Binary Star (16 page)
I’m stuck in this terrible cycle.
It seems everyone has disappeared. They don’t answer. I stay up all night on the Internet.
I’m confused.
I’m endlessly scrolling, scrolling.
I can’t leave the house. I’m insane.
I read books on animal liberation. I feel they’re about me. I feel it’s me, Mom. I haven’t been okay. I need you. Help me. Please help.
I want you to be proud.
There’s something else.
We broke up.
John lies. He only cares about himself.
I’ve been used.
Not by him. In general.
Mom, listen. I want to say I love you.
Do you believe me?
Please believe me.
I’m cold.
I’m lost.
I’m afraid.
And angry.
Desperate.
All the time. I’ve come unbound. I’m fading away.
I don’t know what’s going to happen.
I’m burning out.
You make time for what you think is important. Didn’t you say that?
We’ve forgotten what’s important. We have no sense of balance. No value.
I know what I have to do, Mom.
I’m making sense for the first time. Trust me.
Anything can happen but I know it’s related to light.
I really do.
I’m going to make you proud.
And I love you.
I’m suffering.
I’m done.
I’m done suffering.
But about the tree house?
I’m alone, I act alone. Anonymous.
I’ve had nothing to eat for three days. I shake. I drink coffee. I feel that my body is crystallizing. I feel it beginning at the center. A stellar wind flows from my atmosphere, shedding matter in ionized gas. I’m charged. I leave trails of myself behind me. My path is neutral. My movement is relative.
It was named after the Beatles song, “Lucy in the Sky With Diamonds.”
It is only a lattice.
A lattice wraps around his back porch, painted white, a swingset, a family, barbecues on the patio, mornings at the table.
Morning is continuous.
I crouch in the bushes. I crawl between the bushes and the wall, in black, unseen, related to darkness. Is it empty?
Vacant?
I’m gas.
He has it coming.
I crawl beneath the porch, beneath the back, leave paper trails behind me.
I doubt his commitment.
I pace the halls of the school. I got here early. My mentor will see me. I’m very indifferent. Extremely. And I smell like gasoline.
I can be your daughter with purpose. I’m purpose. Nonviolent. Who was injured?
The house should be vacant. The task is inevitable. I’m sharp and fill space. I light the paper with other lit paper and throw it into shadows.
The dean of the college is coming.
Were you asked not to stay? Do you agree?
Do I?
I agree we’re sentient beings. I agree we’re not the terrorists.
Huntingdon Life Sciences Vivisector Victim of Arson.
I’m confused.
Talk in circles on the phone. Write this down.
We saw each other’s bodies. I stood in the corner of the yard and he stood in the center. He named me.
What are you doing here?
Fading.
Cruelty of Laboratory Practices Exposed.
What are you doing? I have a family.
I told you to get them out. You’ve failed.
Eco-Terrorist.
Fat and indifferent.
I told you to leave hours ago. You didn’t listen. Now there’s fear.
Stand for our brothers and sisters. In arms.
Fill and empty.
Now you’re afraid, aren’t you? Now you’re backed into a corner. Now you bite the hand.
Crystallization begins in the center.
What are you saying?
Hidden Cameras.
Director Steps Down. Raging Fire. Targets Loose.
Jagged and dense.
I’m clear.
Luminous.
Still afraid.
I’ve had two cups of coffee and a Red Bull, two grapes and two cups of green tea. Two Adderall crushed in water.
Eaten time.
On fire.
Saved his family.
Get out before your house is in flames.
I called from the Walgreens parking lot, from the pay phone on the corner.
Runaway Arsonist.
Possible Witness.
I moved the scale to the hallway: 85. I have Zantrex-3, gum and ice. I have fingers. Numb. Sweat in circles.
Licking upward.
I acted alone in the dark dressed in black, invisible like always.
Warning to All Involved.
He came outside as I finished and watched from the shadows.
He saw I was small, female.
Recessing like us all.
Adelphi’s counseling center can help.
I’m not teaching.
Stomach burns and rises in the chest. Head is heavy.
I’m expanding.
I ran away into darkness, looking back at his house lit up from beneath.
Still expanding.
The floor is cool. I sweat and breathe.
All that is left is a remnant.
I roll.
I’m old.
I rise.
Burn out.
On fire.
I walk down the hall to the bathroom. I’m nothing but an echo. I’m alone.
When can I stop? Were there children?
Victim’s Family Says They’re Well After Trauma.
Police Hunt for Arsonist.
We, Students for the Liberation of Animals.
We, Student Animals.
I’m a cunt.
Liberation by any means.
Stand up for your sisters and brothers.
Stand Up.
How are my thighs?
If he didn’t leave, it’s his fault, not mine.
I rest my head on the seat.
My abdomen hardening. Burns when I breathe.
Antimatter.
Locks Glued.
Torn Down.
Back of the class.
Axes.
My mentor is here.
Thanks for coming. Sit.
I’m fine standing.
Or I’m burning calories. Or I bend at the knees. Tunnel vision.
I heard them scream in the darkness.
Activists Stand Against Cruelty.
I’m afraid. He was afraid.
You have what it takes.
Your students need you.
I lean on the desk.
You’ve something authentic.
Like fire?
Arson Claimed as Action of Eco-Terrorist Cell.
I fall to my knees.
I’m faint.
You exhibit these principles.
I’m throwing up blood.
I’m reeling. I’m reeling.
I’m reeling.
I shine.
Acknowledgements
Many, many people helped this book reach you, reader. My deepest, most heartfelt thanks to my mom and dad, who taught me that empathy and health are important above all else. To my family, whose constant love and support keep me sane. To my first reader, David Formentin, who meets me in our passion for storytelling.
I’m infinitely grateful for the guidance of Adriann Ranta and the tireless, inspiring work of Eric and Eliza Obenauf. I owe special thanks to Adjua Greaves,
Binary Star
’s second reader and first copy-editor, and to Keith and Lucy Bailey, who opened up a home for me for a month while I wrote this.
Thank you, Sarah McNally, and the brilliant, dedicated booksellers of McNally Jackson for all that you taught me, and continue to teach me, which I could never hope to summarize. And thank you, Betsy Sussler, and the staff of
BOMB Magazine,
for giving my writing a place to grow so early in its life—and for everything you’ve done and continue to do for artists.
Of course, I owe a great debt to my instructors at The New School for their time and expertise: Ann Hood, Shelley Jackson, Helen Schulman, Dale Peck, Jonathan Dee, and John Reed, who has also been a great mentor and friend to me. Justin Taylor and Susan Shapiro have also been wonderful mentors and friends.
My fellow writers, the most profound thanks to you for sharing your work with me, and for your ceaseless reading and rereading, draft after draft: Rachel Hurn, Whitney Wimbish, Amanda Harris, Carly Dashiell, and Ken Derry.
And to all who have struggled and continue to struggle with food: keep fighting. There is a world for you.
SARAH GERARD
’s work has appeared in
The New York Times
,
New York Magazine
’s ‘The Cut,’
Paris Review
Daily,
Slice Magazine
,
The Los Angeles Review of Books
,
Bookforum
, and other journals. She is the author of the chapbook
Things I Told My Mother
and a graduate of The New School’s MFA program for fiction.
Table of Contents
Chapter 1: The First Dredge-Up
Chapter 2: The Second Dredge-Up
