PHANTOM

« And if the physical death is the price the subject has to pay
to free him from a permanent death of the spirit,
nothing thus could be more redeeming. »

I remember running bare-foot in the Slovenian woods, dogs barking behind me and heart beating fast in my chest. I can't remember why, but I remember fear. Fear of Father. Or fear of feather, I don't really remember. Two versions of the story fight in my head, as if two people were remembering the same scene.

I remember rocks and brambles; an ice-cold river. Wet fields, one road, two trees and a shrine in the distance. Brother is here, now genderless bones. At the sight of his body, I become an enfant sans bouche.

Adieu.

I remember tipping the velvet: the soft and shiny blue velvet. I remember drinking the velvet too: the rich and heavy black velvet.

Then, suddenly, the velvet became fiery red and I cried inside.

And everything faded out.

SALIGIA

"What is left of us when all
our memories are gone?"

La diaphanéité de l'être.

They are all talking. Always. At first, they were filling the eternal blank, the endless silence of my life. But too much freedom led them to overpowering me. They became my thoughts. Cute porcelain dolls with their cute porcelain faces; doe eyes and pouty lips became the voices in my head.

They told me to hate the birds, that the birds will come at night and peck out my eyes. I believed them, so I slaughtered them and burned them in feathering pyres. Rooks and nightingales were piling high on each sides of the road, the road that led to the shrine.

Revengeful singing birds eventually set the voiceless pouty-mouthed dolls on fire. My blonde hair became a fiery crown for the scorched mouthless queen; my cheeks melted and my teeth exploded.

Monday-Superbia

Every night I was catching the eye of another gorgeous creature. Boasting and bragging, I was seducing them with my beauty and charm. Now I'm old and ugly and nobody loves me the way they did. I still have my treasures at home, the lovely treasures I found and stole, but I know they're going to run away someday. Punishing them and loving him don't break their spirits anymore; it only strengthens their mutual support. I try to repeat again and again that they can't live without me, but these words don't reassure me as much as before.

I wanted to be their god, because God dropped me into hellish reality, told me lies and didn't protect me. I wanted to be their omnipotent Father, to love them and bring them everything. I wanted to be the Lord of my own realm and overthrow God.

If God can love and punish his children, why can't I?

Wednesday-Luxuria

Father loves me too much, but it might stop soon. Each time, I pray and it makes him even madder. He wants to be our only god. But God wouldn't hurt us if we hadn't sinned, would he? Maybe am I a sinner and Father punishes me for things I don't remember. He sometimes says I'm too proud, but most of the time, he suspects me of something else. I know I could stand up now. I could punish him as much as he punishes me. I could be a god too. But I bend the knee and lower the neck. I have someone to protect. What would we become if I'm not here?

Victims of lust are still guilty of lust. God punishes weak minds. I always pray, every time Father is loving me or punishing me, I pray, and every time I go back to the heat of my bed, near this other body, we pray and try not to sin.

We should run away, but a haunted spirit is too weak.

Sunday-Acedia

Sometimes, I spend whole days in bed, waiting for time to go by. It's not temperance it's pure sloth. I bury my head in the pillows and wait here, naked in the coldness of my room. Feeling goose bumps entirely covering my diaphanous skin and breeze gently caressing the back of my knees is lovely, actually. It is dangerous, though. I heard once that, apparently, weird men were watching me, hidden in the garden cypress hedges. Father found one once and decided to gouge his eyes out. Nobody is allowed to see my precious alabaster skin. I can't be seen but I can see; Father does not care. I know well that he and the gardeners also use the cypress hedges as merging places. I can't talk and I don't allow people to read my writing; nobody cares about what I know, then.

I know a lot of things, but I'm too lazy and sad to care. Sometimes I don't even see the use of praying or eating and I might as well be dead. But a corpse can't write, can it?

Tuesday-Avaritia

Father is drunk and tries to find excuses to punish us again. My treasure is in the bathroom but the door is not locked. Father is bawling out about me bringing some girls here for vile purposes and using his special gear. He can smell it, he says. I know it's not true, but I also know there is no use to resist. Slowly, I kneel and pray. If I keep quiet, Father might forget about the other one.

Pulling my hair, he drags me towards my room. His bear-like arms lift me easily and I know that if I don't do what he wants, he would squash my face with his hairy knuckles. He is always greedy for violence and hates it when we touch his things. If he were not that jealous, I believe he would have sold or rented us to always buy, again and again. Yelling nonsense, he pulls down my pants and takes off his belt.

Blinding pain and deafening sound. I hide behind prayers; my spirit wanders. I try not to wince but I can't help shivering from disgust when his skin touches mine.

I believe that Father is going to burn in hell. But I know my prayers: I will join him in the cold flames. Because I want him dead.

Thursday-Invidia

I come home and I hear noise. The kind of noise we do when Father punishes me. Immediately, I think of Brother and I run.

But when I open the door, Father is punishing a woman I don't know. She doesn't notice I'm here, but Father looks into my eyes and grins. I feel a weird heat invading my being, a heat I linked to fear as it often happens when I'm punished by Father.

