And it was all at once both frightfully awful and astonishingly easy to die. He lay on his pillow and contemplated the stars that had fallen down from the sky and become cracks on the ceiling. The wind was outside the door. (But it said nothing.) So this is what it means, to be dead, he thought; to have the wind accusing him in such terrifying silence of the atrocities he had seen committed by other men.

“You did this, David.” That silence said. “You saw what they did and you did not say anything; and you did not cry out at the horror of it; and you only turned the newspaper to the crossword and ate your cereal.”

“I did this.” He affirmed. There was no point in lying, he thought; there is no point in anything. “I saw what they did and I said nothing; and I did not cry out at the horror of it; I only turned the newspaper to the crossword and ate my cereal; I only got in my car and drove to work every morning; I only listened to my patients pour out their hearts and was bored by it and wished that the clock would hurry itself up. I did this.”

“You did this.”

“I did this.”

The words were like the opening and closing of the valves in his heart. Lub, “You did this.”, dub, “I did this.”, lub, “You did this.”, dub, “I did this”.

And now I am dead, he thought, even though my heart is still beating; I am dead because there is no point in anything and I know it, and this is wrong. I am not supposed to know it, but I do. So now I am dead.

In the morning he got up, dressed, did a crossword, ate some cereal, drove to work, saw some patients.

“Good morning,” he said to his secretary as he walked in. They both smiled at each other pleasantly (he did not like her, and so he must be very, very nice to her so she would not suspect. He is a prick, she thinks. If I did not need this job I would quit. I would maybe follow him home one day; maybe kill him dead). David hung his coat up on the rack.

“Good morning, sir,” she said. “Can you believe last night's storm? I swear I hardly slept a wink with all that wind.”

“Oh, I'm so sorry,” David apologized (I hate her, he thinks. I hate her, I hate her, I hate her). “That was for me. I died last night.”

She laid a comforting arm on his own (then I am too late, she thinks sadly. It has been done already; I am too late), “I'm sorry, sir. It must have been a rough night for you. Still, I suppose some things just can't be helped.”

David smiled and thanked her for her kindness (and she would be wishing she had killed him herself, he just knew that's what she would be thinking, and this softened him a little. It touched him that she would be wishing such a thing. It gave him hope. But I am just being ridiculous, he thought; why would she waste her time like that? and he was angry again. That she could not do even this for him!)

He went in to his office. His first patient was already there, sitting, waiting for him. A girl of fourteen. She had been raped during a home robbery, and had had a miscarriage three months in. That had been about three weeks ago. He didn't like her; she scared him. Something about her scared him.

“Now then,” she said. “Shall we begin where we left off last time?”

He paled and began to tremble.

“No,” he said.

“You had been telling me about your mother. She would sing to you as a baby- she would sing you Mozart and Brahms and you would cry until she stopped and then you would cry some more. Are you crying now, David?”

He began tugging nervously at his cuffs again, twitching ever so often in his chair. “No. No, I don't want to talk about that.”

“We have to David.”

“I don't want to.”

“Alright then, David. What do you want to talk about?”

“Who are you?” he asked desperately. “Please! Please, tell me- who are you?”

“You know who I am, David.”

“No, no I don't.”

“David.”

He began to cry.

“But David- I haven't begun to sing to you yet!” the girl chided him laughingly. “You've started too soon! Oh well. I suppose it's just as well.”

“Damn it- who are you?” he whispered in panic.

“David, David, David.” she shook her head at his stubbornness and disappeared.

David was seven years old again that night.

He was sitting in bed, his mother on the edge- she was always on the edge; always leaving a space between them, even then, as if she were trying to distance herself from him. Always reminding him in little ways that she didn't really like him.

“So what story will it be tonight?” she asked. He thought she sounded tired. It made him feel guilty, which made him feel mad.

“I don't care. Any.”

She was always reading him books. He wished she wouldn't.

“Well- how about 'The Boy Who Cried Wolf'?”

“No, not that one.” It made him feel uneasy. He didn't like it.

She sighed, very, very quietly. It made him feel awful, because there it was: proof that she wanted to be somewhere else. He wished she would have the guts to give a real sigh; it seemed cowardly of her not to actually be truthful in how much she disliked him.

“Okay. Not that one. How about 'Jack and The Beanstalk'?”

He didn't like that one. “Sure,” he said, “that's one of my favorites.”

Sometimes he lied. He was really a bad boy, he knew. It was no wonder his mother didn't like him. He didn't think he really liked himself that much. But sometimes he felt like he just had to lie. If he had told his mother that no, he didn't like Jack and The Beanstalk, then she might have sighed again and he knew he would feel terrible if she did. If only he didn't love her so much! It was her fault that he hated himself; that he was so angry all the time; that he loved her more than anything in the world and she did not love him at all: it was all her fault.

