Monstrilio

by Gerardo Sámano Córdova

I believed that flower was my son reincarnated. One believes the stupidest things in grief. I spoke to the flower and called it my son. And then I laughed because how ridiculous—how cruel, really—it would have been if my son was reincarnated as something so ephemeral, frail, and beautiful. I killed that first bloom with one swoop of my hand. Dead again, my son could become something else: the shell of a tortoise, strong and ancient, or a hideous fanged creature deep in the sea where he’d see wonders even he could’ve never imagined.

He asked me to cry with him, but his sadness was his and I couldn’t steal it.

I saw my husband try to claw himself out of whatever dark, damp hole he was in. He huffed and slammed doors. He kicked walls. I observed him so that when he succeeded, when the day came that he finally pulled himself out—by anger, most likely—the day he did not seem doomed, I would know. Maybe he’d have a rope to throw me. He did not succeed.

I can be very human, though for a while I refused to. I wouldn’t even go out. The world was scary. Worse. I was scary in it.

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. I don’t say I’m hungry because my hunger is what makes everyone scared. They are happy to believe I forgot how they maimed me.