A child plays by the water. Dr. Frankenstein’s creature wants a friend. When he leaves, troubled and confused, the child lies broken and dead.
I broke a girl’s heart, once. I didn’t want to. Never again, I swore.
Another girl broke mine, so at least I knew how that felt. She meant no harm. I thought I might die.
Poe tried to capture horror. Helplessness in the face of evil. Lovecraft was obsessed with it. The nameless fear, buried in the earth, forgotten under Antarctic ice, gnawing behind the closed doors of Arkham, casting shadow over Innsmouth.
Treblinka is a sleepy town. Gardeners prayed for rain to rinse the ash from their tidy roses. The girls and ladies of Andersonville wove grief into hair wreaths and hung bunting for the jubilee when their boys and men in gray might come home. Sometimes the breeze brought bad air from the camp, and mothers sweetened their rooms with clove-studded quinces.
Nose to the grindstone, I always know what I should do. Study hard. Work hard. Pay the bills, mow the yard, shop for Christmas, flip the burgers, feed the puppies. Remember our anniversary. So that’s what I do.
I’m little, and bend forward to look down into the water, and hold my breath. I’m clutching a broken clam shell the size of my hand, and the afternoon is hot and sleepy and smells like salt and the cut grass staining my knees. Gulls scold me, but I don’t hear because of the wonder. Yesterday from this spot I looked down, down, to wet green sand with rocks moving on it, spike tails and hidden little legs, but today the water is up, up, and full of more jellyfish than the stars at night. Each swims like a dream, liquid glass and fairy fronds and somewhere there must be eyes looking up to me in their bright heaven. They dance together, swirls of glowing milky noodles. There might be a grownup watching me from the big white house but it feels like I’m alone with wonder. And horror. There’s a hole in the crowd, torn by the clamshell I dropped moments ago. I wanted to watch them dance aside, amused by its flashing twirling tumble into the dark deep. But the big ones are stately as clouds, and they don’t dance, and my shell tore their bodies as it fell. Now they are broken, fluttering, turned on their sides, while the helpless children swirl around them. Helpless and dying. I killed them. I feel sick. I put down the shell I’m holding.
I’m old, the backs of my hands look old, and tremble as I feel my face.
Fuck.
Fuck.
I am the monster.
I broke a girl’s heart, once. I didn’t want to. Never again, I swore.
Another girl broke mine, so at least I knew how that felt. She meant no harm. I thought I might die.
Poe tried to capture horror. Helplessness in the face of evil. Lovecraft was obsessed with it. The nameless fear, buried in the earth, forgotten under Antarctic ice, gnawing behind the closed doors of Arkham, casting shadow over Innsmouth.
Treblinka is a sleepy town. Gardeners prayed for rain to rinse the ash from their tidy roses. The girls and ladies of Andersonville wove grief into hair wreaths and hung bunting for the jubilee when their boys and men in gray might come home. Sometimes the breeze brought bad air from the camp, and mothers sweetened their rooms with clove-studded quinces.
Nose to the grindstone, I always know what I should do. Study hard. Work hard. Pay the bills, mow the yard, shop for Christmas, flip the burgers, feed the puppies. Remember our anniversary. So that’s what I do.
I’m little, and bend forward to look down into the water, and hold my breath. I’m clutching a broken clam shell the size of my hand, and the afternoon is hot and sleepy and smells like salt and the cut grass staining my knees. Gulls scold me, but I don’t hear because of the wonder. Yesterday from this spot I looked down, down, to wet green sand with rocks moving on it, spike tails and hidden little legs, but today the water is up, up, and full of more jellyfish than the stars at night. Each swims like a dream, liquid glass and fairy fronds and somewhere there must be eyes looking up to me in their bright heaven. They dance together, swirls of glowing milky noodles. There might be a grownup watching me from the big white house but it feels like I’m alone with wonder. And horror. There’s a hole in the crowd, torn by the clamshell I dropped moments ago. I wanted to watch them dance aside, amused by its flashing twirling tumble into the dark deep. But the big ones are stately as clouds, and they don’t dance, and my shell tore their bodies as it fell. Now they are broken, fluttering, turned on their sides, while the helpless children swirl around them. Helpless and dying. I killed them. I feel sick. I put down the shell I’m holding.
I’m old, the backs of my hands look old, and tremble as I feel my face.
Fuck.
Fuck.
I am the monster.
RSS Feed
