the one to answer my prayers to end this. He abandoned
me to my fate.
Resurrection is where our paths part company. We
will not meet again.
The well-oiled door closes, and The Harvester
reaches the iron cot on calfskin slippers. Last night I did
not detect his approach. Tonight, I hear it as a barely
contained full charge. His quickening heartbeat. His rapid
shallow breath.
Despite his excitement to reach me, he surveys
what is left with distaste. I know what he wants. The closer
he gets to the bed, the clearer his mind is to me. My
virginity is the only thing of mine he does not wish to
claim for himself. His financial reason is more palatable to
me than his preference for squirming young boys. He
cannot contain my maidenhead within a specimen jar and
sell it… and he will not lower himself to pimp.
Now I also know the itch across my shorn scalp
was his doing. My long thick hair was stolen. Snipped away
and sold to a wigmaker. Waste not want not is the mantra
that circles through his head, his justification. Supplying
the wealthy, re-distributing selected parts from those who
no longer have the rights to their own bodies. He has an
arrangement with a waiting dentist, my perfect unstained
teeth are promised as a false set for a wealthy woman twice
my age. His pliers have a leather sheath to save tool marks
as he extracts one at a time, paying particular care to the
more visible incisors and canines.
33