Everyone in This Room Will Someday Be Dead
Emily AustinEveryone in This Room Will Someday Be Dead Gönderileri
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Other times I fixate on how endearing people are. We sleep on soft surfaces; we like to be cozy. When I see cats cuddled up on pillows, I find it sweet; we are like that too. We like to eat cookies and smell flowers. We wear mittens and hats. We visit our families even when we’re old. We like to pet dogs. We laugh; we make involuntary sounds when we find things funny. Laughing is adorable, if you really think about it. We have hospitals. We invented buildings meant to help repair people. Doctors and nurses study for years to work here. They come here every day just to patch other people up. If we discovered some other animal who created infrastructure in the anticipation that their little animal peers might get hurt, we would all be absolutely moved and amazed.
I wouldn’t mind knowing whose big idea it was to install organs in God’s so-called houses when they were clearly manufactured by the devil himself. Organ music reminds me more of Halloween and demons than it does of heaven. This is the instrument played in every Dracula movie, I’m sure of it. Are they meant to scare us? Are we supposed to be frightened?
I think I am an impostor. Twenty-seven years ago I was a baby. Before that I was a clump of cells. Before that I didn’t exist. How could I be a bookstore clerk, or a Catholic, or a woman, or a person at all? I’m a life force contained in the deformed body of a baby. Of course I’m a fraud. The fact that I’m able to carry myself through life without being crushed beneath the psychological weight of being alive proves that I’m a con artist. Aren’t we all con artists?
Sometimes I wonder if I have really been the same person my whole life. I stare at the picture, and think: Is that really me? I have this bizarre feeling like I was a different person at every other stage of my life. I feel so removed from myself then. Sometimes I feel like I was a different person a month ago. A day. Five minutes. Now.
"Well, little lady." He grins. "I think you might just be our gal! You're Catholic, of course?"
"Yes," I say, even though I am an atheist lesbian.
He slaps a hand on his desk. "You're perfect!"
I exchange a pitying look with my reflection to communicate with myself that I feel sorry for me.
"Look at us," I whisper to myself. "What are we doing here?"
My face looks strange. Is it the mirror? It is a sort of warped, vintage mirror. Maybe it's distorting my face. My eyes look enormous, and my mouth looks so small. Was my mouth always that small in comparison to my other features? Is that really my face? Am I looking at a painting? Who is that?