Legion. An amalgamated journal.


Part 1

Viscid night hangs over us. There are no stars. We get into the car.

It’s late to be leaving the city, but we have to speak to Him. I know what He’ll say. No. I know how what He’ll say will feel. It won’t be a slap in the face so much as a long shallow gash exacted, maybe, with the sharpened edge of a monocle. We can’t do it without Him.

Nicholas is driving and talking to me. He is nervous-upbeat. We both wore trench coats, which is fortunate because it’s raining now. We didn’t know it would rain when we put them on. We didn’t know we would look the same. I’m not listening to him. I am watching God’s tears trace wet comet-tail trails across the windows, and uttering a gentle-gutteral “Mmm” in response. He isn’t satisfied by this. I tune in.

“I’m sorry. What were you saying?” “I couldn’t tell you.”

We laugh at this. So intimately, Nicholas and I. Is this how it was when there were only two people in the cart to the guillotine? Were there ever only two in the cart to the guillotine?

“You’re over-dramatizing this in your head, aren’t you? You’re making French Resistance analogies.” “French Revolution.” “Close enough.” “Not at all.” “How bad can it be?”

I won’t tell him if he doesn’t know, and he doesn’t because he was never under His thumb all the way. He was a father-figure of sorts to me. Of a very strange sort. Now I’ll be soothing.

“Nice coat.”

And he smiles. He turns on the radio and I put my head back to listen. The box rattles slightly on the backseat where he placed it so lovingly. Le Marseillaise echoes faintly in my brain. I wonder if Nicholas can hear it.

Maryellen McGowan

March 3rd, 2008 at 8:08 pm

But perhaps you disagree

No responses so far

The room is, as yet, filled with smoke and apprehension.