A Type of Isolation
Fly in the Milk
I’ve been going back through my thesis and came across a section that hurt to write, that is the echoes of which this story came. Through it, I interrogated how the past haunts the future and makes pain an influence on the present. I think there’s a type of beauty to it—a bud amongst dying roses. Life born from the decadent. It intimidates me how I was able to write this section, but even through its horror, I think there is beauty in spite of…
Stinging Flesh
Marlena was in the yard with a now six-year-old Silas. The summer heat intensified the smell of Florida grass. It’s earthy musk mixed with the brine of coastal waters—both preservation and decay.
Marlena watched Silas run back and forth in front of her—looking up to check on him as she de-shelled pecans. As she cracked the shells down the middle with the pliers, she threw the shells in a bucket while placing the flesh in a wooden basket. The nutty aroma filled the air.
“Mama,” said Silas. Marlena watched as his tiny feet skittered through the yard. He rested his arms on Marlena’s knees and looked up to her. “Can I get one—please!”
Marlena sucked her teeth. “Boy,” she said—grabbing two pecans from the basket and handing them to him. “You know this for the toffees! If you eat them all up we won’t have none.”
“They’re delicious,” said Silas. He grabbed the pecans with excitement and threw one in his mouth with a smile.
Marlena laughed. “They are, but these are your last ones. We need to save them for the desert.” She stood up and carried the basket of pecans towards the house.
“Desert! Desert!” Silas jumped in joy behind Marlena.
Marlena smirked as she turned to watch Silas in his joy. As she did, she saw the thin legs of wasps.
Protect him!
Marlena dropped the pecans, grabbed Silas as a swarm descended on them. Covering him with her body, she rushed him to the house. Her view became blurred as it engulfed them. She heard Silas’s screams—his pain.
Protect him!
Marlena didn’t feel her body being ravaged. The adrenaline to protect her child overcame her.
By any means necessary.
There was a break in the attack, and Marlena took that chance to jolt to the house and shut the door behind her. A few wasps made it in, and Marlena quickly dispatched them. When she laid Silas on the ground, she was horrified by the sight. The swelling severe—he was almost unrecognizable.
“I hate my skin,” said Silas—barely managing to get the words out of swollen lips. Tears streamed down Marlena’s face.
Retched hate.
Half of her screamed while the other ran to the neighbors.
Projected hate.
Time seemed to skip as she now stared at the neighbors who were startled by Marlena’s appearance—dull aches starting to tremor through her swollen body.
HATE. HATE. HATE. HATE. HATE.
Flesh of hate—self-flayed.
flaying skin
Silas’s skin burns.
It works against iself.
It hates itself.
It consumes itself
It is a swollen mass of pus.
Dead cells.
Rotting flesh.
Decaying remains.
Rebirthed and made anew.
Process repeated.
We sacrificed body
But still Silas weeps
He barely moves
Barley able to see
He is scarred
He is stagnant
He is lost
He hates his skin
He feels betrayed by his skin
He hates his skin
He wants to give up his skin
He hates his skin
He hates his skin
He hates his skin
He hates his skin.
How many would rather flay the skin.
Papa,
I’ve ruined my child. They tell me it’s not my fault, but the scars. The pain he feels. The voices he makes—hurting in his sleep. To be in this pain. I want to take it on. We want to take it on. I want to help him. We want to help him.
When he was born, I was scared. I feared him, feared Elijah. I thought this wouldn’t last. I thought we were a fragile thing. Something put together with rusted and withered nails. I thought that for so long—up until the moment they descended on us.
I felt nothing.
Saw nothing.
Heard nothing.
Thought nothing.
All I knew was Silas. The pain and hatred he had for skin. His desire to survive and not feel this experience. I do not doubt that he would have taken the blade himself. He wanted to fight hate with hate.
It scares me to know that he would turn the blade to his own skin. It hurts me to know that I could not protect him from the thought. To protect him from the horrors of the world.
Elijah checked the yard. Told me there was a wasp’s nest in the grass. He said it probably fell from the pecan tree. When he saw us, he broke down in tears. He cried for us both—my heart stung. He wanted to cut the tree down, but I wouldn’t let him. Now I hear him planning the project. I know there’s a sense of fault in him that shouldn’t be there. A sense of fault in me that shouldn’t be there. But I hurt seeing Silas hate his flesh—Elijah hurts seeing our swollen flesh.
I wonder if this is how you felt—being unable to protect me. Or is it more like Elijah, knowing the world could harm your loved ones while you’re away—willingly or mistaken.
It was just a pecan tree. Like the one you planted when I was born. I wouldn’t let Elijah cut it down because it made me think of you. I thought you might be able to see your grandchild through it—but you couldn’t even protect us. You had your limits.
Now our pain sways from its branches like low-hanging fruit. Pain Silas would kill to give away.
Even if it meant not to be mine.
Vivid telling. I’ll be on the lookout for what happens with little Silas. I hope you share more!