Chloë Joan López
chlo'jo'lo'
"I never wanted you."

The smoke curled out of my mouth, out of its downturned sleeping corners.

"I never wanted you," it said again.

Instantly I was awake, but I could not move. I could not even open my eyes. I could only lie still, not afraid, but expectant and resigned.

Unbeknownst to me, the smoke assembled itself in the dark. If there had been light, its illusory strands would have shimmered iridescently. Its congealing, of course, was merely an artefact of updrafts, a coincidence bequest, a strange attractor. The collection of dust motes, vapors, and soot continued apace until they were solid and sounded like metal, like silver, like scissors, like blades. This I could hear. My heart beat fast.

"I never wanted you, but now I am here." This is the inverse language of authority. The unseemly manhandling of the law laid down. The voice sounded louder, but further away.

I don't remember when I fell asleep again, but by morning, no evidence of the events remained. But for this, but for this: a finely machined gadget, part egg-beater, part stopwatch, part throwing star, part sieve, tucked under the comforter, upon the featherbed, at my feet.