short story | April 23, 2022

A Floating Egg

by Adriana Beltrano

The stale air of the cramped bathroom was a respite from the pounding bass out on the dance floor, though a disgusting one. Neon strobe lights bombarded the dark, damp, cave which the club called a bathroom as Selene held the door open. The figures applying makeup, pissing, vomiting, dancing to their own music, turned to her to glare.  

Whatever. She needed to get away from the sweaty bumping bodies. The incessant dance music was creating a painful rhythm against her skull more than hyping her up to shake her ass. She just wanted a couple moments to herself, away from prying eyes, and then she would be back to it. Probably.  

But all the stalls were occupied. Another girl with her arms crossed stood slouched against the wall facing the toilets, watching. 

“How long have you been waiting?” Selene asked. 

“A fucking while. That,” she pointed, “bitch in particular has been in there over an hour, I’m sure.” 

Selene looked at the bitch in particular, or, her lower half, as her legs were crookedly sprawled out under the stall door. Her high heels stuck haphazardly to her feet, and Selene had a sudden primal urge to steal them, like Dorothy from the Wicked Witch of the East. She shook the feeling. 

“Um,” Selene said, and the waiting girl snapped her head towards her. “Do you think she’s, like, okay?” The waiting girl raised an eyebrow. “I mean, has anyone checked on her?” 

The girl hesitated. “I guess she’s okay.” She hardened her face again. “Why? Do you wanna check on her?” 

A sheen of sweat started to coat Selene’s brow and upper lip. “If she’s been hugging a disgusting toilet for the past hour, then yeah, I do.” 

The girl tightened her arms across her chest and looked down at the suspiciously stained concrete floor. “I didn’t think about it like that.” She scratched her elbow. “Okay, go check on her then. At the very least, I’ll get to piss faster.” 

Selene walked up to the stall and took a deep breath (but not too deep). She began to knock, but one swing of her fist, and the door cracked open. 

The girl behind her snorted. “She must’ve been so drunk she forgot to lock it.” 

Selene rolled her eyes and pushed it open. There she was, her Wicked Witch of the East, and she looked a fucking mess. Her long, black hair was splayed out over the rim of the toilet like a crown, or like a tentacled creature suckered onto something. Vomit, the consistency of egg salad, was strung throughout her stringy hair like mushy beads, and her hands lay on the toilet seat, encircling it all. She remained still. 

The waiting girl was peering over her shoulder like a parrot. “Ew. Get her ass up. Shake her shoulder or something.” 

Selene did as the waiting girl asked, but she didn’t move. If anything, she slouched further towards the ground. And her shoulder felt cold. 

Selene went still herself. “Maybe we should move her.” 

The waiting girl shot backwards towards the wall.  “Who the fuck is we?” 

Her commotion caused some of the other bathroom refugees to gravitate to the scene. 

“Will one of you help me move her? She’s been throwing up a lot.” 

Someone short and stout came over and grabbed the girl’s torso. “Pull her back by her shoulders with me, okay?”  

Selene’s clammy hands were again around the cold upper arms of the unconscious, and, for a moment, she hesitated, bracing herself. Her palm sweat seeped into the girl’s skin. Then, together, they pulled her off the toilet and set her back against the floor. 

Realization was instantaneous. 

Her face was wet, but not with clumpy vomit. With clear water. Her eyelids were open, as if they were looking in wonder at some far-away, distant thing, but they were not. They were cold and lifeless. 

The once-growing crowd had scampered out of the bathroom, whether to call for help or just to get the fuck out of there, Selene didn’t know. Even the waiting girl was gone, though that was no surprise. 

The girl looked like a beached mermaid prepped for experimentation under the dim fluorescent lights, and there was no denying that her hair fanned around her head looked like some otherworldly crown. It was hard to look at her still, silent face. 

So Selene turned to face the toilet instead, her final resting place, the last thing she had ever seen before she passed out and then slipped away into the water. She hoped that, in life, she wouldn’t have felt gross about this ending. It wasn’t her fault. We all fall asleep at inopportune times, Selene supposed. 

But that watery grave was not still. Miniature waves formed within that porcelain bowl, and something bobbed up and down on the surf. 

Was–was that an egg? Had she swallowed a hard-boiled egg whole, then regurgitated it? Upon closer inspection, it was not hard-boiled. 

It was raw, thinly encased in a fragile shell that was unbroken and the purest of whites. Too small to be a chicken egg, too flimsy. Perhaps it was from a turtle, or perhaps from another deeper, darker creature. It floated solemnly and all alone, in the little pool of water, in front of a dead girl in a filthy bathroom in an even filthier club. Selene found herself wishing the girl had drowned on a misty shore.

Adriana Beltrano is a student majoring in English and political science at the University of Florida. She enjoys creating offbeat stories and crocheting.