TALES OF AN ORANGEPEELER
an archive of pleasures, wounds, sublimations
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No, no sleep for me. Instead, I watch. I slip from my room and travel door to door, listening as each occupant slumbers restless, her dreams salt-stained. Vague terror smells pungent, the aroma of clots of blood and tissue collecting black and gelatinous between young female thighs. Sometimes a sob slips away, discreetly, through the space between door and floor. Dreams— they have no master. Instead, they come, despite ourselves, musty and dimly lit, between memory and desire. In the broken-glass dreams of the terrified, home is always being burned, the bodies of strangers heavy. Do you think I want to dream about a place that doesn’t exist anymore? I’d rather watch.
I was there when Leila escaped and I was there when the one hanged herself and I was there, too, when the two discovered each other. And when the dead one walked, I saw and said nothing.