He wished she wouldn't read to him. He wished she would read forever. He wanted her to go and he wanted her to never leave; he wanted to hide from how much she did not love him, and he wanted to confront her with her crime and demand that she love him this instant; and he wanted both at once and he was miserable.

She picked the book out of the shelf near his bed and began reading.

“Once upon a time...” (a boy did bad things. With this story she is telling me how bad I am, he thought, and how she could never love me because I do such bad things. And he lay in bed and hated her; and he dreamed that night of walking silently into her bedroom, or behind her as she was washing dishes perhaps, or cutting onions, and of slitting her throat. The wash of red would turn her pearls into large droplets of blood. And I might rip them from her neck, he thought vindictively, for how can she love something like that but not me?)

He is so peaceful when he sleeps, his mother thinks as she puts the book back on the shelf. He is so incredibly innocent.

He sat in the chair again. Always with the chair. Always with the sitting. Well, he had had enough of it! He wouldn't stand for it anymore! He stood up. He was a strong man; he was strong, and he was courageous. He was-

“David, sit down.”

He sat down. He was a coward.

“How are the walls today? Any better?”

He started in fright. He hadn't noticed, but now that she mentioned it... “Oh God! They're moving again!”

She smiled. It didn't look right; didn't look like it was hers. He started to shiver: she had stolen that smile. He wondered who she had taken it from, and had it hurt them when she'd taken it? and was it like trying on a new pair of shoes?

But what was she doing here? She had no business being here. No business...

She made a note on her clipboard: patient is fiddling with cuffs again. Seems to be a nervous habit that he is unaware of.

“What are you writing?” he asked nervously. He had failed. He knew it. He always failed tests.

She smiled again. It was horrible. “Oh nothing much. Now, where should we start today?”

His heart was beating too fast all the time. Surely it would wear out soon. Poor thing, he though, the little guy can only take so much. His heart was like a drum, one of the ones with the animal skin, and it just kept getting beaten on all the time with drumsticks; and it was getting so thin. He was sure of it.

Then he remembered: “I died last night.” He said this guiltily: he knew he shouldn't have died.

“Yes,” she said, “I thought so.” She made a note of it. She added: patient is now biting his nails. Sternly: “But you were a bit early now, weren't you? It would have been easier for everyone if you had waited until it was time.”

He felt miserable. He knew it. “I know,” he whispered, ashamed.

She reached over and patten his knee, but it wasn't her hand that was reaching- it was someone else's, just like she had someone else's smile. He wondered who it was that she was stealing all these things from. It was awful. He wished he could throw up, but he'd forgotten how.

Rebecca Rogerson sat on the wall. She was eating an ice-cream cone- she was about to fall! Her fingers were slippery from melted ice-cream and as she smiled and leaned back, she thought: I have never felt so wonderful.

David watched from the window of his office as the girl fell of the wall. Damn her! She scared him so. She made him want to tear out his hair! She made him want to- want to-

But he was forgetting: he already had.

Sometimes David forgot little things. Where he put his keys. What his social security number was. How to tie his shoelaces. But sometimes David forgot big things. Sometimes David forgot when he was born- or even if he was born. And sometimes he forgot how speak, his mouth moving about as if it knew what it was doing, but no sound coming out. And then there was the baby- he could hear it crying all the time. It was crying right now. It was crying because the girl had fallen off the wall. It was crying because he had watched her fall off the wall.

And now he could feel himself standing perfectly still; and it was horrible. He used to go up and down, being jostled slightly from inside his mother's pocket- or was it his mother's womb? was he the baby? was he crying? he didn't think so, but he couldn't remember- and the girl had climbed back up the wall; she was trying to kill him! He couldn't stand it if she fell off again.

Rebecca Rogerson opened her mouth. She closed it. She opened it again; closed again. She thought that maybe she could call for help; there was a baby crying somewhere. But surely someone else had called already...? It was crying so loudly, poor thing, probably hungry- she was hungry; her ice-cream cone had gotten dirty; she wasn't going to eat it-not now. Ick ick ick. No sir. She opened her mouth again; closed it. She wondered why she felt like she was forgetting something; she realized that she didn't really care too much why.

She lay down on the wall and fell asleep, but something that should have been there was missing. There was a hollowness in her. She was a pumpkin; her insides scooped out and thrown away. Her face carved into someone else's. She was not herself anymore. Had she ever been? Who was she now? She wasn't sure she was anyone. Her brain was re-wired. She knew that something very important had happened, the most important thing in the world, but someone had stolen her memories. She didn't- she- she couldn't- there was something awfully strange going on, she thought as she fell into sleep (She was always falling. Why was she always falling? ...but she had reached the bottom once, she was sure of it! So how had she gotten back to the...?) and how lovely the insides of her eyes were: she could see nothing behind them.

The baby was sleeping now; that must be it, for it had stopped crying. David jerked up, startled; somehow he must have fallen asleep on his desk. It was dark out.

