Another Painting of Andromeda — BY TORI Rego

The young woman is sacrificed to the sea monster. Rich in detail, they clad her in silks that expose her nakedness rather than hide it. Silks diamond with salt. Silks fresh and pink as cherry blossoms. Her hair is done up in three braids that braid each other. They put her in chains or do not put her in chains, but she still feels them tight around her wrists. They pull her arms away from her body, stretching her muscles to pastures. Her body an enemy. Her body a continent.

Her hair blows behind her, indicating sudden movement. She might be flailing and pulling as if it will do any good--as if she is stronger than shackles. She might be swaying sidelong, singing a lullaby she heard a mother sing to a child once on a late-night television program. But she forgets or never knew half the words, and she makes up the others: sunshine, France, somersault, kindling.

But she remembers the mother sitting kingly on the side of the child’s bed, clad in a patchwork quilt all primary colors. And the pea-shoot child with head turned to the ceiling, as the mother sings and strokes their hair.

The young woman on the rocks is an appeasement. Somewhere in a village by that self-same sea, a mother repents, buries her head in the folds of her dress, and bites her knuckles. She asks herself if it is wrong to believe so much in one’s child. She already knows the answer.

Even among mother and daughter, there is a space where one body ends and the other begins. Sympathy is not empathy. Empathy is not embodiment. They cradle rug-burned knees alone. Poke at their bellies and wonder at what is not there. Alone. Even fingers interlaced and sweat pooling between, and heat transfer even even even—

The sea monster rises, waves sliding down its cragen back. Its claws like hands like hillsides. The sea monster breathes and stirs the hairs on her ankles, exposed by those unfortunate silks. The breath is hello.

The young woman times the spaces between the sea monster’s breath. Nostrils sinking in and collapsing. Nostrils widening, rounding, opening. The hot air on her eyelashes, cracking the surface of her lips. Her heartbeat jumping in between. She digs her feet into the rock. Pulls against the chains, though they do not slacken. She fills herself wide as the Atlantic.

The sea monster bares down, and there is no young woman rich in detail and naked in strawberry silk. Disturbed waves lick the rock, leaving a cloud path of foam crusting behind. The coast stretches empty empty empty. Belly empty. Empathy empty. The magpie sips from the sky. The poppy fields cast short shadows. Church bells chime.

The chains on the rocks swing softly into the sea. Swing softly. Softly. Swing.

AUTHOR BIO:

Tori Rego is a queer writer from Charleston, South Carolina. She is currently camped in Chicago and would love to bake you a pie. She has been published in Fugue, Miniskirt Magazine, Ligeia Magazine, and elsewhere.