Lapvona

by Ottessa Moshfegh

At her age, in her loneliness, her mind was like a memory of a mind, echoes of birdsong.

She liked to believe on some level that she was inhuman, that God had granted her life after death with one caveat: she might live forever. The slow hell. Marek’s visit broke up the monotony of this timelessness.

But such was death—it had nothing to say.

She blamed Marek. He looked just like a bird. A bird whose mother had pushed it from the nest, who’d survived but could barely fly anymore, only flutter around jaggedly and enjoy the attention it got from the snakes, it was so deranged.

Everything he asked her was a plea for affection. He didn’t care for her, not really. He only wanted to seduce her by seeming to care, so that she would care for him. Children are selfish, she thought. They rob you of life. They thrive as you toil and wither, and then they bury you, their tears never once falling out of regret for what they’ve stolen.

There was no right way to deal with grief, of course. When God gives you more than you can tolerate, you turn to instinct. And instinct is a force beyond anyone’s control.