He was so afraid, but he made himself look- very, very fast- out the window. His whole body relaxed, slumping down to the desk once more; seemingly melting. The girl was gone. She was not on the wall anymore. He took a deep breath- how good it felt to breathe! How good it felt to-! But the baby had started crying again and he didn't know if he could go on.

It was always there! Even when it wasn't, it was! And he kept seeing it's face as it had been the last time he had seen it- it was red. But no, it was blue. Or perhaps it was both...? It's eyes had been shut- he remembered being so grateful for that!- and he had wondered what it was thinking. Had it been hating him? Had it...loved him?Did it even know who he was? (And this thought was the worst of all: that perhaps it didn't not even know him.)Tiny heart, tiny throat, tiny skull, and it's fingers...god, it's fingers- but the walls had stopped moving in. Now they were slowly moving out. But that was even worse! There was too much room now! He couldn't breathe! He couldn't, he- there was too much- it's fingers had been so small, and they had reached for him- he was sure they had reached for him! He knew they had!- but the walls were opening.

He was alone now in a large room. The walls were white. Far, far too white. He could see too much. The girl was in the room as well, she was skipping rope- but she did not understand! It made him furious. How could she not understand! It was too white: he could see himself. He could see. Himself.

She stopped skipping rope: “The doctor told me I shouldn't. Said it wasn't good for the baby,” she said this conspiratorially, smiling, as if to convey how silly the doctor was.

There was a cradle in the center of the room. Had it been there a moment ago? David didn't know; perhaps it had. He was always forgetting things. But what was he forgetting this time?, he wondered.

“Where am I?” he asked. He wasn't curious. He was merely afraid; his anger no match for her strength; for her calmness; for the way she was impervious to it. He could set her on fire and she would become a phoenix. He knew it. He had done it. She was at once familiar foe and forgotten friend. Daughter. Stranger.

“Silly man,” she scolded, smiling. How she loved him! “Always asking the wrong questions.”

He knew it; he hung his head. He knew the right questions: he was just afraid to ask them. But he was more afraid of her, so:

He swallowed. His face was pale and drawn. “Why am I?” he whispered.

She threw her head back; laughed; twirled about in a circle- her cotton dress flouncing prettily; vanished.

And there was the baby. His fingers trembled. The baby's fingers had been so, so small. It would have been so easy to break them. Oh god! He wished he hadn't had that thought! He was a monster. There was something evil inside of him. But he didn't want it there! Sometimes it made him do things- horrible, awful things- but he didn't want to!

“I don't mean to!” he screamed. His voice didn't have any sound; it echoed against the white walls; again; again; again; but each time it echoed louder; the silence was so loud now- he could count it's teeth- he could see every tooth in detail, could see the saliva between each one, could calculate the degrees between each one- but the baby stirred in the cradle and the silence disappeared. The baby had banished it. It gurgled. The silence had purred for a moment and then was gone.

David felt drawn toward the baby. He didn't like it; something about it made him feel ashamed and guilty and horrified- there was something...but he had forgotten- and yet he loved it after all. It was tiny and perfect, except for it's fingers which, -

were they crooked?


He started. He jumped. He wanted to skin himself. Had he done this? With his thoughts? With his...?

but they were crooked. They were broken. They were wrong.

“I don't mean to!” he cried to himself brokenly. He repeated it over and over, “I don't mean to, I don't mean to- I don't!- I don't mean to.”

Poor David. He really didn't mean to. It was the evil that was inside him. It was why his mother hadn't loved him; it was why she put him in her pocket (but this was not true); so she didn't have to look at him and see the evil in him that had brought him to this room with the cradle and the baby and the girl- but no, that wasn't right- the girl was gone, the girl was

: “Here I am, David. Right here.”

She was behind him. She wrapped her arms around him; nuzzled her face into his neck like a kitten; kissed the curve of his shoulder.

But this wasn't right. This wasn't...but why wasn't it? He- couldn't remember.

He needed her to stop. Needed her to unwrap her arms from him; for she was a snake, she was wrapping him so tightly- far too tightly- but why was she not holding him closer? Holding him harder? Did she not want to touch him at all? Was she like his mother- !

He hated her! He hated them both! But no, that didn't feel true. No. He needed them too badly to hate them, and he hated them for that. He even needed the baby. But did he hate the baby? He didn't- well, he didn't- didn't think so, but how could he be sure? He was so confused! Were the walls still moving? Had they stopped? He couldn't tell! He couldn't-!

“David,” she said, and the world stopped. Everything stopped. “David.” she said it again. That voice sounded so familiar, was so- was the only one he had ever loved; he could almost feel someone stroking his hair; it was...well, it was wonderful. But- the girl was speaking. But that had not been the girl's voice. ! Had she stolen that voice? Like she had stolen the smiles!?

And he remembered now: it was his mother's voice.

“David, I don't love you.” she was stroking his hair with her voice. “David- you're not a nice man.” But it was the girl and not his mother- it was the girl wearing his mother's voice and a cotton dress, and she was standing by the cradle, and she was reaching for the baby!

