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High Wire
Chapter 6
Epilogue
I dreamed last night, for
the first time since I was brought here.
I saw her again in that
dream; the black-haired woman, the one made me think of a wounded bird. She sat across from me, just as she had done
that day, our only warmth in that chilly, miasmic truck the press of the other
human bodies against our own, and finding that this was the only possible
benefit of our being crammed in like brainless, frightened cattle.
Her arms were linked across
her knees and, though I thought I saw her shiver, I could not and will not
swear to it, nor bring myself to believe that she would have done so.
She reminded me, both then
and now, of someone I must have known, but oh, my memory is quite fluid now,
and I no longer rely upon it for fear of its inconstancy. Like the tide itself, I imagine it will soon
be gone altogether. However, like the
tide, it too will leave strange new elements behind it as it ebbs...or perhaps
only old treasures to rediscover.
I also dreamed of my best
friend, and of the moment that they told me he was dead. Of course, they failed to speak these words
aloud. They told me he was being
detained, but I looked and I studied and I saw, as easy as nothing at all, the
shadow of the lie pass across their eyes, and I mourned him in silence and in
penance. I do not blame myself for his
death, but I have nevertheless taken responsibility for it. I have done this because I know that no other
will.
Dr. Stanton says my eyes
are changing. I saw no reason to tell
her that I already know they are; in my cell, last night, perched between this
precious dream and the aching edge of reality, I opened my eyes in the near-perfect
blackness and I saw such colours. The
world flowed before me in a transient, Möbius rainbow
– if only I could have caught at it. I
laughed aloud at this, I’m sure I did, and I smelled the rank fear of those who
heard me.
My name. My own name is slipping fast from my grasp
like a fish, and perhaps that is for the best.
I am not the creature I once was.
I am V now. The sub-human label
they gave me shall become one I wear with defiance instead, to mock them. This name is my yellow star, my pink
triangle, my slave marking. It is mine now,
and not theirs.
Did I even have a real name? Did I?
What was it? If only for the very last time, for a
commemoration, please let me remember.
Yes, that’s it.
My name was Michael.
The End
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