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| Rating | Rated by |  | | 10 | Beatrice Boyle | | | | 10 | TheRealKarmaTse.. | |
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Her father wanted a boy. She cut her hair and bore a son. She knew how to shoot, but it wasn’t enough. Her father wanted a boy.
He hung on a hook, on the back of her door. Her dear, dead brother, like Sunday clothes. That’s how she pictured him, hanging like that, something to put on, something to wear.
Her father wanted a boy. She had no way to be, but she had one to give. So she gave him me and then faded to black. Like she didn’t exist, as if she never had.
Death dragged its heels for her. But she seemed to be saying she could die just as good. She was equal to them in her dying. She could die like the best, weak heart or no.
They tried to tell her what to expect. But she already knew, knew the same way as them. She tells them she knows how they know what will happen. She smiles at them sweetly, and spits.
Her heart was not the first thing to go. For a strange non-time after her organs had failed her, those ugly machines sleep-walked through motions, oxygenating an impatient ghost.
Her father had wanted a boy. But I don’t think they have those where she’s gone.
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The human race, the only race I know where everybody loses.
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