She was riding the bus, imagining herself in a boat on a shiny lake, singing with the birds, when she first felt the woman trying to get out of her chest. She jerked upright, her hand at her sternum, and scanned her fellow passengers, sure they could see the commotion inside. No one paid her the slightest attention. The woman inside her chest grit her teeth, pushed against breastbone, determined to breakout. At home, she drank three glasses of red wine, stupefied the woman.

Days later, she remembered the long, blond wig she’d bought weeks back for her daughter, for the school play. Alone in the house, she placed the wig on her dark head and studied herself in the mirror, another person entirely. She smiled. She took to wearing bright red lipstick, hanging jewelry, and tight-fitting clothes, painted her nails the colors of the rainbow. She worked at the music store part-time, around her daughter’s schedule. Her boss applauded her new image. The regulars grinned, whooped. Soon, she stopped removing the wig and racy clothes before her husband and daughter returned home in the evenings.

Her husband complained they were the talk of the neighborhood, of their daughter’s school.

She mussed his hair. “Fame at last.”

He grabbed her wrist, tight.

Her daughter cried, said she couldn’t bring her friends around anymore.

She said, “Then they’re not real friends.”

When she bought the hot pink karaoke machine and spent almost all her time in front of the TV screen belting out songs, the microphone her umbilical cord, her husband pressed her to see a professional. Her daughter cried, raged. She sang throughout it all, informed them her mind was made up. She had to let her music out, something she’d always wanted to do.

She circled the classifieds in red pen, hoped to pick-up an evening gig or two.

“Grow up,” her husband said.

While she sang, the woman in her chest danced, spun and spun. She urged her husband and daughter to sing with her, to dance. They refused, and yelled at her for her looks, her singing, her lies. She had never felt more honest.

One morning in bed, her husband said he couldn’t look at her anymore, that her madness kept him awake at night.

His eyes wet, he said, “Remember when we were happy?”

She had never felt happier. He tried to remove her wig, her microphone from under her pillow, but she slapped at him.

Her daughter rushed into the room. “Please stop, Mommy, stop.”

She looked at her daughter and saw a bleeding wound, heard the gurgle of too much to bear. The woman inside her chest kicked, swung her arms, huffed like their faulty ceiling fan.

She lifted the wig off her head, rubbed off her lipstick with her forearm, and handed over her microphone.

Her daughter fell into her arms. “You’re back, Mommy, you’re back.”

The woman inside her chest shrieked, clawed.

Ethel Rohan has work forthcoming soon from Pindeldyboz, FRiGG, Night Train, and Pear Noir!