Eileen

by Ottessa Moshfegh

I often felt there was something wired weird in my brain, a problem so complicated only a lobotomy could solve it—I’d

That is what I imagined life to be—one long sentence of waiting out the clock.

I did not like to sweat in front of other people. Such proof of carnality I found lewd, disgusting.

Knowledge of anything current or faddish made me feel I was just a victim of isolation. If I avoided all that on purpose, I could believe I was in control.

Looking at my reflection really did soothe me, though I hated my face with a passion. Such is the life of the self-obsessed.

Being as young as I was, I was terribly sensitive, and determined never to show it.

At some point I got an itch in my underwear, and since there was nobody to see me, I stuck my hand up my skirt to get at it. As swaddled as they were, my nether regions were difficult to scratch. So I had to dig my hand down the front of my skirt, under the girdle, inside the underwear, and when the itch had been relieved, I pulled my fingers out and smelled them. It’s a natural curiosity, I think, to smell one’s fingers. Later, when the day was done, these were the fingers I extended, still unwashed, to Dr. Frye when I wished him a happy retirement on his way out the door.

was susceptible to bad breath, or that there were any organic processes occurring inside my body at all. Having to breathe was an embarrassment in itself. This was the kind of girl I was.

I think James must have had brain damage or some sort of nervous condition. He was always agitated, sweated constantly, and seemed utterly uncomfortable in anyone’s company.

Nowadays I often have to leave a room or walk away when a person near to me smells bad. I don’t mean the smell of sweat and dirt, but a kind of artificial, caustic smell, usually from people who disguise themselves in creams and perfumes.

I was not fundamentally unattractive. I was just invisible.

I’d mourn the lack of love and warmth in my life, wish upon stars for angels to come and pluck me from my misery and plunk me down into a whole new life, like in the movies.

Growing up, I learned I’d be praised and rewarded for my suffering, for my strong efforts to be good, but every year God smote me.

You can always tell something when a woman is overdressed—either she’s an outsider, or she’s insane.

What if she could smell that I was menstruating, and that I hadn’t washed? What if she smelled it clear as day but didn’t say anything? How, then, would I know whether or not she’d smelled it, and how ought I act to pretend I didn’t know Rebecca smelled it?