Antigone

Excerpt from my upcoming short story collection, THE REIGN OF HER.

DAUGHTER BORN OF THE INCESTUOUS MARRIAGE OF

OEDIPUS AND HIS MOTHER, JOCASTA.

PRINCESS OF TRAGEDY.

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I found my mother, hanging.

Her crimson robe wrapped tightly around her neck, dangling her from the pillar above.

Her eyes were closed, lids still dusted with that new eyeshadow Issy bought for her at the mall. Her lips, left agape, perhaps in horror or shock or sheer despair, were still stained with her cherry lipstick. I could smell wisps of her ambrosia perfume, but soon the room would fill with rot and decaying flesh.

She looked at peace, and beautiful, even in death.

I did not want to look away as her face turned to a pallid grey. I made myself watch, watch as my mother swayed gently in some long forgotten breeze, if only to hope she would suddenly return, and it would all be some twisted sort of dream.

But it was real. It was too real, and I was awake, and my mother was dead.

I wanted to hate her for it. I wanted to hate my father. I hated the gods for letting it happen. I imagined them sitting on their ivory thrones, peering down at the world with nectar in their cups and laughter in their bellies.

This was a game to them. A game to pass the time, to see if they had hearts like mortals. How could they be so cruel?

As I looked upon my mother, I found myself falling. Falling to the floor, the wooden boards creaking beneath my knees, and falling into that deep, dark, narrowing part of myself all over again.

How could they be so cruel? Of course. They could do what they wanted. They were gods, the gods, and we were merely their puppets. My mother’s neck hung from the Fates golden thread, and without hesitation, they cut it.

I decided, in that moment, I would not be their puppet.

And that deep, dark, narrowing pit inside of me became bottomless.