I’ve attached a recent photo and my social media information, so that you can get a better sense of who I am. Please let me know if we can set up an interview.
All the best,
Kassenia Bennett.
P.S. As far as Eastern-European descent goes, I’m half Croatian on my mother’s side and speak Croatian and Russian quite fluently. Just thought I’d let you know!
“Looks good to me,” Kelly says, reading over my shoulder.
“Should I send it?” I ask nervously.
“If you don’t, I will,” she says.
I slowly drag the cursor across the screen and finally hit “send.”
“It’s out of my hands now!” I sigh.
“That’s right!” Kelly grins, offering me a glass, “Let’s drink to your whirlwind adventure to come!”
“We can’t toast to that yet,” I laugh, “We still don’t even know if it’s real. Or if I’m going to get an interview, much less the job.”
“No,” Kelly says, shaking her head, “This internship is yours. I can feel it. Remember, I said that something big was coming your way? I think this is it, Kassenia. I really do.”
“Whatever you say, Kel,” I smile, taking a sip of booze.
“Now that you’ve got the ball rolling on your future success, will you please come out with me?” she asks, producing a slender joint from her purse.
“I think I’ve just been persuaded,” I smile.
We share the modest joint, nursing our drinks and talking excitedly about the job. The more we go on about it, the more I hope to God that it isn’t just a dead end. I need something huge to shake up my life, to start me off on a new chapter of this existence. Lord knows, these last few chapters have been less-than-ideal.
Hand in hand, Kelly and I head out into the warm June night. For the first time in weeks, my heart feels just a little bit hopeful. It seems like there’s something to look forward to again. Is all this just because of some Craigslist ad?
The night passes in mellow, contented waves. We find ourselves a little club off campus where a Bossa Nova band is playing for the night. We sway and swivel to the loose, sexy music, enjoying our easy high and each other’s company. By the end of the night, I’m actually feeling happy. Comfortable. I almost don’t know what to do with it. I pour myself into bed just before the sun comes up, looking forward to peaceful, slightly-stoned dreams.
But unfortunately, that’s not what I get.
The second my slumbering mind is let off its leash, it drags me back to the dark, familiar nightmares I’ve come to know so well. But in the moment, of course, they feel as real as anything. I cower before my own visions, wishing that I knew how to wake myself up again. All of the fear, the resentment, the rage that I keep bottled up inside of me comes spilling through every corner of my mind as I sleep.
In my dream, I’m back at my parents’ house in Fairfield, standing on the usually lush green lawn. But the grass beneath my feet is black, burned. Dead and crumbling. I make my way toward the house, wincing as the tiny stalks break beneath my feet like bones. I know exactly what I’ll find inside, but I can’t keep from moving forward. A wretched smell billows out from the open front door, suffocating me. And against every bit of will I have, I find myself walking into the house once more.
“Mom?” I call, “Rosie? Where are you?”
I know the answer, of course. But every time I hope for a different ending. I search the ground floor, noting the caked, dirty dishes in the sink, the TV that’s still playing some muted tacky sitcom. Everything is still. Everything is silent. And I know what has to happen next.
With my heart in my throat, I start to climb the stairs, past dozens of school pictures featuring me and my sister. In the most recent photo, Rosalie is only sixteen years old. I wonder what she would have looked like at twenty-one? Forty? Ninety? But of course, I’ll never know. Because the only way I’ll ever be able to picture her again is in this next moment.
I pad down the hallway toward Rosie’s room, ghostly tears streaming down my cheeks already. I don’t want to look. I can’t stand to. But I don’t have a choice. I nudge open her bedroom door, looking around at all of her things. A half-finished self portrait sits on her easel, by the bay window. Volumes of poetry and dozens of journals litter her writing desk. And there, on the far side of the room, is her wrought iron daybed.
“Rosie?” I whisper, edging forward, “Rosie, please be awake—”
My sister lays on her side, facing the wall. Her raven hair is splayed gorgeously across her pillow. I look desperately for the rise and fall of her sleeping breath, but she is perfectly, irrevocably still. Fingers trembling, I reach for her. I lay my hand on her slender shoulder, pulling it away at once as if burned. My disturbance nudges her just enough, and she shifts just a hair, rolling onto her back. My eyes fall on that face I know as well as my own—
And it’s my own shrieking wails that tear me out of sleep, back into the real world. I’m back in my Berkeley apartment, my face wet with tears. I sit bolt upright in my lonely little bed, throwing my arms around my knees and weeping with abandon. Damn it—I honestly thought that I was over these nightmares. Isn’t four years long enough to be terrorized by these demons every time I close my eyes?
I cradle my head in my hands, willing those images to flee from my mind. The craziest thing is, I wasn’t even there the night my family died. Never saw my sister, lifeless in her bed. I was away at UCONN, probably slaving over some stupid paper. But imagining what it must have been like is enough to haunt my dreams. And every time I dream of them like that, all I can think is that I should have been there with them.
I should have been there with them.
I manage to pull myself out of bed, shaking off the nightmare as I have countless times before. After all these years, I’ve learned how to live with my grief. The only thing to do is wake up each morning and keep on living. If not for me, then for the family I lost.
CHAPTER FOUR
Before I know it, two days have passed. Time has been working strangely in my life, lately. The minutes crawl by, but the days themselves fly. I check my email inbox like a woman possessed, waiting for some word from my Craigslist venture capitalist. That strange ad set off a flare of hope inside of me, but it’s fading away with every hour that goes by. After two days, it’s all but extinguished. I should have known better than to get my hopes up. When has anything ever worked out for me, after all?