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Jay Jastig / 11.2.2024

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Ao3

You come to visit while Pearlanne is still alive. Episode 1, evening.

Aunt Pearlanne stands puffing on a slim white cig (home-rolled, economical, indulgent yet austere, an acceptable vice by virtue of its conformity), her back to your figure concealed amidst the shadows of the corridor like something inanimate, compassionately draped with reams of soft, patchy darkness. Cigarette clasped between pursed lips and the permanent slit between her brows furrowed deep, she twists backwards to fiddle with a stubborn knot in the strings of her canvas apron, her annoyance palpable. Hypnotized, you stare at the filthy expanse of coarse fabric, a palimpsest of stains accumulated over the course of the past century, delicately mottling the yellowed fabric with subtle grays and browns. Calf's brain aspic? You recall a previous snoop and stifle a jelly-scented retch. You’re vaguely aware of the knot falling loose, Pearlanne’s elbows angling and bony.

Pearlanne yanks the whiplike strings of her apron tight into a practiced bow. You blink with surprise, reverie severed. She tosses her head slightly, seemingly to realign an errant strand of hair, though as it were, the immovable bleached garland decorating her scalp had in fact set quite well and could probably remain immaculate even if she fell off of the cliff under the Estate and died. In one fluid motion, she turns, flicks her cigarette over the kitchen sink, and levels her gaze to meet yours without so much as a light sniff, nostrils tensing with spasmodic irritation. Your identical gray eyes meet each other at the alleles, and you each maintain careful composure. Unnervingly, you get the feeling your aunt would probably be able to tread a promenade of hot coals without cracking. With sinking resignation, something unmitigable tells you to acknowledge that despite the darkness, Aunt Pearlanne knew you were there in the hallway the whole time.

Into the weak light of the kitchen you emerge, doelike, almost casual, not wanting to appear as if you've been spying. But it's as if you're being watched from behind a keyhole: your voyeurism is omnipotently sensible, and thus undeniable.

"Sure is nice and quiet out here, huh, Aunt Pearlanne?"

"Hi, yeah. Is this house alive?"

"What are your thoughts on big, gloppy, eldritch porn stars named Wayne?"

"What was my mom like?"

"Pleasant evening." (Leave)

Remain silent.

Voting ended onApr 12

Ao3