The memory is the last thing to die.

The most striking experiences in the dark room that is her brain.

On the screen behind her eyes now, intimacy.

Her heart is dead, her memories at the highest capacity.

 

Blanche Édith sees her mother, how her eyes rest on her right after her birth.

Her mother would never look at her like that again.

Until her death, Blanche was unaware she even had this imagery.

It was the last time she saw her mother smile. The two of them.

 

The father’s mouth comes to mind. The foam and speechlessness.

His overwhelming rage, the insensitivity, the endless route into his throat.

His darkness, down his gulp, where all the accusations come from, the violence, nude.

Death lies on his tongue blurting out mother’s smile. Forever. Acidic and burnt.

 

Blanche Édith sees her little sister blushing.

This is the moment she told her about her first time.

And there is nothing better in that particular instant. A whole world had just opened up.

And they were sisters in it.

 

Blanche Édith knows the flashes on-screen are going to end.

The body already ran out of time and yet they keep coming, the images.

And just when she sees his hand gliding between her three-year-old thighs the parade

Comes to an end, her mouth wide open, silence.

Etienne_Adolphe_Piot_-_The_Little_Flower_Gatherer

“The Little Flower Gatherer” by Adolphe Piot (1825-1910)

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