Author’s Revenge (Version 2)

With pencil in hand and hole in stomach I go to work. I sit at my desk and perform a slow, methodical erasure. I start with the ending and find my way from there.  I see two figures, very faint with long shadows. They are speaking in low, hushed tones. They have done this before, said these things before. I used to know what the words but memory fails, hearing fails, body fails, mind putters around hopelessly. I continue my work.

I stop. The two figures are slighter now, a pair of shadows against a blighted sky.

I stay up all night, I undo lines, I rewrite, I begin again. Your image moves further away, unrecognizable, unheard. You speak only in mouthed words. I stare at the page.

What was your name? And face? Hands, body, shape? Eyes, hair, scent? I don't remember but there, still, traces of an outline remains.  More to do, more to do. I work through the day and the following night. I write, rewrite, tell and retell. I put words in your mouth then just as quickly cross them out. In one moment of weakness I attempt to reform your image but I don't remember enough to complete the task. So I begin again, the long erasure, marked over, covered over, reformed, melted down, torn up and thrown out.

 I’m not done yet.