BURNISH, BURN – a short story by Ari B.
images: letters to milena, franz kafka // masaan (dir. neeraj ghaywan, 2015)
so wuthering heights is one of my all-time favourite books, and i’ve always wanted to write a loose reinterpretation/retelling of the text through a postcolonial lens (like how jean rhys approached wide sargasso sea) because… well… heathcliff is Not White!! and a few days ago i figured, oh what the hell, and sat down to write it, and here it is! also, while wuthering heights is the text that’s informed this story, a prior knowledge of the text is not necessary to read this!! click on the link above to read on medium, scroll down to read on tumblr.
WARNINGS: period-typical racism, mentions of violent thoughts, explicit colonial violence
First memories are hard to keep track of, but you think yours was of fire.
It comes to you in bits and pieces: the scratch of khadi cloth against your skin, the weight of a large, squarish palm bearing down your uncertain sprout of your shoulder. The hungry licks of the blaze, and the strange, pale pits that dwelled in the centre of each flame. Perhaps it was just a dream, or a twisted remnant of an old story that had wriggled its way into the fat of your mind. Still, you can’t help but think of it.
Perhaps you need to think of it. The city you live in is cold and hard-cut, and the promise of warmth evades you. Like boxes that ring with an empty thud when struck, the scraps of cloth that you seize from a passing fair shake out damp and mould, and the crusted tureen of workhouse soup skims your teeth with an icy chill. And so you are cold, and as the chill creeps into the crevices of your flesh and forces your body to curl into itself, you are hungry. You are ravenous.
The cook at the workhouse regards you carefully when you ask for seconds. You want to meet his eyes, to present him with the braised black of your gaze, but something in you catches and you look at the polished tack buttons of his waistcoat instead. He reaches down and places a hand against the flat of your belly, and says a thing that you cannot understand, that you later piece together to mean “hungry boy”. In an instant he moves forward, but you stand still, held by the phantom press of his palm.
You are hungry, but which part of you hungers? The stomach, veiled and bilious, pulsating slowly in a sac of fat; or the umber skin above it, longing for the sun? You are hungry, but why do you hunger? A hungry boy is an empty boy, a void that begets sating. You finish the soup from the workhouse and sleep, a hungry boy thinking hungry thoughts: of the world around you like a slow-burning inferno; and you it’s grasping, hollow core.
vaporwave
titsay
romaincrisis
pixelskylines
