Hungerstone

by Kat Dunn

This is foolish—I am foolish, spilling my heart as though I am still a girl in short skirts, as though anyone cares about my history. If I give in to that impulse, the need to be seen, understood by another, then I do not know what howling wave of past pain may capsize me.

My existence was a burden to all involved with it, and I resolved to never make any demand if I could help it. Then, perhaps, I could be tolerated. Then, perhaps, I could be loved.

All I had was myself, and the weight of that burden was almost more than I could bear.

A carapace suited me better than soft skin, and I found it powerful to want nothing: for then I could never be disappointed.

I had not survived everything I had to end here, with the stupidity of one man.

Let them look. I am a horror.

I am a woman woken from thirty years slumber, and I would eat the world should it satisfy this empty, keening void where my heart should be. I would cry with grief over my life so unfulfilled, and drink down the salty tears, eat my worthless tongue and impotent fingers, skin this carcass and pick the bones clean.

I understand. It is too much to look at suffering directly. We can only survive if we close our eyes; reality is not a thing to be experienced raw.

Who would I be if I was someone who wanted things?