his fingers tingle, teeth buzz, tongue twinges–sam is alive
with energy. he reaches a small hand to the shag of his
brunet hair, scratching at the wall of his temple.
premonitions began with dreams. dreams became reality–
then waking moments of the future would burn in the back
of eyes. (he’d fainted when it first happened, toppling into
her, the whites of his eyes pulled to the forefront of his
sockets).
sam doesn’t like the feeling, like he’s.. incapable.
not of strength, but of goodness. the dark, murky,
infectious feeling, eating away at his heart–like a
brillo pad won’t even scrub him clean.
sam.
sammy.
you’re my favorite.
the eight year old floats his gameboy across
the room to set it on a table, letting his hand
fall when it’s safely settled.
there’s a beat of contemplation.
‘ when are we having lunch? i’m
pretty hungry. ‘
her research is spread across the dining room table; she HUNCHES OVER IT like a student during finals week. files bound together with paperclips, faces and names, clipped articles and her own handwritten notes scratched down ON SCRAPS OF PAPER as irene recounted visions. her thumb glosses over a blurry BLACK AND WHITE PHOTO, a venezuelan boy of barely ten, cut from a picture of his school’s soccer team from the front page of a local newspaper --- and PINNED BELOW IT, the near--indecipherable scrawl of her rapid hand, FRANCISCO ACOSTA, 10. x--gene activation: this coming february --- and PINNED BELOW THAT, news clippings, what bare coverage there has been of the radical anti--mutant gang that’s begun terrorizing the venezuelan slums where francisco lives with his father, the MONSTROUS MOTHERFUCKERS who, barring her intervention, on march second will see francisco pulling the power from a streetlight and holding it in his hands and will drag him into an alley and beat his small body and leave him lying there in the dirt until he dies four hours later.
she has FAR TOO MANY of these files.
sam’s inquiring voice --- MOM? --- drags her attention away from francisco, away from her files; this is the smallest sliver of the suffering of their people, and even despite that she WILL NOT SAVE ALL OF THEM. she watches his gameboy come to rest across the room, and rises from the table --- walks to him, reaches over the back of the couch to ruffle his hair. she can no longer touch her daughter, skin to skin, AS MOTHERS SHOULD, but the cross her son bears is not so tangible. “ whenever you like. you want to order pizza? ”
