, and she could almost feel the excitement he must have felt when he brought it home.
She realized that, after all this time, she had been wrong. She told herself he was gone and would never return. But here he was. He had been home waiting for her. He was in the air, in the dust mites, in the walls, in the floor, in his rare books, and in his tiny figurines. He had left it all behind for her to feel him again. Aracely felt the air lift around her, and she exhaled. She was home again.
She was not going to put his belongings in boxes and trap him in them. She was sure of it now. His family would be upset at her for not packing everything up, but she would find a way to convince them that this was the right choice. For now, she would clean up the place a little. She would care for it like he used to.
Aracely began picking up the small remnants of trash she could find. She picked up tissues from under the couch, grabbed the almost empty trash bags from his room and restroom, and collected abandoned cups. With the trash in one hand and the cups in the other, she walked over to the kitchen to his big trashcan. She opened the lid and tossed everything in. The added movement of the new trash made something else move at the bottom of the clean bin.
Aracely leaned forward to inspect the sudden movement. She gasped and let go of the cups when she spotted the tiny creatures moving around the bin. Hundreds of maggots crawled around the bottom and the edge of the bin. They must have felt the open lid because they were now crawling up.
Aracely was petrified. It was disgusting. She had never seen so many maggots in her life. Their small, slithering bodies made her nauseous.
The apartment that had felt welcoming minutes prior now felt dark and abandoned. The walls were closing in on her. The maggots were pouring out of the trashcan, and she could not move. Her limbs were stiff, and she could not control them anymore. She was stuck watching the thousands of maggots drag themselves around the floor while the walls shrank and pulled her closer to them.
Then, her phone rang.
Her eyelids began to move again, and she saw how distant the maggots really were. Her limbs returned to their normal weight, and she instinctively pulled out her phone from her back pocket and answered it.
“Aracely,” the woman on the phone said, “you said you were going to Andrew’s apartment today, and I wanted to make sure you made it there.”
Aracely held her breath, and she did not respond.
“Aracely, hi,” the woman continued, “are you there, darling?”
“Yes, Magda. I’m here,” Aracely finally responded. “I said I would come today, and I did. I’m here; no need to worry.”
“You don’t have to be short with me, Ara. I lost my son too, you know?” The woman said, “You are not the only one mourning, and look around you—even a hurt mother can manage to clean a little.”
Aracely had noticed the apartment was not as dusty as she had expected. Despite the maggots and remnants of trash, the apartment looked spotless. “Thank you for helping. I know the apartment is crowded.” She paused. “He loved collecting anything and everything; he said he had a problem, but I always thought it was sweet of him.”
“He was sweet, wasn’t he?”
“He was,” Aracely replied. “I am sorry for your loss, Magda. I’m really sorry.”
The line remained quiet for some time. Aracely thought she heard Magda sobbing on the other end. Aracely started crying too. She felt her phone getting wet, and she hung up. It slipped from her hand without her noticing.
With wet, cloudy eyes, she looked around the apartment. It was emptier than she thought when she first walked in. She tried touching the walls and the floors to feel Andrew again, but she could not find him. She could not feel him anymore. Maybe he had slipped away while she spoke on the phone with his mother.
Looking for Andrew, she crawled on her hands and knees around the kitchen. She did not care that her face was wet with tears. She did not care that her snot was dripping on the floor. She did not hear desperate howls and screams. She did not feel the maggots as she squished them under her bare palms. She just wanted to find and feel him.
If anyone else had walked into the apartment, they would not have recognized Aracely as herself or as a person. She looked like a creature desperately searching for its home in the ground. A creature that was trying to crawl its way to an underground shelter.
Aracely sniffled and wept as she made her way to the entrance. When she looked down, she noticed her snot was dark and tinged a reddish brown. She sniffed again, and she smelled the same pungent smell from that morning. It was stronger this time, closer to her. Now, she recognized it as the smell of rotten flesh. And with one more sniff, she noticed it came from inside her. From her tears, her breath, and her snot.
Aracely had started to rot from the inside, and she had not noticed.
By the time she stepped outside, the sun was gone, and the small courtyard was dark. She pulled herself down the stairs and into the grass. She wanted to escape the smell that was trapped within her.
As her bare feet felt the cool, wet grass and the comfort of nature, her body collapsed. Aracely lay in the soft grass as if taking a nap. Her limbs curled into her, keeping her safe. She lay like a fetus would in their mother’s womb.
She did not feel when her body began to die or when her mind wandered off.
The ground, recognizing the familiar organic tissue, began to cover Aracely with dirt and grass. The dirt covered her like a warm, heavy blanket, and she sank into its warmth.
The days would pass, and children would play and run in the courtyard. Andrew’s apartment would be emptied out, and Aracely’s children would be taught by a different teacher. Life would continue as it always did, and, under the small courtyard, Aracely would sleep dreaming of him.