“David, why are you such a bad man?”

But the baby's fingers were





crooked.

And he said, “But I'm dead! I'm dead.” He hoped it would be enough.

“David, pay attention! We're all dead- you, me, the baby- that's not the point. Why are you such a bad man?” She wished he was faster. She was impatient.

He looked at the baby.


It's crooked little fingers: good- he understood. She reached for it, picked it up, turned it toward him.

Oh my god, thought David. Oh my god. Oh my god.

The baby disappeared.


Oh




my



god

Rebecca Rogerson heard a sound downstairs, which alarmed her- for her parents had gone out that night. She hadn't asked where, and they hadn't told her. It was like the army.


“We love you,” they had said as her mother picked up her earrings (pearls, for they were so very stylish- and yet, a touch of the sea was maudlin, almost-) and her fur, and her father putting his bowler hat on and the wax for his mustache (very sharp indeed), and Rebecca sitting on the stair watching them and saying, “Then why are you leaving me?” and they didn't hear her (for it is too loud a thing, happiness. It cannot hear doubt.) and so she said nothing else and they went out the door calling, “We'll be back after midnight, dear. Be sure to be in bed by then.” “I won't,” she had said, daring them to hear her. “There's a good girl,” they'd said, waving gaily as they shut the door on her; and her father saying something muffled by the door between them, and her mother's tinkling little laugh, and then they were gone.

And now there was a sound downstairs, and it was 10:49 (for she had looked at the clock by her bed), and she was frightened; she was frozen with indecision as she stood behind the door in her room. Should she open it? Investigate? But what if it were someone? Oh, but she wouldn't be able to sleep tonight anyway, not knowing what.

But there were footsteps on the stairs; in the hall; a knock on the door. “Come in,” she said, retreating back a few steps from the door. So they did.

“Hello,” she said, and he said nothing, and he came in. He took her hand; he knelt; he kissed her hand. He did not smile, so she smiled for him; she did not know him. She took his hand and placed it on his shoulder, for he was tall, even from his knees his hand reached her shoulder when she stood. She placed his hand on her shoulder; she held it there with her own; he did not try to move it and she was elated. She looked into his eyes: “Who are you?” she asked them. “We are rain,” they said, “we are rain, and you are spring, and you are a desert, and you are a drought-ridden land, and you called for us and here we are.” And she was not alarmed anymore, in truth, had not been since she had seen him open the door. There was a thirst in her veins, there was electricity running down her skin. She was the only woman in the world then; and she would never have to hear her parents voices again, and that was good. He reached for her, and that was good; drew her closer, good; and still closer, and this was even better.

And she thought, There is darkness in everything. There is a blackness hanging over me; above and below and on all sides; and even inside of myself there is a blackness, and I must nurture it else it will die, and this cannot be allowed. And this blackness is soft, and it is kind in it's vagueness, and it is sometimes callous, but always dependable and so this must be forgiven. Yet there he was, and he was not darkness, yet he was not light- and perhaps he was, not even there at all; but of course he was, and she was thankful. And there he was, and there she was, and why not? For hadn't she said, “I won't,” and hadn't they heard what they wanted? and she was sick unto death of this invisibility (was she only a shadow in this cloud of darkness? For she sometimes would think of things in her mind that could not be; that her mother had rolled her eyes; that her father had been sharp with her; that she had pinched herself and had felt not skin but air, but this could not possibly be, and so she must be only a shadow, yes, just a shadow, but of what? she did not know.) and yet here was someone who could see her; here was someone who would look at her; and that was something quite important, she knew; and that was something worth more than most everything; and so why not? And if it was wrong, then why not anyway? But if it was wrong...well, why was it wrong? for it was something quite terribly important.

And so he was a bit cruel; and he was a bit selfish; and he was not all that was tender. But she was selfish, too. And she was cruel. She had told her mother, “I do not love you. I cannot bear you! There are ashes in my throat when you look at me. I want to shake you, I want to throw stones at you; make you bleed; make you feel me; make you hear me. I do not love you! I won't! I cannot!” (but she had not said this to her mother, she had thought it in her head as she sat in the darkness of the breakfast table) and her mother had said: pass the sugar, dear. And perhaps she was tender, but perhaps that was her fault. Perhaps it was not a good thing, not a right thing, not the thing at all- to be tender, or to be kind. And perhaps that was good, that it was not right. And perhaps it was her fault that it was good. Yes, that was it! It must be my fault, she thought, and was relieved; for then it was only something that was wrong with her, and not wrong with anything else, and she was used to that. There were many things that were wrong with her; this was a comforting idea.

