☼ 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."
I know what she is going to ask before the words are out of his mouth. (It is the same thing that almost everyone does.) It is still strange to hear the question come stammering out of my sister’s mouth, and I think that it is because it is somehow unlike Miriam – to stammer. To even have to ask. I watch her unblinking as she asks her question, and I know what she is really asking, even if she doesn’t say it, and even if she doesn’t want to know the answer.
Do you love him, Ruth?
The answer isn’t so simple. If I were anyone else – if I were normal, and proper – I’m sure that the answer would be an easy yes, but, if I were that girl, the kind of Ruth that I’d seen reflected on the island’s mirrors, Miriam would never have to ask me if I love him, and she would never have to stumble over her words in the way that she does. (If I were that kind of girl, I wouldn’t be standing beside of Ishak. That kind of girl, I’m confident, would never have attracted his attention in the first place; she wouldn’t have saved him, either, or, even if she had, if she’d been the right type of bleeding heart, she wouldn’t have kept him at her side, or he wouldn’t have stayed.) But that doesn’t answer the question.
Do I love him?
If I am being honest, I don’t think that I can love anything. Not in the way that I should. Not in a way that matters. Not in any way that means love.
(That isn’t quite the same as saying that I can’t – or don’t – try.)
“You should meet him,” I agree, with a slow nod of my head. “I think that he would like you.” I’m less sure as to whether or not Miriam would like him, but that is mostly because I’m not sure what kinds of people she likes at all. I’ve never known any of my sister’s friends; I’ve never even known that she has any. If she has ever loved anyone, it is as much a mystery to me as any love of mine must be to her. The only difference between us in this regard is that I’m sure that Miriam could love, if she were so inclined, because she loves all of us and means it.
(What I don’t say, Miriam, is that, if I could love anyone, I would have loved you first of all – and most.)
If Miriam’s question felt somehow uncharacteristic of her, it still seemed more like Miriam than her answer. It is lukewarm; almost entirely distant, bordering, somehow, on the apathetic. Of all of us, I would have thought that Miriam would have cared the most for Adonai’s illness, because she is his twin, the closest to his heart. “We’ve never been close,” I say, after a moment’s cautious contemplation. “That's all.” And – it’s true. Adonai and Miriam have had each other, and then there was the younger Miriam, the one who is gone. Pilate and Hagar are two of a kind, and, though they are not twins, Delilah and Corradh are closest to each other in heart, if not in temper.
I am the plainest, and the middlest, and the least a member of this house. And I am the one who was made alone – who never had another heart carved to match mine.
I don’t bother Miriam with those thoughts, however; least of all when she speaks again, in a voice that is like a sob, and I recognize her prior apathy as something more like repression. But honestly, Ruth. I am not worried about him dying. Our gods are not that kind. Something shifts in my chest, dark and confused and nearly-unpleasant. Would it be kinder for him to die? I do not understand. Adonai is not the same, now, and not pristine, and hindered, and-
(I do not understand why life has value. I have simply been told that it does, time and time again, until I have taken it for simple fact. Normal fact. Another thing that I should understand and must pretend that I do for the sake of politeness, but don’t.)
-and I cannot understand her words in any other way than that it would be better for him to be dead than to be sick or imperfect. My lips twitch, but they do not make any expression, and, for a moment, I draw closer to my sister, brushing my shoulder against her own. I have never been good at embracing anyone, much less offering the soft kisses and gentle touches that Miriam has always given so easily, but I linger there for a moment, my heart beating bird-frantic in my chest, and I manage to say, softly, “I’ll take another look at him. Perhaps there is something that the other doctors haven’t noticed-“ Or something that they’ve chosen to ignore, I think, but I do not say it. “-but, even if there isn’t, his recovery has been nothing short of a miracle already. He might continue to recover. He might still…live a normal life, with further care, and a bit more time.”
(The worst thing, I think, when the words are out of my mouth, is how they sound like they belong to a doctor discussing a patient, not a sister. They don’t sound like consolation, and there isn’t the barest scrap of love in them at all.)
Even I know that Adonai will never be normal, in the medical sense or as our brother, again. Even I know that his life has never been normal, and that it never will be again. But what I mean is that he might have normal things. What I mean is that I haven’t been given reason to give up yet, and I still won’t-
I’ve never liked Adonai. He and Pilate would tease me ferociously, as children, and ignore me entirely as they grew. I’ve never liked Adonai, but I’ve never been able to abide by a challenge, and I do not want Miriam to have that look on her face, either.
I linger a moment longer, pressed to her side like I might have when I was much, much younger, and then, abruptly, I turn on my heel. I don’t know what to say to her. I don’t know how to make this better; I don’t even know how to not make it worse. I look back at her, once, rolling my tongue between my teeth, and I say, “I’ll talk to him. And I’ll…visit again soon, when I have a break from my shifts.”
