Termites
The worst nightmares I have are the type where my desperate unlikely hopes on April 17th, 2007 are turned around and made into bad things.
A small part of me managed to hang on, for months, to the (im)possibility that Max (along with the others) was hired by a super-secret government branch which required her to appear dead to those around her.
This morning I dreamed that she hadn't liked the job, and had been allowed to return to us. This, of course, led to the sort of contradictions that even double-think cannot penetrate--not because we didn't want her back, but because pretending to be dead for over a year is a very cruel thing to do, something that our Max would never do.
And this Max was not the one I knew. This one was a shadow, empty of goodness, not caring that her family had thought her dead. All she cared to do was sleep and take advantage of people.
At first there was great joy that she had returned. Eventually, though, came the need for me to ask her, "What were you thinking? How could you do this to your family? How could you let them think you were dead? How could you let me think that?"
And only then did I begin to realize that she wasn't Max--just a dark spirit that looked kind of like her if you squinted.
The house had termites and we had to burn them out. No fire, just smoldering wood, but she wanted to stay in bed. She didn't care if she died again, didn't care for our grief.
She was not our Max.
A small part of me managed to hang on, for months, to the (im)possibility that Max (along with the others) was hired by a super-secret government branch which required her to appear dead to those around her.
This morning I dreamed that she hadn't liked the job, and had been allowed to return to us. This, of course, led to the sort of contradictions that even double-think cannot penetrate--not because we didn't want her back, but because pretending to be dead for over a year is a very cruel thing to do, something that our Max would never do.
And this Max was not the one I knew. This one was a shadow, empty of goodness, not caring that her family had thought her dead. All she cared to do was sleep and take advantage of people.
At first there was great joy that she had returned. Eventually, though, came the need for me to ask her, "What were you thinking? How could you do this to your family? How could you let them think you were dead? How could you let me think that?"
And only then did I begin to realize that she wasn't Max--just a dark spirit that looked kind of like her if you squinted.
The house had termites and we had to burn them out. No fire, just smoldering wood, but she wanted to stay in bed. She didn't care if she died again, didn't care for our grief.
She was not our Max.