A THING by ALLY KÖLZOW
Having an Existential Crisis About the Skeletons in My Closet
Nobody warned me about the sound of skeleton laughter. How it trips around the ribcage, tickling the bones, playing them like a xylophone. All breathless, airless, laughs without lungs. Disturbing when it punctures the hot summer nights, roaring through the thin cracks around the closet door and plunging into my own bones, shaking me from sleep. Skeletons don’t sleep. Their most active hours are one to three A.M. I’m telling you this because someone should warn you.
It was alright back when it was just Steve. Almost took my heart out the first time I found him, but I had been looking for a roommate. A closet-mate. Loneliness drills down into your soul, makes the flesh on your bones feel heavy. Steve made me feel lighter. Maybe that was because I had to get rid of my coats so he could have more breathing room. I asked him why he needed more breathing room when he couldn’t breathe, but he just smiled at me. Jaw wide, teeth white, cheekbones whittled. That movie star bone structure. With skin, Steve could have been a celebrity. I’ll warn you about this too: your skeletons will be charming. Their jaws are the problem. Try cracking them open, breaking them off, and you might stand a better chance.
When Steve stole my name, I gave him a thumbs up. As brothers in skeletal arms, we rallied together against the injustice of cramped closet space. I was running out of room for my shirts: navy blue, royal blue, cobalt blue, steel blue, sky blue. Don’t forget denim. The colour distinctions are important. Steve didn’t think so. He wanted more room to stretch his bony legs. Your flesh prison can’t wear this many shirts, he said. I guess he had a point.
The problem started when Steve the Second moved in. Turns out Steve had a real brother. More than that: a twin. Imagine third-wheeling every time you open your closet door. I tried to talk to Steve, but skeleton matters are private. Not for flesh prisoners to overhear, Steve the Second said. They shut the door in my face. I was condemned to work in my flannel pyjamas.
Apparently, my roommate listing on Craigslist went viral in the skeleton community. We’re up to Steve the Ninth now. My clothes have moved out of the closet and into the hallway. They escaped after the skeletons started hosting nightly tea parties, all the liquid sailing straight down through their rattling frames, soaking through the wooden floor. My neighbors complain about the drip, drip, dripping. I just shrug. They’re skeletons. What can you do?
They call it a murder of crows. What you really need to watch out for is a plague of skeletons.
I go to therapy now. I tell my therapist about my breakup with Steve. He’s found another guy. Nine, actually. When I fall asleep, I dream about having an elephant in the room.
Ally Kölzow (she/her) is a writer and lifelong daydreamer who lives in the UK. In her work, she often explores the intersection of the body and disability through a speculative lens—or just writes strange, silly stories. Her fiction has been published in The Mersey Review and Unspeakable: A Queer Gothic Anthology. Instagram / Twitter