u/bitesized778

I tried to like Backrooms. I did research on it! Here are my thoughts.

"Social media defines liminal space much more differently than how I originally understood it. For those of you who don't know, the inception of Backrooms all began on a website called 4chan where someone asked for a picture of a room that felt nostalgic but creepy. In response, someone posted a picture of an old, abandoned basement/office space, the one that we see in the movie as well, with the dull yellow walls and carpeted floors. This led to a whole discussion on liminal space, which I feel more closely relates to the definition of the word "uncanny". It is about a space that feels uncomfortable, nostalgic but unsettling."

READ IT ALL HERE

Stella is a beast. A monster in size.

That's what the sports commentator says. The university magazine calls Stella "Goliath stampeding down the field."

"Look at her go!" Yells the commentator into the mic.

Stella runs at a thunderous full speed, tackling the poor line of defence. It would have been a comical sight had I not been next. Coach sizes me with two wide, urgent eyes. Don't pick me. Don't pick me. Don't pick me.

"Marrero, you're up," Coach waves his arm over his shoulder to get me to go faster.

I pull off my sweater and jog over to the field. In my periphery, Dana, the poor defence is pulled off on a stretcher.

Stella the tank.

She stands there in her ill-fitted shorts and jersey, unbothered as the girls keep a wide berth around her. The referee pulls out a yellow card. Stella spits into the grass, a big, white gooey wad of saliva. It just sits there, somewhat resembling an alien. Or a tumour.

The game continues with a free kick.

I don't know who takes the kick. My focus is on Stella, the sheer presence of her.

Her largeness is my whole entire world.

I breathe in, trying to calm my nerves, but her attention sits on me like a rock. She knows I'm an easy target. I'm even smaller than Dana. And Dana flew from the impact before she landed and cracked her skull.

The cleat kicking the ball sounds like my head slamming the ground. Stella's heavy-trodden foot. I gulp. Stella thunders forward.

---

Stella cradles a bloodied nose. Her head tilts back and the sunlight splatters just over her collarbones and I think back to the thud thud thud of her gigantic shoes, to the flare of her nose, the tunnel vision blatant in her eyes as she first zeroed in on me–

Her coach is screaming at her, both concerned and enraged by the transpiring events. The ref whistles for our attention, and the rest of the girls run back into position. I twist the tip of my shoe into the ground.

Why didn't she do it? What was the shift? The sudden hesitation when she met my eyes, a moment of recognition, a tear in her hyperfixation because she paused and then turned. She could have tackled me. The opportunity was wide open. It would've been the best call. But she didn't. Instead, she veered, and I got the ball.

To say I was surprised would be a huge understatement. Instincts took over and I dribbled past Stella and her red, bulbous cheeks and sweat-stained jersey, past the forward right to the defense line. All without a plan. When the defense honed in on me, I passed the ball over to Rachel, the striker, and she gracefully scored. The goalkeeper didn't even have the chance to blink before my team started celebrating. It was our first goal against Stella's team and we were in the second half of the game. This moment was monumental. But my mind was on Stella.

Huffing and puffing Stella, who stood a few metres behind me.

Who watched stoically from behind the midfield as my team engulfed me.

Through the space between entangled arms and legs, I could see her, wiping the sweat off her face. It struck me then, that the rest of her team were mourning together and she was completely alone.

Ten minutes till the end of the game, Stella gets mad.

The moment is innocuous. I'm head to head with their midfielder when their defense lunges towards me.

"Oh! Look at that! Stella the beast is down! What is she doing, missing a shot like that? Coach looks unhappy. Jenny passes the ball over to Amanda and oh! What a shot! A clean sweep! Seems like the Titans might just be back on track and heading their way into finals!"

Stella adjusts her position to keep the blood from staining her jersey. Her coach is still yelling. There is a strength to her, a palpable, unmoving rigidness, an unyielding sharpness to her silence. She bears the pain.

