All the Things I Could’ve Done That Wouldn’t Have Been So Devastating

I could've died of strange lightning, bad wiring burning me to charcoal. Lightning jumps, so we both could've been united in ashes.

I could've screwed up the calculations, accidentally poured my coffee on the control panel, anything that would've kept the machine from firing.

I could've understood your real self before I pushed the button.

†

There were so many choices in the first moments after: stay still as a statue; convince myself it was a dream; take a breath and appreciate a new perspective for however long it lasted. I could've done anything.

You chose to roll over and crush the machine to powder. I chose to scream about how tiny everything was, because that was more comforting than acknowledging how huge we were.

Even then there was still time. I wanted to hold you tight in the rubble, to be giant girlfriends first and figure out the rest later.

I could've calmed myself down and hugged you close so you didn't stand up, didn't flatten half the parking lot under your titanic shoe, didn't see how far away the horizon was now.

I could've done something when you laughed and ran away.

†

The machine could've been made to not work on clothes; you'd have been too self-conscious to run off naked. I would have stayed in the rubble either way. Someone needed to explain why there'd been a laboratory here one second and two giant queer ladies the next.

I was too scared to chase you.

I could've admitted what you were capable of, before you showed everyone.

†

Last week, I still could’ve stopped you. Instead I lost focus. I escaped into a world that didn't have you in it. I don't know why I held my tears when you yelled at me, or why I called you a…self-centred bitch queen.

Maybe you wouldn't have hit me if I hadn't said that. Maybe you wouldn't have carried so much fury.

†

I didn't want to scare anyone else, so I was careful. I let them poke me and photograph me and stare open-mouthed at me. I scooped up the rubble and flooded the parking lot with tears. I thought you were scared too. I thought you'd come back. I believed in our love.

I could've gone to look for you instead. I could've found you before you found the city.

†

Fights are arguments where fists do the talking. I could've found the right words, talked you down, convinced you to hug me instead. To show me the woman I fell in love with instead of the fists that kept me from leaving you.

I could've convinced you to go to a therapist years ago. To work on your problems. To fill your craquelure with kindness. Isn't that what love is, to hold and to repair?

I did my best, but it wasn't enough. You laughed at me when I begged you to stop. You stepped on a house to see the look on my face. Neither of us knew if it was empty. I could've tried to stop you, but I froze, just like you knew I would. I let you know me too well.

I could've fought back earlier, when our apartment could still contain all your rage. I could've made you hurt when you were still willing to feel.

I could've kissed you with my fist—at least that would’ve only hurt the two of us.

†

I could've learned how to fight. You gave me enough reasons. Instead our argument stretched gracelessly as I failed to protect the city.

There were so many fields where we could have bit and struck and rolled. The earth would have forgiven us. I don't think the city ever will. Not after you kicked me into buildings and threw cars like stones. Cars with people in them one moment, and viscera the next.

I refused to give up. I refused to let you win. I couldn't. Not when I knew  giving up had never solved our problems before.

†

I could've given you mercy, even though you didn't deserve it. One last chance, a kiss and a whisper. Maybe it would've even worked.

I could've been more decisive, plunged that park's steel obelisk right into your eye, so that you died faster.

I could've held the tears that thundered like waterfalls and carried so much blood away.

†

I couldn't let you laugh like that again. So I made sure you never would.

© 2023 Phoebe Barton

About the Author

Phoebe Barton is a queer trans science fiction writer. Her short fiction has appeared in venues such as Analog, Lightspeed, and Kaleidotrope. A Nebula Award finalist and Aurora Award winner, she lives with her family, a robot, and many books in Hamilton, Ontario. Find her online at phoebebartonsf.com.