the pot slipped from my hands and shattered upon the tiles. as i stooped to scoop up the shards, a fragment bit like a fang and drew a drop of blood from my finger. i muttered, “fuck.” it was this magic word that conjured from the already potent mixture of blood, soil, and clay: an imp. she was smaller than my pinky. her skin was as red as blood and slightly translucent, her organs glowed like jewels, her eyes and teeth shone bright and black, and her mouth opened and closed, opened and closed, in a pattern of urgency. but she was so small that i could not hear her.
“you’ll need to shout it into my ear,” i said, and i placed my hand beside her on the floor. she rode my palm to my shoulder, where she left miniature bloody handprints and footprints as she scrambled for purchase. then she leaped to, that is, straight INTO my ear. she just dived right in, poured herself in like liquid, and i fainted.
when i regained consciousness, i found little drops of blood on my shoulder and a thread of blood trickling from my ear. later, a doctor informed me that i had suffered a concussion, and that probably explained away the hallucinations. i got better; my skull and gray matter are both in fine, physical form now…
the thing is, i still hear this voice inside my head. it is the tiny, red voice of my small, bloody homunculus. it is the song that gets stuck in my head in the morning, and the sad story remembered late at night. it is the sly whisper purred when i begin to feel confident, and the curse spat with spite when i think i am happy. it is a true story, and it is a magnificent lie. but mostly it is just a comedy of errors as told by a woman muttering to herself — over and over again, over the sound of her own slipping, shattering, cutting, and bleeding — “fuck.”
“What is it thou knowest, sweet voice?” I cried.
a still small voice spake unto me
posted by susie on Sunday, July 28, 2013, at 5:14 am. Both comments and trackbacks are currently closed.