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Girl split down the middle and re-sewn. Girl pulling stitches from the backs of her legs. Girl bleeding into plaster. Girl who cannot kneel in church. Girl tearing herself apart.
Molly McCully Brown, SELF PORTRAIT AS THE OTHER GIRL.
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. . .
Memory Birth
Sol's first Memory cowers in the deepest darkest corner of her room. Hiding behind her black oak-wood desk and the never-ending clutter stacked upon it, Memory's dusty and tangled silken threads sit ready to be pulled apart at the seams when touched too hard. Memory is black and cold, desperately trying to cling to the warmth of truth.
Or maybe it's the heat of the dripping wax candles. It doesn't know. That's fine.
What it does know is that it's sad. And lonely. Black and cold.
There's mold seeping into its cracks, the moisture keeping it fed coming from its own tears. Memory can't stop the mold from spreading. Memory can't stop the sobbing. Mouth hanging open, its drool drips onto the floor in large puddles while it wails for its mother like a newborn.
Mother isn't here, not yet. But she knows Memory waits patiently for her. Memory needs Mother. Mother needs Memory. Sol needs Mother. Mother needs Sol.
They exist within the same plane and cannot be without the other. Sol needs Memory and its uncontrollable slobbering. Memory needs Mother to clean it up.
Mother needs Sol to keep Memory broken.
. . .
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