Friday, June 26, 2009
Thursday, June 25, 2009
Tuesday, June 23, 2009
Sunday, June 21, 2009
Saturday, June 20, 2009
Wednesday, June 17, 2009
Pushing the Needle Too Far
For the past three nights I have dreamt of being sewn into another woman’s skin.
While not precisely a friend, she’s hardly a stranger, and on occasion I have idly wondered what it would be like to be in her shoes. Yet sharing a skin with her is a bit beyond what I had imagined.
The needle that pierces her flesh is long, bright silver where it shines through the dark smears of blood. The thread that binds us together is thick and black, and we are held closed with large, clumsy x’s. This seems normal, right, somehow.
It is your hand that does the sewing.
You laugh when I tell you about my dream. I try to put it from my mind, but I can feel the phantom tugging of coarse, black thread, feel the pressure of her skin as it stretches over my elbows and ankles. I am just the slightest bit taller than she is.
I wonder if, in her dreams, she can feel me inside her, not quite fitting.
People who know us both joke nervously about how similar I am to her, how you must have a type. The half-empty bottle of perfume she left behind is the same scent I wear.
The dreams make my shadow heavier. I feel where it clings to the edges of my skin, sticky like spider silk. It tugs at the boundaries of my body, weighted down by someone else veiling herself in its tenebrous gauze.
On the fringes of sleep and waking, I hear other conversations. Hers. I feel the words on the inside of my mouth, nearly speak them.
You give me her favorite novel, something European and erudite. I do not see the point of this. You are here because I am not her, after all. But still, I look for her in the white spaces between the words, seek her among semicolons and adverbs.
The dreams continue. Every night you bind us together, slipping me inside of her, pulling the thread tight.
I wake to find blood pinpricked down the backs of my arms. I wash, and am surprised that the underlying skin is unbroken. Perhaps the blood is hers.
I wonder what she has been dreaming. I wonder if she wakes feeling as if there is a stranger inside of her skin, or with my breath in her lungs.
When I ask you what you dream, you do not answer. But you look at me as if you are measuring. As if I do not quite fit. And I feel my heart race in her chest.
The dream comes again. You have hollowed her out, and you slip me into what remains, smoothing her flesh over my bones like a glove. I fit so easily inside her.
I do not feel the pain, because it is her flesh that you pass the thin, silver needle through, her skin cross-hatched by ragged black x’s.
But there is pain when I wake. Dull, deep pain, and my skin bears stitches like those that close a rag doll. Blood has soaked the sheets, violent, wet scarlet. My pulse flutters and throbs against the bindings in my skin. I smell perfume through the pain, and it clouds my head until I cannot remember if it is hers or mine.
It doesn’t matter. You are sleeping, blood-splashed, next to me in the bed. On the bedside table, there are scissors, a spool of thick, black thread. Still stained from its employment, a long, sharp needle rests between them. I push it through your skin, blood, bone, heart.
I take up the scissors, and cut myself free.
Tuesday, June 16, 2009
Monday, June 15, 2009
Thursday, June 11, 2009
Wednesday, June 10, 2009
Tuesday, June 9, 2009
Sunday, June 7, 2009
The Patron Saint of Passageways
The angel stood in the doorway, the curve of his wings brushing the lintel. Had there been dust in that place, it would have sprinkled grey over the feathers that pressed on the edges of the boundary. But the dust was elsewhere, and the angel’s wings were as white as sun-blazed snow.
In his hand, the angel held a key. Rose had come to that place for the key. The key, and the multitude of doors that the angel, Ashriel, stood at the center of.
Rose bit her lip, hard, and tasted the salt-copper of her own blood. She didn’t speak, she just watched as the key in the angel’s hand shifted and changed. Now a rusted iron skeleton key, its finial a death’s head with a mouth shaped like a lock, now a house key with teeth worn from use, now a thin plastic rectangle, its mystery encoded in a magnetized strip.
One of the keys was hers.
One of the keys, and one of the doors.
In her pocket, in a small plastic bag with a zipper, the sort that she had used to pack her peanut butter and raspberry jelly sandwiches in when she was a child, Rose carried the dust of her life. It hadn’t been as much as she had expected, not nearly, but then she wasn’t sure how such things were calculated.
She clenched her hand around the bag, worrying at it gently, feeling her history shift and reshape itself under her hand. Rose watched the angel’s face, hoping for some sort of sign, some way to know when it was time to hand her life over to him. But there was no alteration in the expression of calm compassion that he wore. He looked upon her that way when she stumbled out of her life and through the door that brought her here, and he would bend that same look upon the next person who would stand in this endless passageway.
The key in the angel’s hand continued to change shape. Now a switchblade key, now the simple bit of metal that would open a young girl’s diary.
None, yet, were hers.
Rose knew what would happen. She would pull her life from her pocket, and exchange it for a key. A key that would open a door and offer a choice. That was all. An exchange. A life for a key.
Hand still in her pocket, holding the weight of her past, Rose turned away from the angel to look at the infinite doors. As many closed on her past as opened on her future, and that was something to consider as well. She could select a key that would allow her to step back into her old life, give her the option of living it differently, or she could move on.
She had regrets, certainly. Rose had felt them, gritty and sharp against her skin as she gathered the dust of her life and swept it into a plastic bag. But there were also moments that she wouldn’t want to lose, and she risked their disappearance if she returned to the life she had before.
The doors spiraled on before and behind her, as variant as the keys that would open them. Deciding that she had lingered long enough in the corridor between one life and the next, Rose pulled the bag of dust from her pocket and walked toward the angel.
His hand closed around the key, obscuring its transformations.
Rose offered her life to him, but the angel did not move to take it, nor did his hand loosen around the key.
Eyes fixed on the terrible beauty of the angel’s face, Rose slowly peeled open the interlocking strips of plastic, and flung the dust of her life over the waiting angel.
Flares of color streaked across his skin and dappled his wings. Her life flashed behind his eyes, and he handed Rose her key.
Still warm from the angel’s hand, the key was simple in shape, but made of clear glass, veined through with silver. When she looked up from it, she knew exactly the door it was meant for. She slid the key into the lock, and opened her life.