The coach urges her to get back on the field the moment the blood dries on her face. She obeys, running back to face me. The defense she tackled, on the other hand, stays on the bench because of her busted knee.

"Thank you," I whisper hoarsely, keeping my eyes on the ground.

She peers over her bruised nose, surprised perhaps by the sound of my voice. We'd never spoken before then. Never exchanged even a hello.

"You're too frail," her voice sounds slightly muffled. Still, there is a deep, scraping gravel to it, one that makes me shiver from deep inside. She smirks, her eyes teasing, "She'd have knocked you out cold."

My cheeks heat up. How was it that her hand slid down to my waist, gently moving me out of the way? The way she lunged forward to cover me with her own body– the earth-shattering collision as Stella's teammate drove straight into her.

I give her a look: "I was fine. I can handle myself."

At that, Stella chuckles.

"Sure."

"I can!" I straighten up, indignant.

Her eyes soften. She slips into a laugh. My breath hitches in my throat. She's beautiful, I think. A clean and simple fact. Parts of her form rolls and waves and the softness reminds me a little bit of summer. I clear my throat and look away.

"Next time play for your own team," I say, my voice a lot darker than I intended.

She bristles at my tone but doesn't say a word. What is it that plays on her face? She's been here before. Her guard goes up and it feels like a block of ice. She gets back into position, effectively shutting me out.

The whistle blows.

---

Yellow cards are pulled out like hair.

The referee is losing her mind. So is Stella, who has been the major target of these call-outs.

She looms over the ref, yelling back this time. The ref shoves her back.

"Did you hear what she said?" Stella screams, pointing at Jenny who's glaring back at her, "I belong on this team just as much as you, bitch! I'm–"

At her words, the ref blows the whistle and gives her a stern warning.

"What did Jenny say?" I ask to Rachel as she runs up to me.

"Called her a man," Rachel snickers.

"What? Why?"

"You haven't heard the rumours?" Rachel gives me a keen look, "I mean look at her."

Stella towered over all the girls. She wore her hair in two tight braids. Her jaw was wide and sturdy. Her shoulders broad, body almost shapeless and squared.

"I mean, she's a tank, for sure, but male? I think that's a stretch, don't you?" I mutter to Rachel.

A part of me means it. A part of me is desperate for Rachel to agree with it.

"Might be a good thing she gets sent off. At least we get a winning chance," Rachel shrugs.

Of course, I nod like I agree.

There is a staticky hollowness in the space between my ears. It makes my head feel light and airy. Somewhere in my periphery, Jenny shakes off her nerves. My breaths echo painfully.

Where is she? I scan the field but all of the faces blur into one.

The ref blows his whistle.

Our team takes the ball. I settle into position, pressuring my opponent. The ball reaches me, I lunge.

The game continues, head-to-head. I don't see Stella.

The first goal goes to our team. I glance over to the bench. Maybe they've sat her out?

Nothing.

The ref calls for a switch.

"Did they take her off?" I ask Rachel.

"Who?"

Before I can answer, the ground beneath us trembles. A smile oozes onto my face.

"Miss me?"

I'm shocked at the lightheartedness of her voice. My eyes snap up towards her and she's grinning devilish and wild despite her swollen, clearly broken nose.

There is an unkemptness to her, like wild grass, a lack of regard for everything around her. Already, I can tell she's not focused.

The ref blows his whistle again. Stella smiles deeply, revealing two dimples on either of her cheeks. The sight is confusingly dazzling. A deep, twisting sensation climbs up my stomach and settles. I look away, suddenly unable to look her in the eye.

She keeps me covered the entirety of the game. The ball never touches us. We stay like that, me entirely eclipsed and always closed. The rest of the game occurs beyond her; I watch from over my shoulder, struggling to get away.

I find a small opening and dodge past her but she sidesteps past me easily.

"Can you stop!" I yell frustrated and she yells that delicate, gravelly laugh that makes my insides melt.

