“You like his art a lot, don’t you?” I’d seen her in the museum before, but never spoken to her. So I wasn’t at all surprised when another stood beside me the eleventh time I went to go to the exhibit. New York City is a metropolis in every sense of the word and my fellow Kindred and other creatures, both bearable and deplorable, often crossed my path as I walked the hallways. When I would go to the museum, I was often not the only one of my kind there. And when I awoke, the shock of empty veins rattling hollow within my body, I knew names didn’t matter either. The day I saw her for what she was, I knew she was old and had heard so many names given and chosen, seen the trampling and coalescing of cultures and languages time and time again. Where it came from, why it was chosen for me, why I kept it. One of the things that enamored me to my sire, before I knew what her intentions were to me and before I was Embraced, was how she never asked me about my name. My parents were art students in South America decades ago and they gave me, their only daughter, this name in the hopes it would help me assimilate better to the mainland. The art of William Blake used to move me. Now I rarely felt either of those things. The release of tears brought relief and shame. It used to bring heat to my skin and the feeling of moisture in the form of tears and mucus was familiar as it was frustrating. Some muscle memory of the sensation still remained in the muscles around my eyes, the tight and stinging feeling, how it deepened in the chest and made it hard to breathe and hard to talk. I stood in front of the painting and tried to remember what it was like to cry.
0 Comments
Leave a Reply. |
AuthorWrite something about yourself. No need to be fancy, just an overview. ArchivesCategories |