save me, i think i'm losing my mind / you said you'd come for me when the world swallowed me whole / well, this is war
Ruth speaks, and I do not hear her. There is water in my ear, sloshing behind my brain, flooding the atriums of my lungs. I know there is no water — no water in a desert — but my ear does not know; my brain thinks it is drowning; my lungs are relieved it is water instead of blood.
I wonder sorrowfully if it is the poison. Everything, after that night, I wonder if it is the poison. If I asked my sister I know she would give me the right answer. But she is talking to me now, and my ears are full of water.
She talks, and I know it is about the poison.
“Wasting. Headaches? General weakness.” I nod along like a boat on a storm-tossed sea; were I of worse constitution, I might even have laughed. “Delusions. Loss of speech. Erratic or compulsive behavior or thoughts. Paranoia?”
Laughed, and said, how well you know everything, Ruth. (My laugh-heavy tongue curls around these words but do not release them.) My water-heavy head rolls against the angel’s wing, cheek to marble, small bright droplets melting off from my heat. I roll my tongue; I try to scoop out the water with an iron bucket filled with holes.
Hand me a parchment filled with all the symptoms you know, Ruth, and I will look at you like a man of honor before dipping my quill into the inkpot to slash two black lines over everything. Like an X on the face of a treasure map.
Because it is everything. Because it is all of it. Because I am a particular breed of greedy (the kind that hides behind velvet curtains of selflessness) that when I suffer — even then, I must have it all. Even then, I must have everything.
(Like the way I took Mother away from you. Like the way I left only slivers of Miriam to love you. Like the way I would talk and talk and talk at dinners and parties and court, not knowing who I was impressing, not knowing why I wanted so badly to stop, not knowing how to leave room for doll-mouthed sisters and angel-winged brothers.
Not knowing. My crime is always not knowing.)
But my tongue feels like a dead rat in my mouth and my head is flooded full of water. The water is not real; the iron bucket is less real; and illness does not turn a man into a confessional. My words choke like funeral ash when they recede back into the ocean trapped in my lungs.
Ruth is bending her knees to peer into my eyes, and I remember that my sister is talking. I taste sugar on my tongue, think back to the confection that left it there. The tart, I recall, dully. I look up at Ruth now but don’t really see her; I try again.
I look up at Ruth now and the smile that comes hot and slow shouldn’t feel so much like pain. “I know that our brother has put himself in charge of your care. Should I speak with him about your condition?” she says.
“Ruth,” I say back, and the steadiness of my voice shocks me. “I want to know —" I lick my lips and remember that arsenic is tasteless. “I want to know that you understand what you have asked me.” My breath pinches, then, and when the cough I await does not come, I trudge on, my mouth like a bright red gash.
I look to the door; listen to the silence of a hall made for a hundred, occupied by two. Ruth does not need to give me an answer. It is spoken for her, by the emptiness of this hall.
“No. You knew. Is Ishak guarding the door?” I am still quick, despite the water (despite the poison). Quick like a prince with six successors behind him. “Do you see the lines drawn in the sand, sister?” My voice is soft, softer, softest.
“Don’t ask Pilate.” Our brother’s name echoes along the audience of statues. I lurch myself up to standing; I am a white tower, swaying over her.
“If you do, then he will know.” And the lines will be drawn, blood in the sand.
I wonder sorrowfully if it is the poison. Everything, after that night, I wonder if it is the poison. If I asked my sister I know she would give me the right answer. But she is talking to me now, and my ears are full of water.
She talks, and I know it is about the poison.
“Wasting. Headaches? General weakness.” I nod along like a boat on a storm-tossed sea; were I of worse constitution, I might even have laughed. “Delusions. Loss of speech. Erratic or compulsive behavior or thoughts. Paranoia?”
Laughed, and said, how well you know everything, Ruth. (My laugh-heavy tongue curls around these words but do not release them.) My water-heavy head rolls against the angel’s wing, cheek to marble, small bright droplets melting off from my heat. I roll my tongue; I try to scoop out the water with an iron bucket filled with holes.
Hand me a parchment filled with all the symptoms you know, Ruth, and I will look at you like a man of honor before dipping my quill into the inkpot to slash two black lines over everything. Like an X on the face of a treasure map.
Because it is everything. Because it is all of it. Because I am a particular breed of greedy (the kind that hides behind velvet curtains of selflessness) that when I suffer — even then, I must have it all. Even then, I must have everything.
(Like the way I took Mother away from you. Like the way I left only slivers of Miriam to love you. Like the way I would talk and talk and talk at dinners and parties and court, not knowing who I was impressing, not knowing why I wanted so badly to stop, not knowing how to leave room for doll-mouthed sisters and angel-winged brothers.
Not knowing. My crime is always not knowing.)
But my tongue feels like a dead rat in my mouth and my head is flooded full of water. The water is not real; the iron bucket is less real; and illness does not turn a man into a confessional. My words choke like funeral ash when they recede back into the ocean trapped in my lungs.
Ruth is bending her knees to peer into my eyes, and I remember that my sister is talking. I taste sugar on my tongue, think back to the confection that left it there. The tart, I recall, dully. I look up at Ruth now but don’t really see her; I try again.
I look up at Ruth now and the smile that comes hot and slow shouldn’t feel so much like pain. “I know that our brother has put himself in charge of your care. Should I speak with him about your condition?” she says.
“Ruth,” I say back, and the steadiness of my voice shocks me. “I want to know —" I lick my lips and remember that arsenic is tasteless. “I want to know that you understand what you have asked me.” My breath pinches, then, and when the cough I await does not come, I trudge on, my mouth like a bright red gash.
I look to the door; listen to the silence of a hall made for a hundred, occupied by two. Ruth does not need to give me an answer. It is spoken for her, by the emptiness of this hall.
“No. You knew. Is Ishak guarding the door?” I am still quick, despite the water (despite the poison). Quick like a prince with six successors behind him. “Do you see the lines drawn in the sand, sister?” My voice is soft, softer, softest.
“Don’t ask Pilate.” Our brother’s name echoes along the audience of statues. I lurch myself up to standing; I am a white tower, swaying over her.
“If you do, then he will know.” And the lines will be drawn, blood in the sand.
BRIGHT SPLASH OF BLOOD ON THE FLOOR. ASTONISHING RED.
(All that brightness inside me?)
(All that brightness inside me?)
♦︎♔♦︎