And then he was done, and she was sorry; had it been her fault? no, no, it was okay; and she saw that there was not only darkness, and that this was not even a bad thing- this did not sadden her!- for there was, inside of herself, a brightness now. A small spark. But what could it be? “I love you,” she told him, the spark glowing hopefully (and I must be sure to keep it safe, she thought. I must make sure to cup it in both hands when I move, for surely a breeze would blow it out); and he said nothing, and he stood to leave, and she wanted to cry out: do not leave me! But she did not cry out, for she had looked into his eyes again, and he had not been there, and she thought 'He has forgotten already', and knew it would be no use, and so she let him leave and she felt her fingers frost, and the frost worked its way up her entire body; and she knew that if she moved it would all crack, and what then? would she shatter like a mirror? (and what kind of luck would that bring? she wondered)

And her parents came back, she supposed, though she did not notice it for a long time. Days or weeks, or months, she did not know; she was consumed by the little brightness in her that she must shield; she had no time for them; for the brightness was growing slowly larger, and that was wonderful; and sometimes now she even could feel it's slight warmth, and that was still more wonderful.

But then once she left the blackness on accident, and she heard her father say to her mother, “It's your fault that she is this way,” and he was angry; he was not the father she knew; he was looking at her mother across the breakfast table as if she had accused him of robbery (for her mother had said how he was not much of an influence in- Rebecca's- life); and this should not have happened; this was wrong; this was not a right thing. She got up from the table and made to go upstairs- but she had forgotten! how could she have forgotten! and the spark had gone out; there was only darkness now, and it was not enough anymore- it was not enough!

And there was her mother, taking her to the doctor, but the doctor was full of darkness; he could not help her. “Where has the spark gone?” she asked him, and he said: you'll be okay; you've lost the babe, but you'll be okay. But she wouldn't. She knew she wouldn't. How could she be? When it was gone! And she had loved him, too, and he had left her, and she would never be okay again. And there would be nothing but darkness forever, and she could not stand it except that he came to her in dreams. “I love you,” she would tell him, and then he would vanish and she would wake up and she could never be happy again.

David dreamed of the baby, with it's crooked little fingers, and it's face that was red and blue and neither. “Look what you did,” it would say to him, and then it would turn into the girl and it would say, “I love you,” but he knew she was really saying: you're a bad man. And he knew it, but she would say, “don't leave me!” and he would know she meant: please go! please! And it was not right that she should be so confusing; and he did not like it.

David's mother was hanging the laundry up on the line. Her face was so terribly sad in it's lack of expression. But she could not smile, for the girl had stolen her smile, and she could not frown for she did not know how, and anyways she was so busy! what with all this laundry to hang up; really, she had no time for this nonsense. David would be home from school soon, she knew, and then that would be it. He would want something from her; he always did; but she never knew what, and he wouldn't say! He would just be there, wanting it, miserable. She hated it. She wished he was not her child. He did not seem like a child at all. It was not right.

And the wind flapped the clothes around and David came out the back door to where she was and he sat down on the grass and looked at her (for he had not died yet) and she shivered. He was not natural.

She had shivered, he had seen her. David felt a surge of hatred- that she should shiver! it was wrong, it was horrible; it was ridiculous.

David had no father. He had been erased. Or never written?

“I was never married,” she says to the laundry. “My parents were furious. I was glad.” She turns to David, “They didn't love me.”

She doesn't love me, David feels the thought sit there tight in his chest. It is still. -No.- Is it beating? Perhaps.

“I never had sex. You were a miracle child, David.”

It sits there, heavy. Why is he still here? Why does he cling to her? It is so heavy. ( !, he thinks.)

“I love the sky,” she says, looking up; her eyes are shaded (or are they brilliant and unattainable as the moon?). The sky is gray. The grass is vibrant. I keep her here, David says silently. I am her ball and chain. She is the kite; I am holding her tight, afraid the wind will carry her off. I need her. I love her. She wishes for me to leave her alone.

Why won't he leave? she wonders. I am being cruel. Does he not understand?

“Mother...?” he tries out the word. He has never called her that before. The word feels foreign and clumsy to his tongue. “do you love me?” His fear gives him courage. If she comes any closer he will snap at her, will go for her throat, will-

She looks down from the sky; he watches the light die (there is no soul left in her, but she does not know it). “What are you doing here?” She is perplexed. She cannot figure him out. What is he doing here?

-but she has left him now. He is safe.

And the girl's dress was cotton; it was soft; it was clean. Her skin was porcelain; was ceramic; was plastic; was lovely in it's resistability. “You remind me of monsoons,” he would say, and they would laugh greedily. (There was not enough joy for both of them.) “Why?” “Because you're always wet for me,” but she said, “That's not funny,” and he laughed anyway (for he was never as cruel as when he was happy). But she did not mind terribly. He just was that way. It was not his fault. It was (only the baby crying inside her. It had been kicking moodily all day.) up to her to accept him the way that he was. She was not a diamond cutter. She was not trained; she was not equipped. Besides, if she tried to cut away his flaws he would be scraped down to a fraction of himself. “What am I?” he asked curiously. He was (holding his breath, but he did not know it.) teasing. She loved it when he teased her. She pretended to think about it. Then, “A desert,” she said. “Because (you don't care. You burn my skin; devour my heart; starve me with how you don't love me back.) you're so hot.” But he didn't believe her because she had said it too tenderly; she had f*ed up, been to sincere (it could not be real if it was heartfelt); and so he took the sun from her, and the baby left (an aching black hole to swallow her up, though it wasn't safe out with the hawk circling overhead so perhaps it was best that the baby was gone). “And now aren't you sorry?” he said to her as the blood drained from her body; as the baby crawled from inside her only to die, small and pathetic, of terrible timing. And she was. (But he is only saying this because I have hurt his feelings, she tells herself. He would not say these things if I did not deserve them.)

