Fiction: Cleo Nobody

By Dmitriy Kogan

 

She was fifteen and had no place in the world. Neglected at home, neglected at school, she was nowhere.

Born Cleopatra Normandy on January 10, 2011, she was referred to as ‘Cleo Nobody’ by her classmates and teachers.

 

——

 

She accepted that she might be a virgin for the rest of her life. She was not ugly, but no guy ever dreamed of asking her out. She was too weird. She did not smell bad, but she looked like she did. Her long, unkempt hair was always greasy. She wore glasses, too, and her eyes seemed to always be looking at you no matter where she looked—just like the Mona Lisa. This creeped guys out. She heard one guy in her history class, Tom, say, “I can’t ever imagine myself getting hard next to Cleo Nobody.” 

She overheard two other guys in the class:

“Any girl can get fucked, she just needs to open her legs.”

“Except for Cleo Nobody, right? I bet you when she opens her legs, bats fly outta her pussy.”

 

——

 

She drew weird stuff in the back of the class and wrote short stories. One of her short stories, ‘Suicide Bitch,’ fell to the floor and her history teacher, Mr. Abrams, discovered it. He immediately sent her to the guidance counselor’s office after reading it.

The guidance counselor, Ms. Harris, talked to Cleo before. This time she asked the same question: 

“Is everything alright at home?” 

“Yeah,” said Cleo.

“I’m concerned because the girl kills herself at the end of this story.” 

“Don’t be, it’s just fiction.”

 

——

 

Cleo ate dinner with her family. Her younger brother, Joey, was on the basketball team. Her dad was talking about it at dinner.

“I got sent to the guidance counselor today for writing a story about a suicidal girl,” said Cleo.

Her dad grimaced. “Why would you do that?”

“I’m just trying to be creative and they have a problem with it.”

“Can you be creative and not upset people?” asked Cleo’s mom.

 

——

 

Cleo laid in her room listening to The Cure and thought seriously about ending her life. But she thought even if she did, she couldn’t imagine how she’d do it. She could jump off a building, sure. But she lived in a small town so she’d have to travel for that. Could overdose on pills, but if she failed, she’d just end up getting her stomach pumped. Could stab herself, but she feared sharp objects. A gun would be ideal.

Then she stopped thinking these thoughts and realized, fine, if I’m a freak, a genetic abomination who has no place in the world, I’ll continue walking the world as a freak—a curse, a reminder of God’s failure. We’re all dead in the long run anyway. Might as well spend the next eighty years of my life haunting people.

Dmitriy Kogan is a writer and editor from New York City. He runs serious-lit and serious-lit press. His work has been in BULL, Hobart, Farewell Transmission, Some Words, The Gorko Gazette, Literary Garage, and A Thin Slice of Anxiety. His first chapbook, Scotty Plays Guitar, will be out shortly.