They don’t know my name. Thank god. If they knew my name, they’d curse it, they’d turn it into meat scrap. The stories have to keep changing. And the characters. Or they will find us. I realize I am blaming them, but am I really the one to blame? Will they only keep up their stalking if I am talking about them? Is my voice their actions? Would my silence become their death-knell? No. And again. no. I have tried silence, and still they come. I could feel them behind the walls, and beneath my eyelids, pressing. Could spot them as obscene bulges in shadows. Those shadows that are just a little fatter, a little more well-fed … that is them.
If I transform my sisters and me into a trio of brothers, would that make a difference? Would my body still be bought, and if so who would the buyers be? Would the consumers of girl-body also be the consumers of boy-body? What if I spent a long and intense period of concentration creating a remote outpost where my sisters and me, my brothers and me could go and live? If my imagination were that powerful, would we win? Would we be safe? How arctic must one become to know safety? Is safety in none better than safety in numbers?
I made a list of questions to ask myself when I was alone, truly alone. They are:
- What happened to eye contact?
- Why have the children grown so old quickly?
- Is a new species of language possible?
- Where does all the dead skin go?
John Biscello 