WARNING: What follows is a very personal note. The horrors I can’t speak of. The horrors I can only write into my stories. Can’t talk about this on Facebook. People are too squeamish. Can’t talk about this on Twitter. Too short a medium. I hope I won’t scare you by spilling it here. I have to spill it somewhere so as not to lose my mind and not to slide into depression.
So much pain. Where, where can I put it? Paper. The sound of breaking bones. The animal cries. The door. The wretched door that snapped its legs, that crushed its paws. The heartrending screeching. The bitter hatred of a man who is callused and numb and sick and…I’m his blood. And he is mine. What comes of calling Moscow. I don’t do this very often. Because the terror, every time…it kills my breath. The grime, the dirt, the muted crying. The incoherent speech. The mockery that I can hear. The old man’s half-mad tittering…and people ask me where my stories come from. This. I called my mom and found out what my grandpa did to my sister’s cat. And how he left grandma freezing, hoping she would die. And I…I can’t do shit. I can’t go back to Russia right now. I can only write this out, stick a hand in my gut and twist and twirl and grab and draw the iridescent viscera and plop it on the floor and…feel a little better. Having written it all out, I feel a little better. Thank you.