At this particular moment, I envy him and hope I will be like him some day.

Friday-Gula

When I sleep with Brother, I sometimes wake up and feel a huge hunger ravaging my stomach, a strong hunger I desperately want to fill in. When I am invaded by this void, I live to the excess. I want to eat, I want to drink, I want to swallow and gulp down everything I encounter. I can't go downstairs; I don't want to wake Brother up. And if Father caught me eating in the middle of the night without having asked him before, I could spend the rest of the night in the fridge or in the larder, as a punishment, until Brother finally gets up and starts looking for me. Father is cruel but fair. He earns money and buys food. We are just parasites. We need to be thankful and respectful and let him love us the way he wishes.

Instead of devouring, I watch Brother, bite my fingers and eat my hair. I wonder what he would say, finding me eating my own hair in the middle of the night, just a few inches from him. His body reminds me our love, but it's hard not to digest him.

Saturday-Ira

I have killed. My hands are burnt with the seal of murder; branded with the blood of my blood. How could too much love lead to infanticide? Oh Lord. What have I done?

My precious treasure is gone forever; lost. I had sworn to only love it, to give it everything it was asking for. But something went mad in my mind and blinded by wrath, I turned my treasure into ashes. Ashes to ashes, lust to lust. The other ran away. Who am I going to love now?

I thought I was fine; I thought I was a perfect Lord in a perfect world, caring for my sheep. I thought I was a better God, a better Father. But I was wrong and it is too late to confess. I killed my child; going to the seven hells and back won't change anything. Oh Father I have sinned.

Monday-Humility

Inaltérable.

Every night and every day, we are facing up. Together we are strong, together we are one. Together. As one against all others. But two enemies tear us apart. Father loves Brother too much, and Little girl, mouthless queen hysterically commands me to write and read and forget about my other. I don't want us to be divided. I don't remember the truth, though.

At dawn, we are still here, pressed against each other, skin to skin and we imagine a new beginning rise behind the sun. Father snores. Brother and I want to flee and follow the bears in the woods, but we could never catch up to them as fast as we run. Instead of that, we kneel near the window and hand-in-hand we humbly pray for our love to never end.

We were something fatal that fell into the wrong hands.

Wednesday-Chastity

Father never loved me, but it might start soon. Strangely, I believe he will not love me the way he loves Brother, because you can't have two true loves. I think he's going to love me the old-fashioned way, being nice only to make me believe I'm loved. When you know you are loved, you don't need any proof, you simply know it. I think he will ask me to come closer some day and he will stroke my hair while I will be sitting in his lap. And after a while, it will be over, without any crisis, any struggle, without any pain, seamlessly.

But for now, I shall remain loveless and pray God every day. We thus might be saved.

Sunday-Diligence

I feel like some Cinderella.

Sweeping and cleaning and cooking and washing, I slave away while Father is naked, sleeping. He rests from his sleepless nights punishing and loving Brother. Brother disappeared at dawn and I'm trying to make the house perfect for him. Every morning I remember he doesn't like living there and I fear that some day he will just not return. I don't understand, though. Father is hard, but he loves Brother and often shows it. I only hope that Brother will never leave me alone, because if he does, I might as well be dead. Father does not love me.

A presence commands me to stop, arguing that a mouthless queen doesn't clean. But my love for Brother is stronger. I only hope that he will never leave me, because if he does, I might as well be not me anymore. She is louder each day, she starts learning how to talk and say things, how to use her powers. I spend whole days shifting and rocking between me and her, between being me, a cub that lacks and seeks fatherly love and her, the mouthless writing queen that loathes birds. I get more porous each time Brother is not here, and maybe someday, he will come back home and notice I am not me anymore.

In the mean time, I keep cleaning. I persist moving and being busy not to over think. Usually she gets so mad that she starts sulking and I remember pouty lips and doe eyes, the fire and the melting cheeks.

Oh Brother, come back home, please, don't leave me alone with her.

Tuesday-Charity

The water scalds my skin and the smoke that rises reminds me of the night I roasted. Outside, Father is yelling again at Brother for nothing. I don't dare move. I want to disappear. If I keep quiet, Father might forget about me.

Father is loving Brother again. As usual, they don't talk, because true love doesn't need words. I close my eyes, ears and mind. I don't want to see. I don't want to hear. I don't want to know. I just want to rest in piece.

Slowly, I begin the prayer. I implore Virgin Mary the charitable to forgive me and my brother, to wash our sins and help us out. I wait for a purification that never comes. Noises outside has stopped; in the now cold water, I scratch my stomach and thighs and shed long silent tears.

Sainte Marie, Mère de Dieu, priez pour nous, pauvres pêcheurs, maintenant, et à l'heure de notre mort.

But only does the little girl answer my prayers: "Oh why, Mother, why?"

Thursday-Kindness

Father is out, hunting for witches and bears. He hates them, but he doesn't know I am one of them and he is too.

People hate me but I love them. I can't read to them what I write, but I show them what I draw. I don't think they care though. Sometimes, I regret acting this way with the birds. I confessed it; I was told to be kind to balance this envy I feel devouring my inside.

