Fallout
Written by: Sarah
At first, there’s only absence. A question breaking. And then—the dull throb of awareness.
Something happened here. Something happened to me. Like a cavity in my tooth, I prod the thing with my tongue. The hole widens; the nerve retreats.
People are everywhere. The suggestions of people are everywhere. Pointillist people. Pixelated people. Peter piper picked a peck of
A woman screaming. Across the . . . field. I envy her the sharp cry of pain. The climax it stakes. A child drifts by, dragging a stuffed animal. Is this my responsibility? Do I know this child, her glassy-eyed bear? Before I can act, she is pulled through the grey curtain.
I sit down.
“Hello there.”
I look over.
“Hi.”
“Nice weather we’re having.”
I shrug.
“Bit hazy for my taste.”
He laughs.
“I used to live in England. So.”
“Ah.”
“Are you waiting for the next flight?”
“No. You?”
“It’s rather taking its time, isn’t it.”
“Yes. Rather.”
I haven’t the foggiest of what he’s talking about. But I find I can still be agreeable.
“You don’t know why you’re here, do you?”
“Yes, I do,” I say.
He nods.
“Tell me, friend. What’s the last thing you remember?”
His hand-his hand-his hand on
“Nothing,” I say. “I remember nothing.”
Peter Piper picked a peck . . .
“I see.”
. . . of pickled hands.
“It’s impossible to see. There is nothing to see. Therefore, you see nothing.”
He shrugs.
“It’s here if you look.”
“Excuse me. I think I’ll wait over there.”
“So you are waiting for the next flight.”
“Yes. No. I’m waiting on my . . . tooth.”
I shake my head. That can’t be right. But he nods and starts to whistle. An old Civil War tune. Yet he said he’s British. Or was.
My head is starting to hurt. I need to walk. My footsteps are vacant. I drift like the child, I drag like the bear, but no one gets any closer than when I first started out.
Time is a crater. I walk in the valley of moons. The shadows of tides fight over me. I let them all pull with the ghosts of their hands.
Mist has a weight. You wouldn’t think—but yes. It does. It collects on my hair, my clothes, my teeth and eyes. Like a greasy fallout. At some point, I will become more mist than woman. I will glow like a grey flame, I will scratch like a Geiger counter. I will be buried beneath magnets and no pipers will play at my pepper.
Peter.
I look down.
Down at my hands. There, at the ends of my arms. They are turning red. My hands are turning red. Crimson surrounding the nails, magenta at my wrists. The site boosts the grime from my eyes. I can see the blood light up my veins. I look real close now.
I can even see what flowed inside.
And he came on a wave-and we loved on a cloud-and when the time came-he was right by my side.
My tongue touches its root. I cry out.