"Aw, you don't really want that, do you?" She's all jokes and unseriousness today.

Out of pure frustration and spite, I shove her. She's not expecting it, so she trips and falls. I run off without looking back. The ref chases after me, yellow card in hand, but Jenny's got my back. She starts yelling at the ref about the unfairness of it all.

"How is that even allowed to play? He's on the wrong team!"

"That's it!" The ref hands her a red.

But it's too late. Stella's face shatters. She doesn't even say a word. She just walks off.

---

The walk back to my hotel room is devastating. Our win feels unwarranted. It sits heavy on my hanging shoulders. Stella never came back.

"Why'd you say it?" I asked Jenny under my breath as we walked back to the locker rooms, but of course, what else could she say other than, "I was defending you."

I'm not paying attention, so I don't see the lineup for the elevators. Nor do I notice Stella at the end of the line, until it's far too late, and by then, we are an entanglement of flailing legs and arms.

"Sorry," I mutter stepping away, shocked at how deeply my cheeks were burning, how much I wanted to stay leaning close to her.

She created a wide berth between us. She didn't speak a word.

Somehow, by the time the elevators finally free up, it's just the two of us. We step inside. I fidget nervously.

"It was a good game," I smile awkwardly.

The words sit like silt. I cringe.

"God, I'm so sorry, I didn't mean... I wasn't thinking... It was just so..." I falter over my words.

Despite herself, Stella bursts into a fit of laughter.

"Chill, Marrero," she rolls her eyes. The door opens up on her floor. We both stare into the hallway. Stella steps out before she turns back, "I've heard much worse."

Impulsively, I grab her wrist without thinking. The door panics at the unexpected obstruction. I press the doors open button firmly when the elevator starts to beep. Again, Stella chuckles. She steps back inside.

"What everyone's been saying... I want you to know that I don't believe it, and that I'm sorry."

"Okay." Stella's eyes are hard and distant.

She leans against the elevator wall. Crosses her arms.

"Is that it?"

I look down at my finger against the dim-lit button. At her pale white shoes and then up to her calves, where I notice a shallow scar marking her otherwise smooth skin. To her criss-crossed arms and the way that the muscles bulge at just the right spot and in the moment she looks like a marble sculpted goddess, with her hair loose and hanging down to her shoulders and maybe in some other life, I might have admitted exactly what it is that I was feeling, that I've thought about her ever since we first played, the way her hand touched my waist when she pushed me out of the way, that I've followed her whole career, watched every interview, seen her interact and laugh and that I might be small in stature, but I'm strong, too, and if there was any world in which she'd let me, I'd become the wall against those horrible accusations.

As it is, I nervously add, "You're an incredible player. Those allegations should show you exactly how good you are."

Stella smirks and rolls her eyes, "I do."

The elevator beeps loudly, breaking the moment. Stella tears herself away from the wall and walks out. Her arm deliberately brushes mine as she does.

She doesn't turn around, but she does say, "Don't worry, Marrero, we'll play again."

And, we do.

This is a short story I wrote for the monthly writing challenge on peliplat.com! You can access the link on my profile (I go under the pseudonym SUNS -- IG: suns.778).

If you like this short story, check out the site and submit your own work for this months theme: Dinner Party From Hell.

STORY:

Out of the two of us, Matilda is, by far, the most unpredictable of the family. This is not a critique or slam on my sister. It's a fact. Matilda, the fire starter, the thief, the kid years ago who started selling pirated DVDs at her high school for no reason at all other than the fact that she was bored, and she wanted money. Back in high school, my parents shook the misdemeanour, claiming it was just a phase redefining Matilda's strength: she wanted to prove her independence; an entrepreneur at heart, she was. The not-so-golden, eldest sibling.

