The Story of Her Holding an Orange Read Free Page B

routine for weeks. Three days before the end of the camp, my roommate was injured in practice and his parents came and took him home, so I had a whole room to myself. I didn’t mind this at all since I had to study and I enjoyed peace and quiet. 
    The last day of camp, I decided to take a break from both studying and working out. My hotel was only a ten-minute walk from the beach, so I spent the whole day laying in the sun and swimming. I got back to my room, took a shower, and collapsed in bed, exhausted. You know how sometimes when you’re too tired, you can’t sleep? Well, after a good hour of turning and flipping in bed, I decided to go out to the balcony and get some fresh air. I opened the door and sat on one of the chairs. The view overlooking the ocean was beautiful, and I started getting sleepy again.
    “It is really time to take it now.”
    I nearly shat myself. I mean, it’d been a while since I’d heard that voice, but something like that stays with you forever. That childish, mechanical tone. I turned to the right. Rose was standing on the balcony rail. Mind you, she wasn’t sitting at the balcony table nor was she standing in a natural position; no, she was standing on the balcony rail. This probably wouldn’t be as shocking if the floor we were on wasn’t some fifty feet above the ground. To make things more absurd, she was holding an orange.
    Try to imagine it. Go ahead, just try for a second. You’re alone in your hotel room. You walk outside on the balcony at maybe 4am. Suddenly, you hear a child’s voice say something to you. You look to your right and see a grown woman standing on the rail of a third floor balcony, holding an orange, telling you that it is “time to take it.”
    Two different kinds of fear overcame my suddenly sobered up mind. First, I was obviously afraid of this fucking lunatic standing on the balcony next to me. Second, I was terrified that she may try to jump. Only a few feet separated our balconies, and such a jump would be entirely possible, but if she didn’t make it, I was afraid I’d somehow be blamed for it. I had no idea what to do.
    “It really is time, you know. That’s the only way to transfer,” she whispered in that goddamn child-like voice without ever opening the teeth that looked even whiter in the dark of night. I remember the orange looked dark, almost rotten, and certainly not as “orange” as the first time she took it out. 
    “What the fuck do you want from me?!” I screamed at her. I screamed because of all the frustration that had been building up since the day she started the orange horror. I screamed because I wanted someone to hear and come to witness the madness this woman was putting me through.
    “I only want you to take it,” she said, widening her grin to nearly inhuman proportions. Her teeth remained clenched, and her head tilted to the left.
    “Fuck you, you crazy bitch,” I said after realizing that no witnesses were going to show up this late at night. I opened the door and walked into my room. As I shut the door, I heard, “You will take it,” from the outside. I spent the rest of the night keeping an eye on the terrace, but she never came. I wasn’t brave enough to check if she was still standing on the fence of the neighboring balcony. Morning couldn’t have come soon enough. Right as the first sunrays hit my window, I carried my bag out to the reception desk and waited for my father to pick me up. I decided not to say anything about this incident because I was sure I would, yet again, be blamed for an over-active imagination. 
    I was leaving the continent in a day. The night before the trip, my mom made me call my grandmother in Bosnia and say goodbye to her. We talked for a long time, and she gave me all the pieces of advice you’d expect your grandma to give. Her instructions ranged from “Americans are crazy, be careful” to “find a good girl and get married so I can see my great-grandkids before I die.”