Delilah on the Chopping Block
& the pillars come tumbling down
I knew who she was. I knew who she was the moment I saw her, and my mouth tasted like a lack of toothpaste and dread.
"Please, please, not yet," I told her, the girl sitting on the corner of Del's hospital bed.
She looked up at me; she looked nothing like the stories said she would, but she was unmistakable. Her hair hung like slashed black ribbons around her face, her lips perpetually pointing downward, and her eyes, lonely.
She didn't reply, twiddling her thumbs, nails painted the color of her faded band shirt. She had rusted bangles on her arm, jeans like they'd been put through a shredder before they were worn. She was tucked into herself, as if trying not to touch anything, harmless.
"Please," I said again, hoping she would hear me. "I'll do anything."
Her head snapped up, almost comically fast. She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear to get a better look at me, her skin sprouting age spots where her fingertips brushed.
"What did you say?" she asked, voice as soft as morning; early, before the sun could rise.
"I'll do anything." I swallowed, trying to conjure more spit and conviction. Perhaps I didn't fully understand what I was getting into, but I didn't care. It would be for Del, and I'd do anything for Del. My Delilah was all music and sunshine and lipstick, and she brought that wherever she went. The world needed more people like her, and every day she wasted here left another hole in the atmosphere, let another species go extinct. I would be a sacrifice, and a small one at that.
"Are you sure about that?" She sounded almost hopeful, eyes a quiet fire that begged for more coal. One of her hands fisted in the sheets, which turned threadbare in an instant.
I nodded, my palm smoothing Del's unclean hair from her forehead, lids lily petal-shut. "Anything," I repeated, a catchy song on the radio, a Bible verse on a Sunday, a rhyme on a child's lips. Nothing morbid about this at all.
"Thank you," she said, inhaling tragedy and breathing out relief. Another "thank you," and then she left as quickly as she came. I wondered what she meant, how much the price was, and when she'd come collecting. I didn't have to wonder long.
Del's machines and monitors beeped in panic, erratic, and fearfully, I looked at her to find out why. My palm had gone to rest atop her head; my palm was now seeping through wrinkling, stinking flesh, her scalp gray and gutted with blood and pus. I snatched my wrist back, petrified, but she was gone. I'd done it myself.
My mouth tasted like filth and ash, and I knew what I had become the moment everything I touched turned to rot. I knew who I was.
"Please, please, not yet," I told her, the girl sitting on the corner of Del's hospital bed.
She looked up at me; she looked nothing like the stories said she would, but she was unmistakable. Her hair hung like slashed black ribbons around her face, her lips perpetually pointing downward, and her eyes, lonely.
She didn't reply, twiddling her thumbs, nails painted the color of her faded band shirt. She had rusted bangles on her arm, jeans like they'd been put through a shredder before they were worn. She was tucked into herself, as if trying not to touch anything, harmless.
"Please," I said again, hoping she would hear me. "I'll do anything."
Her head snapped up, almost comically fast. She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear to get a better look at me, her skin sprouting age spots where her fingertips brushed.
"What did you say?" she asked, voice as soft as morning; early, before the sun could rise.
"I'll do anything." I swallowed, trying to conjure more spit and conviction. Perhaps I didn't fully understand what I was getting into, but I didn't care. It would be for Del, and I'd do anything for Del. My Delilah was all music and sunshine and lipstick, and she brought that wherever she went. The world needed more people like her, and every day she wasted here left another hole in the atmosphere, let another species go extinct. I would be a sacrifice, and a small one at that.
"Are you sure about that?" She sounded almost hopeful, eyes a quiet fire that begged for more coal. One of her hands fisted in the sheets, which turned threadbare in an instant.
I nodded, my palm smoothing Del's unclean hair from her forehead, lids lily petal-shut. "Anything," I repeated, a catchy song on the radio, a Bible verse on a Sunday, a rhyme on a child's lips. Nothing morbid about this at all.
"Thank you," she said, inhaling tragedy and breathing out relief. Another "thank you," and then she left as quickly as she came. I wondered what she meant, how much the price was, and when she'd come collecting. I didn't have to wonder long.
Del's machines and monitors beeped in panic, erratic, and fearfully, I looked at her to find out why. My palm had gone to rest atop her head; my palm was now seeping through wrinkling, stinking flesh, her scalp gray and gutted with blood and pus. I snatched my wrist back, petrified, but she was gone. I'd done it myself.
My mouth tasted like filth and ash, and I knew what I had become the moment everything I touched turned to rot. I knew who I was.