Day 1,993

All my clothes are stained pink from the wash and my baby has been awfully silent for the past five hours.

The birds outside are humming the same dirge we played when we buried my grandmother.

Something with fins the size of my torso occasionally surfaces in my little pond... I miss my goldfish.

Everything I drink tastes like iron and I'm too afraid to check the mirrors so I only drink tomato juice.

My neighbour's skin has finally re-emerged, now hung from his flagpole like he always wanted.

The construction-in-progress sign whispers "follow the diversion", the old road sign begs me to go home.



Somewhere in all of this I remember where I left the baby and how his little fists couldn't break the glass.

I remember to place fresh flowers on her grave and hear the birds thank me in her voice.

I remember to leave a plate of diced meat by the water and pretend I don't see the hands that reach for it.

I remember where the meat came from and how bitter it is to eat the evidence.

I remember another neighbour who asked too many questions and I make a note to pay them a visit.

I remember the best place to hide what I cannot consume and pray the signs will keep my secret.



My husband will ask me how my day has been and where the baby is.

I'll bring out the neighbour's child and hope he doesn't care enough to notice.

I did promise it wouldn't happen again and he hates it when I have to lie.