I try to. Really. But sometimes, I just think kind people are crushed in a vise. The sinful ones are everywhere. I'm even sure that Father is one of them. I remember once seeing his body merge with one of our maids and I'm quite certain it was not very Christ-like.

Friday-Temperance

Sometimes, I spend whole day in my favourite armchair, waiting for time to go by. It's not sloth it's pure temperance. I often don't know how to act, how to react, and I need to adapt. It's hard for me to know what is acceptable and what is not. Thus I spend all days long sitting in my armchair and thinking and writing and thinking and writing, imagining all the scenarios that could happen. I don't want to make bad decisions. I know I can't say regrettable things, but I don't want to act strangely out of fear or out of ignorance. I need to know. Everything.

In the garden, Father is merging with someone.

Saturday-Patience

Notre Père qui êtes odieux, que votre nom soit sanctifié, que votre règne vienne, que votre volonté soit faite sur la terre comme au ciel...

Patiently, I pray. When I pray this apocryphal Father, I parody. Only God deserves my prayer. I hear noise and wait. A girly voice asks me to sing but I can't: I have to be quiet, or I'll be punished. She commands me to draw, to draw her a sheep and I execute. I and she tend to merge more and more often these days, but only when Brother is not here. Instead of a sheep, I draw a bear: she gets really infuriated and starts hurting me with my own hands. Patiently, I pray and notice new bruises and scratches. I punish me. This is a lesser evil.

Every day is the same. I only remember praying and waiting. Maybe I just don't want the truth to be true.

Je dévore.
Assassin de mon propre corps, je me performe, je me transforme. Alternance de corps éclatés.

Je ne me souviens plus.

I don't remember when or how many years. I think I just started doing it, as one starts smoking or biting one's nails; slowly, gradually, seamlessly. At first, an afternoon tea, then a breakfast or a dinner and in my last year, all meals; I was either avoiding them, either rejecting them.

J'affamais. Je vomissais.

If I had to, I could say that it started at puberty and I could try to find a meaningful and logical reason to it appearing, one morning, as menses do. I could tell you that it was a defensive reaction to the modifications in my being, to the growing of body parts, of hair, of drives and urges; that it was a way to remain genderless, thinnest among the thinnest. Bones are not gendered.

But is that kind of thing ever meaningful or even true at all?

Birds

I hate birds.

Every morning they are there, near my window, chirping and tweeting and cheeping and trilling and warbling; annoying. They sing, sing, sing; taunting. Hearing them breaks my heart, spirit and being.

One day I had enough and started using slings to scare them. Killing them was so sweet; cruelty had never felt that good before. Tearing their wings apart and looking at their entrails was such a satisfaction. Soon enough though, birds started to disappear; they all had learned about the monstrous little girl that was killing them for pleasure and had even made up a story called the cruel little mouthless girl.

I don't care. Feathering pyres are masterpieces. I just wish I could sing.

My dad is a bear and I'm his cub. But I love my brother most. He watched me grow. He loved me and protected me.

Je me souviens de ma première déchirure.

He was my dad. And he killed my brother.

I had sneaked into my brother's room, as I was doing so almost every night. It was pitch black and quiet. I was sleeping peacefully against my brother's naked chest, feeling more secure than ever in the darkness of our ursine lair. No spectres were ever trying to steal me when I was in this brotherly protective aura. No little girls whispering or sibilating, waking me in the middle of the night, forcing me to play hide and seek or ghost in the graveyard. With him was the way I was meant to be.

Father loved me and was jealous. That's why he hated him, loved him one last time and threw him in the woods where tearful bears made a shrine and buried his body. That night, the little girl won.

But maybe all of this was only a dream and I never had any brother.

It's always the truth... Why can't there be several?

Je me souviens de mon premier livre.

La maladie d'une bouche par l'Autrichienne Birte Ittel, terre humide et ciel dégagé en couverture. Les trous dans la route, les trous dans l'âme. Le froid glacial. La peau nue, râpée, rougie ; osseuse.

It was the story of a ghost; the ghost of a girl that had suffered, during her whole life, from an orphan disease that caused her to be une enfant sans bouche. Talking was impossible for her, and thus she was writing. Every day, every hour, every minute, she was writing, again and again, always writing, about who-knows-what. Nobody was allowed to read her, as she was not able to read aloud herself: she wanted to be the only one to share it. Because sharing, to her, was a powerful, meaningful thing. She loathed people who talked for nothing or said everything to anyone, unable to keep something secretly and almost lovingly hidden.

She died peacefully a violent death, one day, when a fire started in her study. Unable to shout for help and unwilling to leave all of her books and notes behind, she remained in one of her favourite velvet armchairs, surrounding by unread words and sentences and let the fire lick her face.

Each time I read the book, I feel possessed. As if she were inside my being, inside my mind, and I can't help starting writing, again and again, and reading my texts aloud to no-one. I feel full of regrets and terribly melancholic.

I am convinced that this snowy road lasciviously lain down between these two naked trees leads to my brother's shrine. I am persuaded that this book contains the truth about my life and identity. But sometimes, what we call truth can only be a tissue of lies. All is a matter of perspective.