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Eliza Hodgkins 1812 · 05-15-2006, 01:15 PM

Nobody who can stomach a visit will tell me what started the fire. Not knowing might be the only thing keeping me alive. Swabbed and bandaged, a woman made of wax. Melted and reshaped, I wonder if I’ve been altered on a molecular level.

My freckles. My moles. The scar I had on my shin from when I was ten and fell off my bike. Gone, gone, gone.

The first time I ever sat around a campfire, I was with my father and brother. My mother stayed home. She hates the great outdoors, high altitude, slopes and moguls, and the squirrels hustling around the porch, begging for nuts. My father, brother and I were a tribe of our own. We had matching sleeping bags and never minded eating beans out of a can. We fought bravely against our mortal enemy, the mosquito. Dad told us ghost stories but we still slept a thousand winks because he was there and so nothing could harm us.

Before bed we made Smores and I’d become entranced by the color of flame, its electric blue bottom and the pale yellow of its zenith. The fork of the flame enveloped the marshmallow and the marshmallow bent and sighed into the warmth. It melted and was made into something perfect.

What have I been made into? Stick a wick through me and sell me at the Yankee Doodle Candle Company. Set me on a trolley and roll me into Madame Troussads. Put be back into the fire until I’m melted down completely. Transform me back into the woman that I was. Give me back my nose. Replicate it exactly. Don’t forget the bump on right hand side; I inherited that from my grandfather. He’s dead now and that bump was better than having his photograph.

The nurses keep telling me I'm a very brave girl. I scream sometimes and other times I whimper. I pass out and have bad dreams. I wake up and they tell me again that I'm brave, but they are wrong. My survival was chance and curiosity is the only thing keeping me from swallowing my own tongue. Something started the fire. I doubt it was arson. Maybe I left the iron on again. Maybe my rusty gas stove is the culprit. Perhaps a neighbor left their cigarette burning, and this is the first time I wonder about the other tenants. Are there others here like me?

If so, complete the process already started. Melt us down and shape us into an army of plastic soldiers, a sentry for the gates.

Burn us down to ashes and watch how we'll arise.

05-15-2006, 01:15 PM	#14
Eliza Hodgkins 1812 Sputnik Sweetheart Join Date: Jan 2005 Location: Long Beach Posts: 2,685	Malleable Nobody who can stomach a visit will tell me what started the fire. Not knowing might be the only thing keeping me alive. Swabbed and bandaged, a woman made of wax. Melted and reshaped, I wonder if I’ve been altered on a molecular level. My freckles. My moles. The scar I had on my shin from when I was ten and fell off my bike. Gone, gone, gone. The first time I ever sat around a campfire, I was with my father and brother. My mother stayed home. She hates the great outdoors, high altitude, slopes and moguls, and the squirrels hustling around the porch, begging for nuts. My father, brother and I were a tribe of our own. We had matching sleeping bags and never minded eating beans out of a can. We fought bravely against our mortal enemy, the mosquito. Dad told us ghost stories but we still slept a thousand winks because he was there and so nothing could harm us. Before bed we made Smores and I’d become entranced by the color of flame, its electric blue bottom and the pale yellow of its zenith. The fork of the flame enveloped the marshmallow and the marshmallow bent and sighed into the warmth. It melted and was made into something perfect. What have I been made into? Stick a wick through me and sell me at the Yankee Doodle Candle Company. Set me on a trolley and roll me into Madame Troussads. Put be back into the fire until I’m melted down completely. Transform me back into the woman that I was. Give me back my nose. Replicate it exactly. Don’t forget the bump on right hand side; I inherited that from my grandfather. He’s dead now and that bump was better than having his photograph. The nurses keep telling me I'm a very brave girl. I scream sometimes and other times I whimper. I pass out and have bad dreams. I wake up and they tell me again that I'm brave, but they are wrong. My survival was chance and curiosity is the only thing keeping me from swallowing my own tongue. Something started the fire. I doubt it was arson. Maybe I left the iron on again. Maybe my rusty gas stove is the culprit. Perhaps a neighbor left their cigarette burning, and this is the first time I wonder about the other tenants. Are there others here like me? If so, complete the process already started. Melt us down and shape us into an army of plastic soldiers, a sentry for the gates. Burn us down to ashes and watch how we'll arise. Last edited by Eliza Hodgkins 1812 : 05-15-2006 at 01:52 PM.
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