[The hawk's shadow walked upright. It ate a door mouse. It debated whether it was merciful or mercenary to kill ('of course,' it reasoned, 'it must depend upon whether one has recently eaten.'). ]

They were back in his office. David stared miserably at the wall. He said nothing. Rebecca looked at her clipboard and chewed her pen. She said nothing. After a few days, he looked up. She was not there anymore.

“What is love?” she asked. It mystified her. What could it be! Her parents drank their coffee. They buttered their bread.

“Love is what you say when (you want something.) you care.” Her mother raised the bread to her mouth. She looked like an exploding star. (At any moment; at any moment we will be able to feel the heat come flailing off of her, and it will incinerate us with it's tepid hunger. She will do this because love demands it of her.)

“Love is a slice of bacon.” Her father bit into a crisp slice. But he would be dead next year. He could afford to lie.

“That didn't help at all,” she said. They hadn't helped at all.

But David's mother was there- how wonderful! “Love,” she said

(and how wooden her voice sounded. I can trust this voice, Rebecca thought. I can trust a voice like that; it has felt; it has felt so much and so violently that the emotions have been snuck up on in the middle of the day, while she was in the kitchen maybe, cutting onions, or washing dishes (David in her pocket, no doubt, for she cannot bear to be apart from him), and she had perhaps put her emotions down so as not to get them soapy; so as not to accidentally chop them up; and then she looks up suddenly- something feels so strange, she will realize, and she will find that her emotions have been stolen (and David has climbed out of her pocket and run off to the other room for he hates her so. He cannot bear how much she loves him; it drives him mad); and she thinks: I was a tree that has been cut down. Now I am just dead wood. Now I will continue to be, but I will have no hope for life. I was a great redwood. I towered. I sheltered. I kept David safe, safe forever; but now he has left my safety (he always chafed at security. He wished to be at someone's mercy; he wished to be beaten and dragged beneath the violence of the ocean.) and I cannot set down roots and so I cannot keep him safe anymore, even though he doesn't want me to. And I can trust this kind of voice, Rebecca knows, instinctively, I can trust this emptiness of a voice.)

“is the sound of the axe coming down. It is the feeling, just as your head has come off but right before you die, that there has been some great mistake made: that that is your head (though such a thing must surely be impossible), falling from your shoulders to the ground, bouncing a few feet away, and then stopping hideously, grotesquely- your head now resting forever on the immense shoulders of the world; but no- only on the gray and unwashed shoulders of the street (and yet this is infinitely worse). And still more, love is the hand itself that brings the axe down. It is the tendons tightening in the executioner's neck; the muscles jumping beneath the skin; the lips tightly sealed against the blow it will both deal and receive (death will not touch it inside. Death is external. Death does not last.); it is the fact that you are in control and yet have no control, and that it is your own fault.”

Rebecca sighs with great relief; great joy; with the greatest of hope from this knowledge (that she too will kill and will die and will delight in every moment of it); she laughs and the sound is like footsteps coming towards the platform where it will all take place: “I am in love,” she says, and her beauty is incandescent with the fervor of her words; her eyes shine out like twin suns, they burn into the world and alternately destroy and encourage; her mouth takes in life, exhales death; her arms encompass the world; her arms rock it gently, or strangle it mercilessly (but all with the greatest of care, for she is not doing this for herself). “I am in love with your son.”

(This is what David longs for, his mother thinks as she looks at the girl before her who is at once exquisite pain and terrible tenderness, this is what he wanted from me, though he did not know it. But I failed him: I could not hurt him when he wanted it. I loved him but it did not matter. But no- I did not love him, she admits to herself. I loved the idea of a son, but I did not love my son.)

The sun was scorching. It beat down on him. He wished he could bottle this feeling of having no will of his own. He walked on through the desert mindlessly; he knew of no reason to continue, and so he did. It was endless monotony. But he passed a tiny skeleton (a mouse perhaps?) and it's bones were pristine white (like her dress, he thought, the memory of it coming and vanishing at once; only a flash of lightning. It left him wondering whether he had really had the thought.) though they were not soft-looking; he did not think they would make a good pillow and so he walked past it. There was a hawk following him. It wanted to eat him, he knew, but it wasn't quite sure it knew how. He wished it would try. It made his blood sing with excitement that it might swoop down at him and rake him with it's talons. But he hated it also, and it was so exhausting, all this hate he must carry forever. It was his burden to bear. He did not think that he wanted to hate things as he did. But how could he not! He was utterly helpless (and this was such a deliciously unjust thing that he could not hold back his hate; delighted, actually- if he was being truthful, which he tried not to be at most times, for it was frightfully inconvenient- like a flame, he blew his hatred out of himself; encouraged it to lick greedily at the world (for it made him content, this feeling of being at the mercy of the world).

