☼ RUTH OF HOUSE IESHAN ☼רות
"The mouth was open / stretched wide in a call or howl / (there was no tongue) / of agony, ultimate / command or simple famine. / The canine teeth ranged back / into the throat and vanished. / The mouth was filled with darkness. / The darkness in the open mouth / uttered itself, pushing / aside the light."
"The mouth was open / stretched wide in a call or howl / (there was no tongue) / of agony, ultimate / command or simple famine. / The canine teeth ranged back / into the throat and vanished. / The mouth was filled with darkness. / The darkness in the open mouth / uttered itself, pushing / aside the light."
It is mid-afternoon – the hottest part of the day, even in winter – and I am standing in front of my sister’s door, freshly-washed. (My hair is still wet, at the roots, but I think that I managed to scrub the smell of hospital and blood from it; the moment that I walked in the doors, this morning, I had a near-dead patient all but thrust upon me. Something about a fight in the marketplace. I didn’t care enough to pay attention to the specifics, but I noticed the man’s jutting ribs and the way that Ishak’s stare seemed to darken a shade during the doctor’s explanation.)
I pace a few steps to the left, then a few steps to the right. I don’t know how long it has been since I have seen Miriam. It could have been days, or weeks – time has blended together, recently.
Ishak is on the next floor down. Last I saw him, he was speaking with one of the maids, a familiar and easy smile pulled taut across his lips. It’s the sort of look he gets on his face when he is prying for information, but he doesn’t want to make it too obvious. (It’s obvious to me, but, then, I am the exception to his rule.) I don’t know what it says about my family that my guard feels the need to spy in our own house. Nothing good, I’m sure; but what’s worse is that I didn’t stop him.
What’s worse, or worst of all – is that I feel the same way.
My gaze drifts to the knocker. I pull it up halfway, then leave it suspended in mid-air, unwilling to take that last step and let it drop. (I can imagine the sound in the hallway; deafening-loud and sudden as a shock against the empty silence.)
I don’t feel the sisterly obligation that I know I should towards Miriam. I am not at her door for her, even though I should be. Of all my siblings, I have always loved her best, and, if ever I could ache for anyone, I want to believe that I could ache for her; but, even now, even as she seems to be slipping from my grasp (and everyone else’s), I don’t ache. Not like I should. Any pain I feel is purely self-interested – if I were to trace the tangle of emotions that roil quietly in my chest as I stand in front of her doorway, I am sure that they would lead right back to me, not Miriam.
The realization should be a horrible one, but I am not surprised by it. I know that she has sacrificed much for us, and I-
I am from a family of priests, and I have never learned to sacrifice at all.
(But this isn’t – shouldn’t – be about me. She has been troubled, recently, and not in a way that I know how to fix. I considered bringing her something, because I have seen enough visiting families to know that they tend to bring gifts to ailing relatives, but, when I tried to decide what I should bring, it occurred to me that I don’t even know what Miriam likes. Sometimes I wonder if I even like Miriam – or if I just like what she does for me.)
I take a breath that rattles in my throat and drop the knocker. It resounds, and somehow the noise is more jarring than I expected; I don’t wince, because I never wince, but my teeth grind together in the back of my jaw. “Miriam?”
I say it like I don’t know if she is there or not, but I know that she is. I’m not sure if that is some kind of strange courtesy or- or if I am hoping, although I know it is futile, that she is out.
I want to see my sister. I don’t want to see what I’m anticipating. It’s a rather strange feeling, though it is one that just might be normal – I have seen it on the faces of strangers in the moments before I lead them into the operating room, or into a back room at the end of the hospice ward.
The sentiment is almost comforting. But I have always had a strong stomach; it troubles me more than it soothes me that I am troubled at all.
It is harder to lie, that way; and it is much harder to forget.
@Miriam || first posts are an Experience, huh || atwood, "projected slide of an unknown soldier"
I pace a few steps to the left, then a few steps to the right. I don’t know how long it has been since I have seen Miriam. It could have been days, or weeks – time has blended together, recently.
Ishak is on the next floor down. Last I saw him, he was speaking with one of the maids, a familiar and easy smile pulled taut across his lips. It’s the sort of look he gets on his face when he is prying for information, but he doesn’t want to make it too obvious. (It’s obvious to me, but, then, I am the exception to his rule.) I don’t know what it says about my family that my guard feels the need to spy in our own house. Nothing good, I’m sure; but what’s worse is that I didn’t stop him.
What’s worse, or worst of all – is that I feel the same way.
My gaze drifts to the knocker. I pull it up halfway, then leave it suspended in mid-air, unwilling to take that last step and let it drop. (I can imagine the sound in the hallway; deafening-loud and sudden as a shock against the empty silence.)
I don’t feel the sisterly obligation that I know I should towards Miriam. I am not at her door for her, even though I should be. Of all my siblings, I have always loved her best, and, if ever I could ache for anyone, I want to believe that I could ache for her; but, even now, even as she seems to be slipping from my grasp (and everyone else’s), I don’t ache. Not like I should. Any pain I feel is purely self-interested – if I were to trace the tangle of emotions that roil quietly in my chest as I stand in front of her doorway, I am sure that they would lead right back to me, not Miriam.
The realization should be a horrible one, but I am not surprised by it. I know that she has sacrificed much for us, and I-
I am from a family of priests, and I have never learned to sacrifice at all.
(But this isn’t – shouldn’t – be about me. She has been troubled, recently, and not in a way that I know how to fix. I considered bringing her something, because I have seen enough visiting families to know that they tend to bring gifts to ailing relatives, but, when I tried to decide what I should bring, it occurred to me that I don’t even know what Miriam likes. Sometimes I wonder if I even like Miriam – or if I just like what she does for me.)
I take a breath that rattles in my throat and drop the knocker. It resounds, and somehow the noise is more jarring than I expected; I don’t wince, because I never wince, but my teeth grind together in the back of my jaw. “Miriam?”
I say it like I don’t know if she is there or not, but I know that she is. I’m not sure if that is some kind of strange courtesy or- or if I am hoping, although I know it is futile, that she is out.
I want to see my sister. I don’t want to see what I’m anticipating. It’s a rather strange feeling, though it is one that just might be normal – I have seen it on the faces of strangers in the moments before I lead them into the operating room, or into a back room at the end of the hospice ward.
The sentiment is almost comforting. But I have always had a strong stomach; it troubles me more than it soothes me that I am troubled at all.
It is harder to lie, that way; and it is much harder to forget.
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HE FEEDS ME RED MEAT / HE WATCHES THE BLOOD POOL IN MY MOUTHlaughs at my red teeth❂please tag Ruth! contact is encouraged, short of violence
