Paroxysm

They stand still and silent for a few minutes. Eventually, they will move—stillness and silence never hold for too long between them—but for now, they stand. Still. Silent. Crepuscular light leaks through wide windows onto kitchen floor, and the body, spread-eagled atop tiles, has also begun to leak.

This is a nice kitchen, the youngest does not say, though she wants to. She’s never been in a kitchen so nice, L-shaped and pastel blue, a backsplash covered in hooks to hang utensils on. It makes her feel that much more oafish, dressed in hand-me-downs taken from church clothing drives, clawed fingers covered in gore. Messy. Ill-mannered. None of them have heartbeats anymore, but if they did, she thinks hers would be quickened by the shame of it all. Her feet are so dirty, they’ve left prints.

The middle one huffs and does not let elongated teeth stretch breath into growl, hands curling and uncurling, hunger an animal that eats inside him. The colour of the kitchen goes unnoticed. Everything goes unnoticed by him except for the moment of respect they are forced to enact, to endure, every time. Later, he will steal skirts from the upstairs bedroom and hem them to match the length of his sisters’ legs.

The eldest waits, as long as it would take to recite prayers she is no longer able to speak. Then she gestures to the others, watching over them as they begin to feed.

Palinopsia

A flash, burning: the live reporter’s panicked babbles, the static that overtook screen before the broadcast cut off and everything ended.

Stop. Re-direct. Flex fingers and relax shoulders, imagine roots unfurling from planted feet. You have two hours left till shift change. The walky-talky sputters again, blinking awake to vomit nonsense and distorted voltage. You write down the words you can make out. You do not respond when those words resemble pleas. For help, usually. For answers, sometimes. The transmitter’s probably been fucked with, anyway, so. Couldn’t respond even if you knew what you’d say. It’s like flax in your teeth, this mystery, one you prod at just for the distraction the itch in your gum provides: this task you’re all given of recording the world’s rigor mortis, the necessity they insist it has. Feels a little like busywork. The pencil is almost worn down to nothing, and you wonder, briefly, what you will use when it’s gone. You wonder, briefly, who will be ordered to venture outside and find more pencils.

Two hours. It’s doable.

Shift in chair, ignore wobble—dented leg—press palms to grimy table and pretend it’s an office, that you will go home at the end of the day. Keeps you from screaming the way that others have started to, first at night and now whenever. Easier when the walky-talky stays silent. Been a loud shift. You’ve been told not to think about why and you try, most times, to do as you’re told. Some mysteries, you’re learning, are too big to prod. Too many teeth in ‘em.

After you finish recording the latest round of word salad, the walky-talky goes quiet, stays quiet for long enough you can listen to the wind on the other side of the wall, imagine what it might feel like, drift a little. You tuck graphite stump under yellowing opened notebook, right side, to spare yourself the reminder. You roll your neck and tug fingers through roughened hair and think, yearning and sharp, of hot water and fruit-scented shampoo. The sound the walky-talky makes upon reactivation startles you. 

A flash, burning: the live reporter’s panicked babbles, the static that overtook screen before the broadcast cut off and everything ended.

Stop. Re-direct.

Peristalsis

I consume them in small increments to keep my guncotton heart from catching. Warmth, first, little leaches of body and breath left as afterimages in air, which they walk through and shiver and wonder aloud if the heating is something to call about. Old house, old bones. It’s understandable. They are an understanding pair. I glut myself on scraps till there is nothing to do but move closer, stand over sleeping forms and imagine the peel of skin from skullcap, cracked bone, sunk teeth into dreaming meat. So full of them already I simmer instead of blaze. I swallow what they make, sepia-seeped and slantwise happy, and leave myself as a stain inside them. When they wake, cold sweat for marinade and salpicon screams, they remind themselves of childhood disruption, of medication, of change and its insidious effects. It’s understandable. They are an understanding pair. They move through their old house with its old bones and decide they are unafraid, and I stuff every startle down my open maw. The hallways do not become bowels. I do not need them to. I swell stable and satiated, knock tableware to floor and burn bulbs and tap rhythms on walls, and they digest themselves for me. Avoiding immolation is as easy as taking the time to savour. 

Once I chew them down to quick, they put up a sign outside and guide the next ones through and lie, thoroughly, about the pleasure of old houses and the beauty of old bones. It’s understandable, they think. Those buyers are an understanding pair.