I Was Anastasia

by Ariel Lawhon

I am like my father in that way, I fear. Anger first, reason second.

He has the look of a man who was recently handsome but doesn’t know what to do with himself now that’s he’s turned the corner of bald and portly.

“I am not Christ. I cannot bear my own suffering, much less his.”

I am angry as well because I want my mother to comfort me and she doesn’t. She is drowning in her own fear and cannot be bothered to assuage mine. This, I suppose, is what it means to be grown. I add this feeling to the list of things I hate.

My sister stands before me, but she is missing somehow, removed from her body.

She believed that if she was lucky enough to survive that night, she would live in slow motion forever. The experience became a door in her mind that, when pushed too hard, swings toward madness.

Anna simply threw herself toward the darkness, hoping to be consumed.