literary fiction
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I leaned in and pressed my lips against his own. They were soft. He kissed back. I know he did. I swear, he kissed me back. And for a few seconds there was only Maverick and Reston—hiding in a bush during recess and locking lips in a safe space.
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After the positive pregnancy test, I became something ancient—maternal with my nesting habits and my constant hunger. I watched the body I occupied grow and change, a ship of Theseus rended from flesh. Joy and anticipation replaced desire and pride. The horrible things pregnancy wrought on my body—hyperemesis, preeclampsia—were signs of something greater, a life…
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I caught slivers of the words the doctor whispered to Whalebone. Miscarried. Unfortunate, but perhaps for the best given my condition. I thought about that for a long time. What was my condition? Was it of the mind or of the body? I couldn’t say.
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Before I begin, let me inform you of one very important fact: I am dead and I am a ghost. Yes, that is essential to know. How do I know that I am dead and a ghost? Well, I can walk through walls, I can float across the room without my feet touching the floor,…
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Forgiveness, she learned, wasn’t forgetting—it was surviving without poisoning yourself.
