#1912

I don’t try to get published. I know it would be useless – we aren’t publishable. No one would pay for the scripture of dead gods, or the hymns of phantoms, or the gospel of the insane. No one would read the poetry of a madwoman, would it cost them even a nickel. You have too few beginnings for biography and too many endings for non-fiction. I dedicate too many words to the sound of blood in your lungs for either horror or erotica; they will say it makes readers uncomfortable. We’re just not presentable and I can’t make us so, not when it’s blasphemy to edit or omit. I could not tell lies for money. I could not cut chunks of flesh from my side to earn their weight in coin. If they never believed Cassandra, why should they believe me? Publishers aren’t interested in crazy unless it’s marketable.

#1911

You would think we are given arms only so we may hold the ones we love as they die. Certainly you have never been given any reason to think otherwise, and I wonder if this is why the only part of the dream I can recall is the end. Do you leave me with the memory of holding his broken body in my arms as punishment, or simply because that is the moment you, too, are forced to replay? When you look back on your time together, can you even trust your memories? Or does your grief rewrite every loving embrace into the desperate clinging of the living to the dead and dying? I do not think your arms were made for cradling corpses, but somewhere along the line that became your specialty. Do you wonder, deep down beneath the cigarettes and alcohol and morphine, if the dying part does not precede your touch, but the other way around?

#1910

During your stay at the House of Propriety, you have no name. You are given a number upon arrival, and it is this number by which you are referred to by the adults. You are not allowed to tell the other girls your name; you are not allowed to tell the other girls anything. You are not allowed to speak.

When the newest girl arrives at the House, she is given the number 18. Since there are more than eighteen girls in the House, and she is eleven years old, she isn’t certain of her number’s significance. She almost asks, in the beginning when the Rule of Silence is new to her and therefore forgettable, but a single glance from the Matron reminds her to hold her tongue. During the tour she bites the inside of her cheek to keep from asking questions, though it feels like a thousand of them bubble in her throat and push at her mouth.

There are six adults at the House: the Matron, terrifying in her stiff black dress and tight-bound gray hair; her husband, a man who enjoys earning the girls’ trust in order to exploit it for his own amusement; their eldest daughter and her husband, a lazy, spoiled couple who treat the girls like servants; and the youngest daughter, a reserved young woman who watches always for rule breaking. The House is an old Victorian manor turned into a maze of rooms and passageways by an almost unbelievable amount of clutter. It seems to 18 as if every resident who has passed through its halls left something behind, so that strange objects sit on every surface and in piles against the walls.

Though 18 keeps her head down in the beginning, it doesn’t take her long to learn the ways of the House, which girls can be trusted, and which spy for the adults. By the second month, she has become involved in what some call, both affectionately and with no small amount of wry humor, the Resistance. A small network operates among the most rebellious residents, messages passed in coded signals, rearranged objects, and nearly inaudible whispers. To these valiant efforts, 18 brings a valuable asset. 18 has no word for what she can do; she calls it “ghosting”, though she knows she can’t really be a ghost if she’s still alive. Whatever it is, since she was a toddler 18 has been able to send her consciousness, or maybe her soul, out of her body to invisibly and silently explore the area around her. Never has this skill been so useful or so necessary. With it, she eavesdrops on the adults and keeps watch while the other girls pass messages or commit subtle sabotage.

Through the network, 18 learns about the Repentance Room. The little building can be seen from the House’s rear windows, but from a distance it looks like nothing more than a shed nestled near the back wall of the garden. According to the others, however, the Room is used to punish children who break too many rules of the House. There they are locked, in cold and darkness, without food or water, for hours or even days. Some girls never return at all. The adults always claim these girls ran away, but no one believes them; there is no running away from the House.