But the hawk did not swoop down, and he forgot about it, though it still followed. He walked on, the sun blistering his skin and wearing it off his bones (the way he did to Rebecca, he noted absently- then: Rebecca? But who was Rebecca? for he did not remember.

Up ahead was the ocean. He could smell the salt now. And he had been mistaken- it was not a hawk at all. It was a seagull.) “I choose life,” he said to no one (as he walked to the edge of the ocean. The wind whipped his face. It was glorious. He felt the urgency of harmony ignite across his body. I could walk into the ocean until the water covers my head; drags me under and under and then the bottom, and crawl still farther out, he thinks. I could let the waves wear away at my bones till they crumbled- it would be: The Great Human-Erosion Project. But I stand here instead, on the edge, too unsure to actually commit to it.) but almost ready to change his mind.

Rebecca lay on her back. The water swayed beneath her as if carrying her on their shoulders. (But I am no burden, she thinks, peaceful. It would be their reward, to carry me. It would be an honor.) She is proud of herself. “Oh yes, quite proud,” she says. But they look so disapproving, her parents. (They want me to defend what I have said, she knows. But there is no point trying to prove that I am right to feel what I do; they will never believe me. I shall not waste my time.) Her parents circle round her in the water (they have such large teeth here. In the water they become stripped of their excuses); they experimentally try to bit her. “Yes, I know,” she says, “I taste like guilt.” She is amused as they recoil. They turn away from her and go after prey that will fight them off.

(And there is David, on the beach, she sees. He wants to come in, but he is afraid. He is afraid of being happy. But how she loves that man! It is not right that he should make her love him so much. It is nearly hopeless, she feels, for he is so terrified of being happy. “We shall have no future,” she says. But it very quietly; he is not supposed to hear. Perhaps if the baby had survived, but not now. “Oh David,” she says,)

“Some things can never be forgiven.”

He is not surprised to hear her say this; to see her here, where he is most tempted, saying the one thing that could comfort him. She has always known what he needed. But her eyes are so sad. He wishes they were not. (I should like to love her, he thinks. (He yearns to do so, but cannot.) I should like to build her a tower and live in it with her. Only the two of us, forever. I think, if we were alone, I could love her.)

“Some things can never be done,” he apologizes.

“I know,” she says, and she laughs, though she is not amused, “it's the same thing, really.”

They look at each other; him on the beach, afraid to be happy, afraid to love; her among the waves, dying from it. And she is. She can feel death draw near, is pulling closer all the time. Soon she will feel it around her ankles as it brushes by to take a look at her. Soon she will be devoured.

“Elbows, knuckles, spine, and all,” she says.

“Yes,” he says (his eyes are wishful), “it will eat you soon.” And he wishes he could walk away from her, but he cannot. There is a string now tied between them, around each of their necks. It is twine; it burns his skin rather splendidly.

She reaches up to her neck to feel the string. “This is symbolic,” she says. “Do you know what it means?”

“I am still a virgin,” David's mother says. She is cutting onions; she is washing dishes. “I am still pure and white and whole.” Whap! goes the knife; swish! goes the sponge. “David is not my only child, he is just my most selfish child.” The onion is tiny now, the dishes sparkling. “I am afraid of him, in truth. He is evil. It is not right that he should be so hateful and cruel; I have never said an unkind word to him. I might even love him if not for his horridness. But the way he stares at me makes my skin crawl. It wants to leave my bones when he is around. Can you say that that is right?”

“It is,” Rebecca says, “and I do.” She is angry with David's mother. “It is because you are ashamed of yourself that your skin crawls; that you do not love your son. You are ashamed of being a virgin. You are ashamed that you did not want your own children, 'For then what kind of mother does that make me?' you ask yourself, and you don't like the answer; and you are so awfully ashamed of being a virgin that you sometimes cannot even look at yourself.”

“Yes,” David's mother cries passionately, “I am ashamed of being a virgin. Of course I am! David gave me no choice! I am not the mothering sort- I don't want children. But he did not ask, he demanded it of me, and I hate him for it.”

“And the others?”

“What others?”

“Your other children. Do you hate them as well?”
David's mother sets down the knife; the sponge. She looks at Rebecca fully. Her brows crease in confusion. “Who are you?” she asks. It has just occurred to her that she does not know this girl.

