~ after “Who Opened the Window,” Jessica Damen
It looks like an ordinary room. Perhaps a summer
house. No gilt decor, just walls of dirty-looking cream
bordered with green. The humid air moves like an animal
through the trees. You would need to crack a window open
though it would probably not make a difference. A man
in a merino sweater, hand on hip, stands behind a woman
in a chair. She is in middle age, perhaps farther along, but she
wears the look of what some might call good breeding.
Her hand cups her cheek so we can see the diamond
on one finger. This means she is taken. Was taken. Did he
do the taking? His face, turned toward the fourth wall between
us, is bored or indifferent. He’s the kind who takes easily, and
after having taken, runs his fingers through his hair, moving
on to the calculation of the next conquest. On the dinner table,
a pewter samovar and cup; a weighted object in the shape
of a horned, eyeless head. I see another woman there—
but there are two. Just girls, actually. They seem to almost
have the same body, though the one who sits upright has a face
still mostly unshadowed. Her head turns away; she can’t bear
to look too closely. The other has gone pale and limp as the beast
forces his girth into her. From what labyrinth has he fled
extradition, tired of the game of winding thread and waiting for
periodic delivery of sacrifices? A small, yellow-feathered marionette,
mouth agape, is the only seeming witness. Yet it’s enough, isn’t it—
a start? A record is being made here. Not everything can be
erased, though it will take time for their voices to be heard.