I make myself promise to mean it, this time.
I slip out of her door and into the bright light of the hallway again, and it is only then, out of the dark, that I can breathe.
@Miriam || <3 || atwood, "projected slide of an unknown soldier"
Do you love him, Ruth?
The answer isn’t so simple. If I were anyone else – if I were normal, and proper – I’m sure that the answer would be an easy yes, but, if I were that girl, the kind of Ruth that I’d seen reflected on the island’s mirrors, Miriam would never have to ask me if I love him, and she would never have to stumble over her words in the way that she does. (If I were that kind of girl, I wouldn’t be standing beside of Ishak. That kind of girl, I’m confident, would never have attracted his attention in the first place; she wouldn’t have saved him, either, or, even if she had, if she’d been the right type of bleeding heart, she wouldn’t have kept him at her side, or he wouldn’t have stayed.) But that doesn’t answer the question.
Do I love him?
If I am being honest, I don’t think that I can love anything. Not in the way that I should. Not in a way that matters. Not in any way that means love.
(That isn’t quite the same as saying that I can’t – or don’t – try.)
“You should meet him,” I agree, with a slow nod of my head. “I think that he would like you.” I’m less sure as to whether or not Miriam would like him, but that is mostly because I’m not sure what kinds of people she likes at all. I’ve never known any of my sister’s friends; I’ve never even known that she has any. If she has ever loved anyone, it is as much a mystery to me as any love of mine must be to her. The only difference between us in this regard is that I’m sure that Miriam could love, if she were so inclined, because she loves all of us and means it.
(What I don’t say, Miriam, is that, if I could love anyone, I would have loved you first of all – and most.)
If Miriam’s question felt somehow uncharacteristic of her, it still seemed more like Miriam than her answer. It is lukewarm; almost entirely distant, bordering, somehow, on the apathetic. Of all of us, I would have thought that Miriam would have cared the most for Adonai’s illness, because she is his twin, the closest to his heart. “We’ve never been close,” I say, after a moment’s cautious contemplation. “That's all.” And – it’s true. Adonai and Miriam have had each other, and then there was the younger Miriam, the one who is gone. Pilate and Hagar are two of a kind, and, though they are not twins, Delilah and Corradh are closest to each other in heart, if not in temper.
I am the plainest, and the middlest, and the least a member of this house. And I am the one who was made alone – who never had another heart carved to match mine.
I don’t bother Miriam with those thoughts, however; least of all when she speaks again, in a voice that is like a sob, and I recognize her prior apathy as something more like repression. But honestly, Ruth. I am not worried about him dying. Our gods are not that kind. Something shifts in my chest, dark and confused and nearly-unpleasant. Would it be kinder for him to die? I do not understand. Adonai is not the same, now, and not pristine, and hindered, and-
(I do not understand why life has value. I have simply been told that it does, time and time again, until I have taken it for simple fact. Normal fact. Another thing that I should understand and must pretend that I do for the sake of politeness, but don’t.)
-and I cannot understand her words in any other way than that it would be better for him to be dead than to be sick or imperfect. My lips twitch, but they do not make any expression, and, for a moment, I draw closer to my sister, brushing my shoulder against her own. I have never been good at embracing anyone, much less offering the soft kisses and gentle touches that Miriam has always given so easily, but I linger there for a moment, my heart beating bird-frantic in my chest, and I manage to say, softly, “I’ll take another look at him. Perhaps there is something that the other doctors haven’t noticed-“ Or something that they’ve chosen to ignore, I think, but I do not say it. “-but, even if there isn’t, his recovery has been nothing short of a miracle already. He might continue to recover. He might still…live a normal life, with further care, and a bit more time.”
(The worst thing, I think, when the words are out of my mouth, is how they sound like they belong to a doctor discussing a patient, not a sister. They don’t sound like consolation, and there isn’t the barest scrap of love in them at all.)
Even I know that Adonai will never be normal, in the medical sense or as our brother, again. Even I know that his life has never been normal, and that it never will be again. But what I mean is that he might have normal things. What I mean is that I haven’t been given reason to give up yet, and I still won’t-
I’ve never liked Adonai. He and Pilate would tease me ferociously, as children, and ignore me entirely as they grew. I’ve never liked Adonai, but I’ve never been able to abide by a challenge, and I do not want Miriam to have that look on her face, either.
I linger a moment longer, pressed to her side like I might have when I was much, much younger, and then, abruptly, I turn on my heel. I don’t know what to say to her. I don’t know how to make this better; I don’t even know how to not make it worse. I look back at her, once, rolling my tongue between my teeth, and I say, “I’ll talk to him. And I’ll…visit again soon, when I have a break from my shifts.”
I make myself promise to mean it, this time.
I slip out of her door and into the bright light of the hallway again, and it is only then, out of the dark, that I can breathe.
@
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
