number unknown. date unknown.
he is either the first or the last of the fathers.
too young to have the wisdom and comfort of age:
-to help him cope
-to help him understand elements occurring outside logic
he remembers being trapped in the net of ropes, cradling his two or five year old Son, whose face is smeared with red lipstick, whose small body is swaddled in rigor mortis
this is a warehouse. no sign of the hunter.
he speaks in monotone. without grief. pure data. pure report.
“There were small packets containing mini furniture. bed frames. simple chairs. coffee tables. other packets, serialised with knobs, pins, pegs, screws, all made of light beige wood, finely carved, sanded smooth.”
(one thinks with the perspectives of houses. doll houses. mansions. replicas. dioramas. one also thinks of hidden rooms. built to scale. far from the public eye. far some safety.)
he does not know what made them, but he knows they were made by hand, hands comfortable with wood but more so with flesh.
it is plausible, his young Sister is missing, or even the idea of a young Wife, taken. The first of the maidens, the first construct, the first of the resurrected.
“There will always be that first high, that first victim. Every other construct that follows is an exercise in evolution. I think the lipstick, maybe handed down by my young Mother, was to my Sister.”
He sees himself hung in the trapping net. the dark warehouse. those crates. The white blanket. His Son, close to his chest. The lipstick could also be blood, but he doesn’t believe the maker believes in such messy violence.
“there is no uncontrolled physical rage. Only that slow simmering of fear, induced in stages. The violence is internal. Fear eats out the girls it desires.”
It could’ve been his young Sister, ropes , her second skin. Or his beautiful Wife, fear infused in increments, trapped first in the net, then imprisoned, mentally, walls closing in, energy depleting.
“it was never interested in my Son. It only wanted to spare him the experience, the loss of auntie or Mother. But it wanted me to know, to recount, to remember, to relive vividly, the shape of rope burns, the smell of soil and fresh blood, either menstrual or a young throat slit. clean and surgical.”
It is haemoglobin filled with horrors. A potent kind of nourishment for the island, that will eventually bring all of the maidens back.
“I was never shown her body. but this body, i now know, is its messenger.”