In The Waters I Must Be Cleansed

Forget To Remember

Even as my frame begins to awaken, and my mind enlivens my thoughts, I remain without the ability to bring my eyes ajar. I grasp the eventide prior in this room in which I remember no windows, so it remains black around me. It is utterly dark within the walls of this room, despite the dawn birds and the branches tickling each other softly in the late summer breeze disclosing the fact that the sun has risen.

I most likely will see only the the feeble light illuminating out from under the bottom crack of the cellar door, yet my dark browns refuse to look.

The burning man is still there. The acrid smoke was able to form a crystal image of what my home now appears as. As it does with the negro man, as well.

It seems my spheres may never open, until Abigail jolts me awake from my cowardice.

"Come on, I'm sittin' on too much. I needa explain what's happening." she's dressed in a jade gown with heeled sports shoes, beckoning me to come along. The light is now on, and the weakly visible bags under her eyes represent her exhaustion—apprehensive and afraid. Afraid of me? Or afraid of what I mean for her? Or afraid of the profound look she bestowed the night before? A look of deep affection?

"An' ya owe me. Found your gift by the winders. Ain't no bile stink more than yours. Remember ya ate that berry on my dare when we was just some kids. Threw up on my shoes, killed all those damn. Served me right. I know what ya saw gonna live wit ya. But I'm doin' my best, Eli. Now come on."

Abigail is not the sweetest candy, her voice is the only warm characteristic except her skin that exists. Any femininity she demonstrates is a facade; Abigail is a bull through and through. Even if no one else can see it, she's strong.

I stand, not sure where she expects me to sojourn with her.

"Talk, then."

"Get up the stairs; it's safe. It's early, and half the town is knocked out silly, and no one is lookin' through those thick drapes."

"Alright then."

It takes me awhile to muster the courage to climb the steps, for it did not do well for me the night before. Abigail is waiting impatiently behind me, but she does not nag; I know that somehow she understands my fear.

Eventually we're up the stairs, and she takes me into the den. We sit across from each other with two horrid realities at hand.

"Made ya somethin'."

I knew she had. I could smell the undeniably, profoundly horrid concoction. I simply refused to believe I would have to suffer through more agony.

"I don't think I'm up for eatin'." I say gently, looking down to the ground. I'm only able to lie decently because it is half true.

"That's fine and dandy...so let's talk." she's hesitant. She was quick to rush the weight off her shoulders, now it seems she needs to maintain it, feed it, care for it, and never let it reach my ears. She knows, however, this is impossible and inevitable.

"Tramonto is now what folks callin' a sundown. Negroes out in the day. Gone by night. 6 on the damn dot. You is definitely an exception, though."

"How do ya mean?"

"Mean they want you dead. Eat ya alive. Say a "nigger who think he so high needa be put down. That a dog need ta know his alpha."

"Yeah," I sigh; it seems so expected. Like I've been waiting for this my whole life. "that sound 'bout right."

"Yeah, I know, seem like it oughta. But things gonna change, Eli. Maybe when I'm old and worn—."

"And ugly."