Monstrilio

by Gerardo Sámano Córdova

Art had no answer, he said, and no right way to be.

I’d scolded him when I should have celebrated his steps into humanhood. Wobbly steps, but we’re all wobbly at first. I was still wobbly.

“How do you make sure people don’t stop liking you?”

A rush of overlapping scenarios cluttered my brain: Peter helping us escape; Peter shouting, “Murderer!” and calling the police; Peter trying to kill M; M eating Peter.

It was hard to focus on one feeling.

But I had Santiago’s memories. His frailty and unwieldy kindness.

I pretend my time as Monstrilio is hazy. Muffled sounds and blurred colors. I say I remember warmth. But I don’t say I miss my fur.

Maybe I’m imagining my lung’s failure because I want to be Santiago. I breathed just fine as Monstrilio.

I’m still hungry, but I won’t ask for more.

I wade through the shadows of our living room, hoping to find monsters. Chat with them. Laugh. But there are no monsters in these shadows. Only me.

Monstrilio was hungry all the time. The difference is he didn’t know he shouldn’t be.

We have sex. They say I’m good at it. Wild. Fun. They are satisfied. I’m left hungry.

How hard do you bite? I could eat you, I write back.

Ahead of me there’s only darkness. It will swallow me. But I don’t panic. The panic is not mine to carry anymore. I can let it go.