clothes and skin, looking for any giveaway, any clue as to who this was; but seemingly I didnât know my family well enough. Take their faces away, and I couldnât tell one cousin from another.
This one, this cousin wasnât dead yet, and neither was his body dead, though I thought perhaps the two of them were independent now. I thought his body might go on containing life for a while, only that it wouldnât be his own. I thought giant maggots infested his flesh, because I could see them writhing.
Even in that cold light he looked hot, and when I touched him his skin was baking dry, baking from the inside out and scurvy with salt, where all his moisture was leaving him. Touching him, I felt something buck and swell beneath my fingers, hardening like an egg in a hurry as it grew, as I saw it distend on his arm.
I snatched my hand away, too late ever to forget how that had felt.
Watching, surely doing no more than wait for an inevitable death in the family, it never occurred to me to call for the doctor somewhere in the night behind me. Even if Iâd liked the man, if Iâd wanted to let him anywhere near any cousin of mine, there was no work for him here. This was talent at work, and way beyond any talent there might be in the medical profession. We might inhabit the same world, but Jacko would say that even the molecules in our bodies marched to a different beat.
I had a body in my arms now, I was hugging a cousin I couldnât name, although I loathed to touch him. I only watched his face, but there I saw things swell like muscles clenching, and move like internal leeches through his veins.
His eyes were open, watching me; but he was long past screaming now. All the whites of his eyes were black, and God only knew what he was seeing. I didnât believe it, try though I might, though I did; but still I hoped, I hoped he saw a cousin, he saw family come to hold him at the last.
I couldnât help it, weâre a sentimental breed. Rod McKuen poetry and big-eyed little kittens, and all that candyfloss crap. It worked, somehow; even for me, even then, it still worked. Went with the territory, I guess. When home is the definition of comfort and family is the only definition of home, emotions need to be as artificial and dishonest as the environment, and they need to feel as real.
And you could see through it, as I had; and you could try to walk away, as I did; and you still wound up taking it all with you. âSeasons in the Sunâ could still make me sniffle. And yes, if a man had to die, I still thought he should die with his family around him.
Christ, sometimes I still thought that was what I wanted for myself. Morbidity went with the territory too, especially the territory that I occupied then, that Iâd hacked out for myself; I thought about dying all the time. And when I thought about doing it slowly and in a bed, it was family I imagined being there with me. Faces in the gloom, Jamie and Uncle Allan. They were the ones I wanted. Not my parents, so much: they could be there if they chose, but I wouldnât send for them. Favourite uncle and favourite cousin had always been my choice, and still was.
And Laura, of course. Family, right? Favourite uncle, favourite cousin, wife. That was how I dreamt it, when I allowed myself to dream.
Dreamingâs shit, sometimes.
o0o
Dreamingâs shit, but dyingâs worse; and watching someone die, that comes somewhere between the two, I guess. It ainât good, but itâs got to be better than the other thing, better than doing it yourself. Hasnât it?
o0o
Couldnât hold his gaze, not with pale blue irises bulging at me, all but engulfed in sick black; but I didnât take my eyes from his changing face. I owed him that much, at least, whoever he was; and slowly, slowly I worked it out. All the flesh on him was in motion, heaving and subsiding like mud in a geyser-hole, a little too thick to burst; but his bones
This one, this cousin wasnât dead yet, and neither was his body dead, though I thought perhaps the two of them were independent now. I thought his body might go on containing life for a while, only that it wouldnât be his own. I thought giant maggots infested his flesh, because I could see them writhing.
Even in that cold light he looked hot, and when I touched him his skin was baking dry, baking from the inside out and scurvy with salt, where all his moisture was leaving him. Touching him, I felt something buck and swell beneath my fingers, hardening like an egg in a hurry as it grew, as I saw it distend on his arm.
I snatched my hand away, too late ever to forget how that had felt.
Watching, surely doing no more than wait for an inevitable death in the family, it never occurred to me to call for the doctor somewhere in the night behind me. Even if Iâd liked the man, if Iâd wanted to let him anywhere near any cousin of mine, there was no work for him here. This was talent at work, and way beyond any talent there might be in the medical profession. We might inhabit the same world, but Jacko would say that even the molecules in our bodies marched to a different beat.
I had a body in my arms now, I was hugging a cousin I couldnât name, although I loathed to touch him. I only watched his face, but there I saw things swell like muscles clenching, and move like internal leeches through his veins.
His eyes were open, watching me; but he was long past screaming now. All the whites of his eyes were black, and God only knew what he was seeing. I didnât believe it, try though I might, though I did; but still I hoped, I hoped he saw a cousin, he saw family come to hold him at the last.
I couldnât help it, weâre a sentimental breed. Rod McKuen poetry and big-eyed little kittens, and all that candyfloss crap. It worked, somehow; even for me, even then, it still worked. Went with the territory, I guess. When home is the definition of comfort and family is the only definition of home, emotions need to be as artificial and dishonest as the environment, and they need to feel as real.
And you could see through it, as I had; and you could try to walk away, as I did; and you still wound up taking it all with you. âSeasons in the Sunâ could still make me sniffle. And yes, if a man had to die, I still thought he should die with his family around him.
Christ, sometimes I still thought that was what I wanted for myself. Morbidity went with the territory too, especially the territory that I occupied then, that Iâd hacked out for myself; I thought about dying all the time. And when I thought about doing it slowly and in a bed, it was family I imagined being there with me. Faces in the gloom, Jamie and Uncle Allan. They were the ones I wanted. Not my parents, so much: they could be there if they chose, but I wouldnât send for them. Favourite uncle and favourite cousin had always been my choice, and still was.
And Laura, of course. Family, right? Favourite uncle, favourite cousin, wife. That was how I dreamt it, when I allowed myself to dream.
Dreamingâs shit, sometimes.
o0o
Dreamingâs shit, but dyingâs worse; and watching someone die, that comes somewhere between the two, I guess. It ainât good, but itâs got to be better than the other thing, better than doing it yourself. Hasnât it?
o0o
Couldnât hold his gaze, not with pale blue irises bulging at me, all but engulfed in sick black; but I didnât take my eyes from his changing face. I owed him that much, at least, whoever he was; and slowly, slowly I worked it out. All the flesh on him was in motion, heaving and subsiding like mud in a geyser-hole, a little too thick to burst; but his bones
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