And this is the room in which people go when they are no longer real. It is white. Very white. There is a cradle, but is it empty? We are not allowed to see inside; we are not allowed to know. This is part of the mystery: how to know when people are not real anymore. But there is no sound. It is silent. (The baby could simply be sleeping.) There are other people in the room (it is a waiting room); but they are sitting on benches, reading newspapers; they have no concept of time. They believe they have only just arrived. But they are not wholly visible- they are translucent. This is not a woman; this is the outline of a woman.

David's mother comes through here every so often, when he forgets about her. She does a crossword; leaves when he remembers again. She does not find this strange; she has been doing this since he was born.

Rebecca's parents are gone again. (They are always leaving me, she thinks. They cannot stand the guilt I inspire. But I am not doing it on purpose, for I don't know how. It is unconscious. If I figured out how to do it though, I would not stop. They would not feel guilty if there was no reason to, and I have no mercy; I have no weakness. If you are in pain, then you are in pain. There is nothing I would be willing to do to alleviate it; if you cannot survive on your own then you do not deserve surviving.) They do not like to be around her, “for she is cold,” they say to one another in whispers, late at night when she must surely be asleep, “because she does not forgive us for our mistakes. She does not forgive us for not loving her.”

She wanders the rooms of her house like a guest; is surprised anew by every room she enters. 'So this is the kitchen,' she muses, 'and this the table. How interesting.' She opens cupboards and closes drawers. She sinks into a fog. “I can see a great cliff,” she says to her mother. She is sitting at the table. Her mother is stirring a pot on the stove. “and I am standing on the edge of it,” (Her mother's shoulders tighten but she does not turn around.) “I look over the edge and there is nothing. There is space, there is the universe. There are stars and galaxies and worlds of nothing. As I stand there I am intrigued by the desperation of it all, for you are there as well. You are with me. We stand on that precipice together, looking down jointly at this great pit of emptiness. And you are terrified, but not of the pit- for like calls to like and answers with yearning- you are terrified of me. I hold in myself the power to wreck you utterly, as if you had fallen from a skyscraper onto the cement of reality. If I but walk off the cliff then you will not exist anymore, for you are part of me and cannot survive without me.” (Her mother takes a sip from the pot; tilts her head thoughtfully; adds some salt. Keeps stirring slowly.) “And you say to me: 'You can choose your regret. There will always be regrets, but you can choose what they will be. You don't have to do this.' and I wish to believe that you say it out of love or fear, but I know instead that you say it out of malice because of how I am forcing you to be here, on this cliff, with me, and how I am forcing you to speak when you would much rather sink to your knees and never move again. And so I put one foot over the edge, and I would put the second over as well except for David. But I love him and so I must stay. And I must not hate you even though you deserve it, and even though you stand there begging me for it with your eyes.” Rebecca falls silent; looks at her mother. “Do you understand?” she asks. Her mother looks over at her, her eyes bland in a calculating sort of way.

: “What did the doctor say?” she asks.

The pain blooms in Rebecca's heart and reaches out and settles inkily throughout her veins. “Oh David,” she cries to herself. “Oh David, David, David.” She knows it is his fault about the baby. If she did not love him so much then she could forgive him. (She does not face this problem with her mother.)

David sits in the chair. He is wearing a stethoscope but he cannot remember why. “I don't understand,” he says, “how I keep forgetting things. How is that possible?”

“You're repressing,” Rebecca tells him. “That's normal.” He is so handsome when he is vulnerable.

“But I don't remember who I am,” he says. “How can that be?”

“Really, it's nothing to worry about. Most people don't know who they are.”

David thinks about this. “Do you know who I am?” he asks.

(“Do I- ! Of course! What a silly thing to ask.”) “No,” she says. “Sorry.”

He fingers the stethoscope. “Well, do you know why I am wearing this?” and her face seems to darken, seems to be drenched in sadness for a moment.

(“Our poor baby,”) “I'm not entirely sure,” she says apologetically.

He sighs; rakes his hands through his hair. “So you really don't know that much about any of it then, do you?”

“Yeah. Not so much.” And she feels a wave of bitterness that he would force her to admit this terrible thing: that she did not know why. And she feels herself burning with this truth and would have retaliated against him except that


[The hawk skims it's talons along the surface of the ocean (“The power I hold in my body!” she says. “I am magnetic with my love; the world revolves around me.”) and the fish jumps into her hands; begs for her beak to pierce it's ecstatic flesh. But-]


never before had Rebecca seen love like she saw in the agony of amnesiatic hope in David's eyes, and so she did not judge him harshly for his deceptions, and so she did not touch him in malice or sorrow (for the baby was truly gone and there were no more little acts of redemption to be performed).

“I look at you and see the sun,” Rebecca tells him. She wraps her arms around him (god she loves him so much!); he stands still beneath her touch; is stiff with uncomfort, does not feel suited to adoration; says: “I will not love you, ever.”



(And yet they rise together, hand clasped sweetly in hand; they walk up the platform's steps; they hold their axes firmly; swing.)