Stygian
The doors are always kept shut: that’s the rule. The only one that can open them is me, but I never do. When we run out of food, I go down to the basement. We eat a carefully measured amount for every meal, three times a day. I have plants that grow too. Under the manmade lights from before. Though, I tell Maggie it’s from something distant and spiritual. It’s better this way. “I’ll make corn,” Maggie says. She’s meek. Shorter than me by several inches. The only thing that’s noticeable about her is her large chest, though, she’ll never know the benefits of that in here. She moves around the kitchen like a game of Operation, careful not to touch anything. Sometimes, I question if she exists at all. I think about her ignorance to how the world once was, her face that’s absent of all knowledge. The pain of loss and losing that’s so prevalent in me, is completely unknown to her, the chains of memories and desires are only strapped to my ankles. Occasionally, I think about if she slipped on that stool she uses to reach the pots that hang from the ceiling, the chains rusty from
54 • Alissa Tarzia
