☼ 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."
My siblings like to think that our mother did not raise liars.
They’re wrong, of course – and lying. (Namely, to themselves.) I am not sure that anyone in this family is honest. Not in the genuine, down-to-the-bone way.
I hear my sister moving around inside of her room. It takes her an almost unbearably long time to come to the door; I am not holding my breath, but the growing tightness in my chest makes me feel like I am suffocating. The door swings open. Nearly slams. Nearly slams, and then I am looking at Miriam, at her red hair and her coal-pocked body-
Her hair is wild. Unwashed. I’m not sure that it’s been brushed in – some time. I can smell her, faintly. Not roses and honey; more of sweat, though not the amount that would come from exertion. I barely spend time at home, anymore. I work long shifts – and when I am asked to make them even longer, I always find myself agreeing to it, often without thinking. I like my job. I like it better than being in the house, at any rate – and I like it much better than feeling idle.
Miriam does not look like herself, lately. She hasn’t since the other Miriam-
(But we don’t talk about that.)
I have a strong stomach, and I do not want to look at her. I don’t know why. I don’t empathize with her, not like I should. Not with any of her misery. I understand it intellectually. If I were asked – and I don’t want to be asked -, I think that I could even put a name to it. But I don’t – understand it. Not like I should.
And I want to understand it. I want to understand her, I want it so badly; and I know, too, at the likely-vile heart of me, that it is a purely selfish want. It isn’t for Miriam’s sake. It is for mine.
There is something wrong with me, and I know it. Technically, I think that I could put a name to it, like I could put a name to the thing haunting Miriam. (I am not a psychiatrist, or a psychologist, but that doesn’t mean I haven’t studied any ailments of the mind. And – I work just down the hall from a few of them. And – we’ve had them in the house since we were children, checking up on all of us, as though Mother knew what she had done when she created us.) I know what it is, really, that many-headed and ugly mass resting at the heart of me, that condition that I am suffering from, the thing that gnawed away at my wholeness before I could ever be whole at all. I could put a name to it. But I won’t. If I don’t put a name to it, I can pretend that it isn’t real. If I pretend like I don’t know what it is, I can pretend that there is still some hope of fixing it; that it can be fixed.
I’m a liar, like all the rest of us.
Miriam invites me in.
“Thank you,” I say, and I follow her inside. My eyes scan her bedroom, though it takes some time for them to adjust from the bright hallway (all open, gilded windows) to the inky darkness of her room. I am not sure if I am just looking at some reprieve from Miriam-as-a-shadow or if I am looking for more symptoms of decay. Her covers are ruffled, and I wonder if I woke her up. I wonder if she was still sleeping past noon.
Miriam has barely been out of her room, lately. I wonder what she has been doing all this time. I think that all of us have coped with – everything – in different ways. She has receded. Somehow, it wasn’t what I expected of her.
I tilt my head at her, slowly. I should be concerned. (There is a black, gaping hole inside of me where the concern is supposed to be.) What do you say when you are concerned? “How are you feeling?” I ask. It is a doctor’s question; that is the only way that I know how to care about people. How are you feeling, with my mental checklist of symptoms to tick off, observations to analyze – to add them all up and find the root of the problem, and, once found, dig it up.
Dig it up. Wishful thinking. Nothing is ever that simple.
@Miriam || <3 || atwood, "projected slide of an unknown soldier"
They’re wrong, of course – and lying. (Namely, to themselves.) I am not sure that anyone in this family is honest. Not in the genuine, down-to-the-bone way.
I hear my sister moving around inside of her room. It takes her an almost unbearably long time to come to the door; I am not holding my breath, but the growing tightness in my chest makes me feel like I am suffocating. The door swings open. Nearly slams. Nearly slams, and then I am looking at Miriam, at her red hair and her coal-pocked body-
Her hair is wild. Unwashed. I’m not sure that it’s been brushed in – some time. I can smell her, faintly. Not roses and honey; more of sweat, though not the amount that would come from exertion. I barely spend time at home, anymore. I work long shifts – and when I am asked to make them even longer, I always find myself agreeing to it, often without thinking. I like my job. I like it better than being in the house, at any rate – and I like it much better than feeling idle.
Miriam does not look like herself, lately. She hasn’t since the other Miriam-
(But we don’t talk about that.)
I have a strong stomach, and I do not want to look at her. I don’t know why. I don’t empathize with her, not like I should. Not with any of her misery. I understand it intellectually. If I were asked – and I don’t want to be asked -, I think that I could even put a name to it. But I don’t – understand it. Not like I should.
And I want to understand it. I want to understand her, I want it so badly; and I know, too, at the likely-vile heart of me, that it is a purely selfish want. It isn’t for Miriam’s sake. It is for mine.
There is something wrong with me, and I know it. Technically, I think that I could put a name to it, like I could put a name to the thing haunting Miriam. (I am not a psychiatrist, or a psychologist, but that doesn’t mean I haven’t studied any ailments of the mind. And – I work just down the hall from a few of them. And – we’ve had them in the house since we were children, checking up on all of us, as though Mother knew what she had done when she created us.) I know what it is, really, that many-headed and ugly mass resting at the heart of me, that condition that I am suffering from, the thing that gnawed away at my wholeness before I could ever be whole at all. I could put a name to it. But I won’t. If I don’t put a name to it, I can pretend that it isn’t real. If I pretend like I don’t know what it is, I can pretend that there is still some hope of fixing it; that it can be fixed.
I’m a liar, like all the rest of us.
Miriam invites me in.
“Thank you,” I say, and I follow her inside. My eyes scan her bedroom, though it takes some time for them to adjust from the bright hallway (all open, gilded windows) to the inky darkness of her room. I am not sure if I am just looking at some reprieve from Miriam-as-a-shadow or if I am looking for more symptoms of decay. Her covers are ruffled, and I wonder if I woke her up. I wonder if she was still sleeping past noon.
Miriam has barely been out of her room, lately. I wonder what she has been doing all this time. I think that all of us have coped with – everything – in different ways. She has receded. Somehow, it wasn’t what I expected of her.
I tilt my head at her, slowly. I should be concerned. (There is a black, gaping hole inside of me where the concern is supposed to be.) What do you say when you are concerned? “How are you feeling?” I ask. It is a doctor’s question; that is the only way that I know how to care about people. How are you feeling, with my mental checklist of symptoms to tick off, observations to analyze – to add them all up and find the root of the problem, and, once found, dig it up.
Dig it up. Wishful thinking. Nothing is ever that simple.
@
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
