Living in the Necropolis by Pat Tompkins
Blood, everywhere, replacing rain and water, filling the river. Another thing people see and keep quiet about, as though that makes it not so. A child in the square yesterday afternoon was talking to her doll, a dirty cornhusk creature, and started laughing. I saw nothing to laugh at, but she kept giggling until I wanted to slap her silent. I did not, naturally, for then she would wail and I cannot stand to hear crying. Church bells, wagons, shouts: I hate noise. If she cried, as children do, with fury, I would have to stop her. Take her to the riverbank and hold her underwater. I'd be doing her a favor, and I've little interest in doing anyone a good turn these days. But it's important to do what's right.
She quit giggling and resumed parading around the square with her doll. An old woman perched on a bench watched her. She might have been a doll herself, made of dried apples. The girl dashed after the pigeons. I thought she was chasing them away, but then realized she wanted to catch one. Stupid child.
The woman called to her and they left the square hand in hand. I followed carefully so they did not detect me. Not that I appear in any way unusual. Thin, pale, clad in black, I could be any woman in this city. I might have a child in hand myself, but we are busy killing the men, so I have no husband. And no blood. I am barren as a rock. But why add children only to have them die? Let's all die and be done with it. The war has already defeated me.
I shadowed the two, alert in case the girl cried. I'd grab her and let the river feed on her; that is how rivers grow. I would not bother with the old woman. We walked along streets crowded with people with nothing to do. As more people die, more people arrive in the city. Do they know we are living in a necropolis?
Although certain that the girl would cry soon, she refused to, in that willful way children have. They are unreliable. Finally, the two entered a building. I waited, pacing before the brick house, but they did not come out. I returned to the room I rent, disappointed yet pleased. For I'd thought of something useful to do.
From my trunk, I took my old doll dressed in white silk. Faint cracks run across her porcelain face. Abigail. I tucked her under my arm and went down Seventh Street to where it meets the river. It was twilight, when everyone can see that the water is blood. With my foot, I held her underwater, recited a prayer, then let her float away. I felt at ease, as when I undo my dress to put on my nightgown. I slept better last night than I have in months.
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