Dear Shirley Jackson,
I’ve always wanted to win. I’ve always been in the spotlight of my family. I’ve always been told that I got my mother’s face. The face that had once booked her with over two decades worth of photo shoots. The height I got from my father and my forehead is his. The forehead he says the Romans would have called “business.”
I’ve always hated sitting at the dinner table, my two siblings facing me. My sister, with the same forehead, but too broad to mean business, glares when I look at her forehead the way she looks at mine. My brother, with the same face as me, but too short, angry at me ‘cause he can’t make it in the business, looks away when he smiles. They sit across from me. Our parents on either side. My sister, once again, wearing a hoodie of mine that I’ll never see again. I try to smile.
Dear Shirley Jackson, I’ve always been eyed by those types of photographers who “love” that I don’t need to “stuff bread” before their underwear shoots. Those types of photographers who always choose some “juxtaposed” scene, like an abandoned greenhouse, with me in jade-sequence underwear, on a dirty mattress. Whose lens always zoom to my dick from elbows perching on the mattress’s corner. Whose crew adjusts the light, and shadow, as scene extras pretend to shop for dead tropical plants. Whose elbows crawl closer. Stops. Camera clicks. Whose weight continues approaching. Click. Whose desperate presence, I can tell, is hoping for that one vein to gorge with pity. Click. Who’s so close that I’m almost playing swords with the camera’s lens. Click. Whose nostrils I can see dilating. Click. Who looks up at me, wide-eyed, “just beautiful.” Who’s too blind to read my face. Click.
I’ve always left the photo shoots without the underwear. One day at home after an interview, I walked past my brother’s room. His door was open. He stood in front of his mirror. Wearing my underwear that I’m certain was dirty. He caught me in the reflection. He stepped down off his encyclopedia and took the underwear off as I watched. Hiding his face from me.
Dear Shirley Jackson, the runways got me. Flashes capture my face. Flashes hit my body and drag my form into picture. Flashes waiting at the end of the catwalk for me. I freeze. Flash: those Celtic green eyes. Flash: that Scottish auburn hair. Flash: that high-Roman forehead. Flash. I try to smile. Flash. I turn. Flash. I can’t feel the light hitting me. Flash. It’s all people let me feel in this world. Flash. Someone gasps. Flash. They fan with pamphlets. Flash. I walked back stage.
I’ve always wanted to do that final show. Where I win. Everyone’s standing around in some parking lot, waiting. No walkway. I walk to the centre. I’m not in whichever brand, or whatever haute couture. I walk into the crowd wearing just a hoodie and underwear.
Everyone encircles me. The first rock hits my forehead. Crack. My sister. The second rock hits my high shoulders. Thud. My brother. The third. My dick. The photographer who can’t read. I buckle. My jaw cracks. My ribs. Thud, pop. My knee bursts. My body rumbles under the stones. My lower back goes numb. I can’t feel my toes. I lay there. Silence. No more rocks to throw. My mother, her face hysterical, kicks gravel at me for ruining her legacy.
Dear Shirley Jackson, I’ve always wanted that final shot. Blood pooling over stones. Drying in the heat. Her face destroyed. Nothing left but the end of my breathing.
Dear Shirley Jackson, I got the job. Full time in a Hazmat suit.
Great job!
A unique style. Displays a fair “education”. Maybe better. I don’t know what to make of this outcome though. I’ll think about it. Enjoyable in any case.