Gone Wandering | Madeline Riggins

Gone Wandering

Madeline Riggins

You’re in a museum. The ceiling stretches highhighhigh above your head, and the skylight is glittering with stars. You can just barely see the statues around you, some small as mice, some tall as giants. Your shoes echo on the marble floor.

You ask a statue, one of the women covered in ivy and intestines, if she knows a way out. She does not respond. You ask if she remembers her life before all of this. Nothing. You ask if she knows where the bathroom is, and her stony hand slowly... slowly... points to the left. You thank her. In the bathroom, you wash your hands. They’re covered in white, almost chalky, dust. Your shoes are still heavy with rubble, so you peel them off and wiggle your toes. You haven’t been able to do that in a while.

The mirror above the sink does not show the bathroom stalls, or even

yourself. It shows a cluttered mess of a wooden study, books strewn about an old desk and a fire crackling and windows tinged with moonlight. A bright blue globe of the constellations is vibrating in the corner. You tap on the glass. You call out. One of the messes on the desk moves. A person who is mostly grey hair grunts and groans and spits out profanities. “Go back to where you were,” they say, barely giving you a glance. “I’ll deal with you in the morning.” You thank them and go back to your pedestal. There wasn’t much to do here, anyway.