Jess Dunn has been writing since she was a wee thing, who had still not quite mastered how to end an "s." She received her undergraduate education at Goucher College and her M.A. in Clinical Psychology from Towson University. She is currently a lecturer at Johns Hopkins University. Although she went to school for psychology and got a “real job,” she continues to write compulsively.  Besides writing and subversively influencing the still malleable minds of undergraduates, her interests include radical mental health, outsider art, cephalopods, and zombie hordes. She currently lives in Baltimore, MD with her partner and her cat.

Little Yellow Sundress (April 20, 2010. Issue 16.)

My face hits the hardwood floor with a hollow slap. For a moment I am unable to breathe. Finally, I force out a cry through muscles tense as steel cords. My shoulders heave as I begin to push myself off the ground. The room spins and, when I look up, blood gushes from my nose, leaving a dark pool beside the bed, soaking the fringes of the Oriental rug.

My windpipe is a thin straw. I gasp, fighting for air. I bite the skin on the top of my hand, rolling my teeth over the narrow bones. I begin to breath normally again, but continue to hold the flesh between my teeth.

My mother calls from downstairs.

“Why is the laundry room sink full of water?”

“I need to dye something,” I say.

“What?”

My little sister pokes her head in the bathroom, “Mommy’s calling you.”

“I need to dye something!”

She closes the door, “Mommy, Diana’s sitting in the shower again.”

I am. My arms are draped limply across my knees as cold water pours over my head. I look up at the showerhead through chunks of dripping hair and turn off the water.

My grandmother pulls my little yellow sundress out of the dryer and hands it to me. The rust colored stains are gone now and it looks like all my other clothes again. It feels warm and soft against my face. It smells like spring-scented fabric-softener. “See,” she says, “good as new.” I burst into tears.

I dip my yellow dress, now several sizes too small, in the sink. I draw myself up on tip-toes, the coolness of concrete floor seeping through my socks, and pour in a bottle of black dye. I lean forward to watch it swallow up the sunny fabric in an inky eclipse. I swirl the dress around, making sure it reaches into every crease.

Footsteps echo on the stairs and my little sister appears, covered in peanut butter.

“Um, Diana, how come you’re dyeing your pretty dress?” she asks.

“I hate yellow.”

“Oh.”

“Go wash your face,” I say.

“We’re going to grandma and grandpa’s for dinner.”

“That’s nice, baby. Go wash your face.”

“My coat is yellow,” she says, “Can I dye my coat, too?”

“No. Go wash your face.”

She stomps up the stairs.

“Mommy, Diana won’t let me dye my coat.”

“Good,” our mother replies.

I pull my dress out of the water and put it into the washing machine. I know this stain won’t wash out. I yank the plug out of the sink and listen to the greedy sucking of the pipes.

My grandfather sits on the side of the bed and I can smell his pipe-tobacco as he reaches over, placing rough hands on both my shoulders. I kick my leg playfully and he grabs my ankle. I try to pry my leg away and he grips me so hard it hurts. I pull away again as he slides his thick, sandpaper fingers up my thigh.

“Don’t bite yourself, Diana,” my mother says, “How old are you?”

My grandmother forces a smile. “That’s a new shirt.”

“She made it,” my sister says.

“Out of one of her old dresses, no less. You could’ve handed that down to your sister.”

“She can wear her own dresses,” I mumble.

“How’s my girl!” My grandfather’s voice echoes through the kitchen. He always announces his entrances, almost always.

“Hi, Dad.” My mother leans forward and pecks him on the cheek.

“Grandpa, Diana made a new shirt.”

“Did she?” He smiles and ruffles my sister’s bowl-cut.

He reaches over, pulling me to him in a close hug. I stiffen and stifle a gag at the stench of his smoke-saturated clothes and hair. Even his flesh seems to exude tobacco. I squirm in his arms as a tight knot forms in my gut. He holds me a second too long before pushing me back and placing a wet kiss on my forehead.

“You’re a pretty girl, Diana.”

I stare up at him blankly.

“Isn’t she growing up to be a beautiful girl, Gale?”

“She’d be a lot prettier if she wore shirts without holes in them and pants that fit,” my mother replies.

My sister reaches up to him, balancing on the balls of her feet.

“What about me?”

He leans down towards her and I grip the counter behind me.

“You’re growing just like a weed,” he says.

“Hey!” She shoves him impatiently. He takes her in his arms. I close my eyes and try not to bite my hand.

“You’re going to be pretty, just like your sister.”

I am squeezing my thighs together hard enough to crack rock and bone. I tense every muscle trying to fold inside myself. My breathing quickens and I bring my hand to my mouth.

My grandfather takes my sisters smooth pink hand in his large fingers.

“You want to jump on the big bed upstairs?”

“Can I, Mommy?” she asks.

The ends of my fingers tingle as I bite down. I want to crawl out of my own skin. I want to vomit until I am empty, hollowed out.

…My face hits the floor with a hollow slap…

“I don’t see why not,” mother says.

I breathe hurriedly through my nose, pinching the skin on the back of my hand between my teeth. Pressure expands in my chest. I bite down harder. The straw is collapsing now. I bite down harder. I can’t breathe. I bite down and my mouth fills with the taste of copper. It trickles down my chin. I can’t breathe. It runs down my neck, little red pools settle above my collar bones.

“Diana, stop!”

I still can’t breathe.

My sister begins to cry.

I still can’t breathe.

The blood runs down my chest, seeping into my little yellow sundress.

See, good as new.