Although Matilda quickly outgrew her criminal ways, it was just the beginning of her chaotic lifestyle. It all began with Gilbert, her grade-twelve beau, who was simply remembered for his lack of hygiene. To be fair, I barely remember Gilbert. He came and went with the wind, but he left a definitive stink in his wake, one that Matilda had seemingly absorbed over their two-week romp and now exuded. It took her a solid year to return to normal; a full week before she finally showered, and even then that smell persisted. Until she met Mick, in undergrad. On the surface, Mick was much cleaner. Admittedly, he had greasy hair, but he also had the decency to wear deodorant and perfume to cover things up. The only considerably unforgiveable trait that Mick had was the gross habit of grabbing his feet whenever he sat down. That, and also being a two-timing liar. For some reason, the foot-grabbing thing was so much worse for me (not for Matilda). Barefoot or socked, his hands always managed to find a way between his toes as he talked, and for whatever reason, soon Matilda took on the habit as her own.

We learned the lesson quickly with foot-gate. My mom tried to wean Matilda out of that bad habit as discreetly as she could. However, things went sideways fast. Doors were slammed. Matilda ran out of the house crying. She stayed with Mick for a week while my mom wailed about her failures before heading to bed. When Matilda came back, that habit lingered for ages. I think she still does it now.

So, over the years, as the men Matilda fraternized with got weirder, we became adept at skirting around the subject. At least, I thought so.

It was only a few days ago when our mother pulled me into the kitchen, disgust on her face, and said: "That new fella of hers, Lorne, has to go."

Of course, I nodded emphatically. He did. It was clear. He wasn't good. He changed Matilda for the worse and it was noticeable as hell. Like, last time we hung out, Matilda was second-guessing everything about herself. She thought she looked too fat. She couldn't make the basic decision of eating at home or going out. When I asked her what she wanted, she looked to her new man for an answer. Don't even get me started on how she's decided that our mutual passion for The Clockwork Angel trilogy is lame now.

And my dad added: "Lorne, what in the hell kind of a name is Lorne?"

And, I nodded because it was true, what the hell kind of name is Lorne?

But I thought we were just ranting. Taking things off our chest because it'd been about two weeks since she started seeing him and we met him once, which was enough. He was mean, okay? He was needlessly judgy and rude and he called me a geek for liking Avatar: The Last Airbender, so yes, I was peeved. I didn't think I was agreeing to anything, definitely not an intervention of all things seeing that Matilda and I were already on thin ice from last time, but apparently my parents had different plans.

It all starts over the passing of peas. Mom is flustered because Lorne is here and that means Matilda is going to be meaner than usual. She is dumping a plateful of peas on her daughter's plate when Lorne, Matilda's new boyfriend, offhandedly mentions: "The chicken is a tad on the dryer side."

He plays with his bite as he speaks, using his fork to turn the limp piece of chicken over on his plate.

He had that nonchalant expression that most assholes do. The kind that is hard to pin blame on just because of how innocuous the sentiment is. Matilda doesn't seem to mind, at the very least. She doesn't even seem to notice the sudden tension in the room when mom sighs and takes the bowl of peas with her back into the kitchen, claiming that she had a cake to check on in the oven. And, so, I, her other daughter, am left with a mere piece of chicken on my plate and no peas.

And stupid Lorne just chews on a piece of lettuce like some half-tranquilized cow with his tongue all droopy and eyes red.

So then our father pipes up, staring at his beloved eldest daughter and says, "Your mom worked really hard on making dinner, you know?"

"I know," said Matilda, still completely unaware of the conflict that is transpiring in front of her.

I grab the wine and pour until my glass is full.

"You know, she spent the whole day yesterday in the kitchen, working on that chicken," he continued. His voice gets louder. He starts to emphasize random words, waiting for Matilda to catch on. Still, Matilda takes no notice.

"Yes, it's good," she nods innocently, taking a bite.

"Tilly," sighs our father, clasping his hands together. Oh boy, here it comes. I take a big swig. The alcohol burns on the way down but it is nicer than the next few words that come out of our father's mouth, "I think we need to have a discussion."