After six months, 18 is finally allowed to go into the gardens as part of her daily chores. Her first time out, she tries to ignore the Room but finds herself drawn to the dilapidated shed anyway. The door is sealed by a large padlock, but 18 doesn’t use her ghosting to see inside. She isn’t ready for that truth just yet. Instead, she turns her back on the Room with the intention of leaving its dark secrets behind – but instead, they come out to face her in the light of day. Unbeknownst to 18, she has been gifted with one other strange power: the ability to see the resting places of the dead. As she turns away from the Room and back to the gardens, she catches a glimpse of bare skin between the leaves and investigates. Like a hologram, the vision of the buried dead girl floats just above the rich garden earth, the spring flowers and long green leaves sticking up through her translucent form like beautiful knives. When 18 looks up, she realizes the pale ghosts litter the garden.

#1909

In my dream I am Tanim, floating upright in black, icy saltwater. Before me is a creature both beautiful and terrifying; his skin is red, his hair white, and though I cannot see below his bare chest through the water, I know beneath his waist is not a pair of legs, but a long, serpentine tail. Every line of his face is perfect, and when he smiles I glimpse the tips of pointed fangs behind curving lips.

The creature identifies himself as Satan. He tells me he can give me everything I’ve ever wanted, in return for naught but my mortal soul. I know the offer is a trap, or at least a badly one-sided bargain, but I don’t care. What has my soul ever done for me? And what good is it, anyway, if I give up my one chance at fulfillment to preserve it? I don’t care about eternity.  I barely care about mortality.

I don’t answer in words. Instead, I push through the water and take the creature’s face in my hands, pressing our mouths together in a painful, hungry kiss. Those fangs cut my lips and tongue, but I don’t care. I feel like I’m starving, like my entire life I’ve lacked something essential that I can identify only now. In this moment I know that all I want, all he can give me, is to serve him, love him, worship him for eternity. And with his arms around me, fingers digging into my flesh, he seals our bargain.

#1907

In my dream, you take once more the forms that suit you so well, the wolf and stag in human flesh. In my dream, you take up the deathdance that must feel so familiar, so instinctive to spirits who have known nothing but love and war, rise and fall, for so many eternities. In my dream, you slay the dragon together and each heartpulse of blood, each twitch and cry, is the physical manifestation of your bond. See, you say through bloody mouths, see how I love you, my darling? See, you say through rending teeth, see how it could be, beloved, just the two of us? See, you say through the poetry of mutual destruction, over the body of your slain prey, see – this is our design.

#1906

I want to touch you. I want to touch the strong line of your jaw. I want to touch the gentle waves of your dark hair and the crease of your brow. I want to trace your lips that so easily shape a joyless smile. I want to touch the stiff edge of your collar and loosen the fine silk of your tie. I want to lay my hand on your neck and feel the hot beating of your desperate heart. I want to hold your hands in mine and feel the strength of your bones, how lightly you can touch despite it. I want to take you in my arms and feel the weight of your head on my breast, feel the tension in your shoulders, brush my hand over your bent back. I want to touch you to feel the immensity of your burden in this mortal body.

But I can’t.

I want to touch you. I want to touch the sharp edges of your cheekbones, your jaw, your sneering lips. I want to touch your close-shaved temple and feel it shift beneath my fingers as you clench your teeth. I want to touch the place where your pale skin disappears beneath black cloth. I want to touch your hands, trace the long, graceful lines of your fingers that so easily hold a knife. I want to touch your chest, oh so very gently, and feel the stubborn beating of the heart within. I want to touch your skin and feel its warmth, to remember that despite your beauty, you are not made of marble or ice. I want to touch you to remember that you live, breathe, feel.

But I can’t.

I never have and never will. Sometimes I fear that longing will eat away at me my entire life. I wonder if it will eventually drive me mad. Maybe.

#1905

I dream about protests, fear, anger, queer blood and tears spilled in the streets. A knife in someone’s hand; my own, maybe, or Daren’s. “You never let him talk about it, either,” I say to Tanim, thinking of the illness, the madness that rolls through Daren’s mind like a storm front and how its edges spill into mine. Tanim grabs my wrist, yanking it up and back so hard I think he means to snap it, and growls a threat I can’t remember afterwards. I remember he means it, though. He’s never looked at me with such rage before – nor has he ever hurt me. That image is what stays with me as I wake: the anger and violence in his eyes, my thin wrist gripped in his clenched hand.