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Your Autobiographies
Merrill Furman's Autobiography (submitted 5/12/06)
I entered the house discreetly, not wanting to draw attention. I wanted to talk to no one, to thank not another person who said I'm sorry. I did not want their healthy philodendrons and their bowls of waxed-looking fruit. These things were not compensation. Did they think they would be?
Once inside, my grief was too rough an emotion to be politely contained. I released it in fluent attacks upon myself, wailing an animal pain. In this universe alone, I grabbed for anything and tore the flesh of my hands with my wild scrambling.
I still breathe, though it is death that fills my lungs. It is the smell of fire and gas that makes my head so light, it might dance off my shoulders. Tippy-tappy like old dance shoes. The click of a cleat. I have one thousand legs and no head. No head.