Fuck. Okay, so this is happening. Matilda looks up from her plate slowly. She forms a loose fist around her knife. I take another dark, red swig.

I'm thinking, we're in for a shit show. She did the same thing when I called Lorne an insecure little bitch with masculinity issues after he made fun of me. First, her hands turned to fists. She always does that when she's upset. I told her, "I'm kidding, but seriously, he's a little bitch"– not the smartest move because she didn't find it funny at all. She left that day. Just stormed out after declaring that she never wanted to talk to me again. And I screamed at her, "And fuck you, too!"

Not my finest moment, but at least she showed up to dinner today.

Anyways– I chug my first glass– mom sucks for pulling this.

"It's about... the company you keep," our father speaks carefully, trying not to look directly at Lorne.

To Lorne's credit, he politely continues picking at the veggies and chicken.

Dumbass, I think harshly. He knows Matilda's there for the rescue. He doesn't need to do anything.

"What?" Matilda chews open-mouthed. I refill. I take another swig.

"The company you... keep... defines who you become. People can judge you for it, you know?" Our father tilts his head obviously at Lorne, begging her to get on the same page. Matilda resolutely plays innocent, scrunching her eyebrows together, daring my father to say it.

I'm thinking of ways we could end this now. Maybe a knife to the eye. It would feel less painful than whatever this is. Lorne grabs Matilda's hand over the table. To stop her? Restrain her? Comfort her? I can't tell but her shoulders noticeably relax at the touch.

Just then our mother walks back in with oven mitts on, ears perked and ready. I wonder how long she's been listening in for. She plops herself down. I wonder what happened to the cake. Or the peas. Compared to everyone else's plates, mine is nearly empty and it is way too late to do anything about it. I help myself to another drink.

"Your mother is a big part of who you are, and who you bring in can't only be compatible with you, you know?" Dad continues, now on a roll. He moves his burly hands in a circle as he talks about compatibility.

"What are you talking about? You literally told us how Nana hated mom," Matilda rolls her eyes.

"That's different," our mother snaps, "and she didn't hate me. She just... didn't know me."

"Okay, cool." The room falls silent. Matilda spears a carmelized carrot and pops it in her mouth. Lorne keeps his head down.

My mother looks at me. I keep my eyes on the chicken.

"It's just that," our mother hedges, "when you come over for dinner and see that someone has cooked a whole meal for you, the only polite thing to do is eat the food given because you know how much labour she'd put into it–"

"Oh my god," Matilda releases her cutlery so that it clatters loudly on the table, "Is all of this because he said the chicken was dry?"

"I was just joking–" Lorne tries to say, but everyone ignores him.

"Liar," I mutter under my breath, downing my drink.

"So, you heard him say it?" Our mother raises an eyebrow.

"Of course, I heard him say it! Why are you making such a big deal–"

"Well," our father interrupts, but Matilda jumps up in her chair, all red-faced.

"He's literally eating it right now! Look!" All of us turn to face him. Lorne's face turns bright red; he forces another bite of chicken down. Matilda scoffs, "Who's judging now?"

"We aren't judging," begins Dad, all plaintive now. The world is spinning slightly now, which is a good sign. I take another swig, "We just want what's best for you, sweetheart."

"Best for me?" Matilda yells, a little louder than what is necessary for the occasion, in my opinion, "What's best for me is having supportive parents who accept the people I love."

Woah, I take another big gulp. That is a huge declaration. I'd never heard Matilda use that word for a guy in my life. My mother glares at me, waiting for me to speak up. I stare at the plate of veggies, stomach growling. I could stand up and grab it, but it'd draw too much attention to me. Mom would definitely make me say something.

"Love?!" Now it is my father's turn to stand up, "What the hell has he done to deserve love? He couldn't even be bothered to help with the dishes last time!"

Out of most of the men Matilda hung out with, Lorne was probably the best. He was still an asshole, though. He was really good at putting people down without getting in trouble for it. Like when Matilda talked about her favourite book, Persuasion, one time and he scoffed, saying how those books are substanceless and require little to no thinking.

