Page 53 of Into the Heartless Wood
his voice
his heart
his soul.
He halts the movement of the stick.
He lays the instrument in the grass.
He kneels beside me,
close
enough
to
touch.
“Seren. You’re crying.”
“I am not human. I cannot cry.”
“And yet.” His gentle fingers touch the dew on my face. “What’s wrong?”
I cannot tell him
that my sister killed them.
I cannot tell him
that I did not stop her,
that I sang them to their deaths.
I cannot.
I cannot.
I wish the music of the cello
dwelt inside of me
instead
of my mother’s
monstrous song.
He takes my hands in his.
He smooths the knobby bark on my knuckles.
I say: “I do not want to be a monster. But that is all I’ll ever be.”
He says: “A monster wouldn’t have spared me, or my sister. A monster wouldn’t look at the stars in wonder and be moved by a badly played cello.”
A crack splinters my heart.