Maybe the real question nobody is willing to ask was why Matilda felt drawn to insecure assholes. Whatever the case, though, Lorne was right about one thing, I think as I chew on the scraps of food still on my plate, the chicken is a little dry.

"Yes! Love!" Declares Matilda, jutting her lower lip like she did when she was younger. Her eyes flash petulantly as she grabs Lorne's hand and holds it up. He grips his fork like his life depends on it, and as Matilda yells, the small piece of chicken on the single spear that had pierced through it, flies one way and then the other, "I love him!"

"You've only just met him!" Yells mom.

"So have you!" Screams Matilda through gritted teeth.

I take another swig, surprised to find my glass empty. Well, it makes sense because I am getting a little bit giggly now. Matilda's head snaps towards me.

"What's so funny?"

"Nothing," I hiccup, taking another sip. I glance at my mom, trying to change the subject, "Dinner's delicious."

At that, Matilda flings her lover's hand down. The fork goes crashing into the carpet, I'm sure, leaving an oily stain on the silk strands. I'm sure my mother's heart twists in fury, although she keeps shockingly quiet. I'm sure I make things ten times worse by bursting out in a fit of laughter. I can't help it. The moment is too tense, too dramatic to stay sane. And it hits me, what I just said. And, besides, the wine is delicious.

"Sit down," commands my mother in her scary-still voice, so effective that it instantly works on Matilda.

Matilda sits down.

"Mrs. Owens, the food is good. I didn't mean–"

"Oh, shut up Lorne. They don't deserve your apology."

"I was just trying to–"

"It's just that we want you to be with someone who is good for you," our mother interjects.

Lorne looks down again. I stare at the growing bald spot at the top of his head. A recessive crown pattern, I think. An inverted halo. Or a volcano because the top of his head is going red now, too. Any second and he was going to implode.

"June agrees with me, too," Mom adds, pointing at me.

Fuck. I look up, swaying slightly in my seat.

The betrayal that flashes in Matilda's eyes is heartbreaking. She doesn't have a word to say.

"June?" Mom urges.

I sigh and take a sip from my empty glass, and when I find it empty, I pour myself another drink.

"Spit it out," Matilda seethes, "Everyone's already said their part, so just do it."

"You just deserve better," I slur.

Matilda rolls her eyes.

"Right, and?" she challenges.

"And... he puts you down and makes you feel bad and you deserve better and we love you," I continue against my better judgment.

Matilda is ready to slap me, I can feel it.

"He doesn't," she declares, visibly shaking with anger, "He is supportive and friendly and–"

"He stares a lot," my dad piqued up. Everyone turned to look at him, "He just sits and stares and doesn't say anything sometimes and it makes me uncomfortable."

"I can't say anything to that..." Matilda drifts off, shoulders slumping.

"He made fun of your books," I add.

"I was talking about a stupid series anyways!" Matilda exclaims.

"It's the Clockwork series! We loved it!" My indignance overtakes me even though I hadn't touched those books in years.

"In high school!"

"He doesn't respect you!" I yell back.

"What the hell are you talking about?" Matilda throws her arms up. She grabs Lorne and forces him to his feet, "I'm done. I'm not going to listen to a drunk still living with her parents about who I can or cannot see. I love Lorne, okay. I love him."

"He still lives with his parents!" I throw my head back laughing, "You both live with his parents, how is that any better?"

"Hey–" Lorne opens his mouth.

"Shut up!" Matilda screams, cutting him off.

The fire alarms go off. My mother jumps up and runs to the kitchen again.

"I forgot the cake!"

"You are all fucking crazy!" Matilda yells over the sirens.

"Dinner was great," Lorne says to nobody in particular, as Matilda yanks him away. The front door slams shut.

"That went well, don't you think? Considering the circumstances?" My father asks me and, to be honest, I agree. It could have gone much worse.

END