I believe my name was originally Yellow. I have very vivid memories of wearing the sunflower shirt. Then again I recall wearing black, and I know I had my share of violet days as well. Still, I am quite sure I was originally Yellow.

Like almost everything else, the confusion about names was Violet’s fault. The bloody fool.

It was a long time ago when we were still smaller than the Moms and Dads, and we never left the sleeping room.

Everything hazy. Behind bars. Where’s Daddy?

Daddy! Daddy! Daddy!

“Shut up.”

Every raff always tells Webster to shut up. Daddy never said shut up.

Webster hurts, so Webster lies down. The air smells like fur and urine and metal and clean things. Why bars?

Webster covers his eyes and thinks of Daddy. Where did Webster leave him?

Daddy would hold Webster if he were here. He would put Webster in his lap and sing to Webster and tell Webster “nothing to worry about.”

He would say to the raffs. Change? Change? Help, please? Anything appreciated.

I’m snared up in the rift, feeling it gnawing at my soul, hanging threatening in the sky out in the distance. And getting closer as Shawn pushes the skiff through the water.
I want to scrub my face and scream, to dive into the water and sink to the bottom, to bury myself under the mud. Anything to not be in this boat with my mother’s arm around my waist. With my brothers’ eyes fixed on me. With the heavy weight of that wound in the world bearing down on my head.
Sew up the world. How hard could it be? I can do anything I like, can’t I? I’m the next witch of Lost Sound.
I ain’t scared of the end of the world.

“Last chance for anyone to leave the tour now before seeing… what cannot be unseen.”

I hated that line. Sounded stupid every time he said it.

“No one? Very well, then. I give you…” The curtain fell down as the Angel announced the star of the terror portion of the carnival, me. “The Living Dead Girl.”

There were always gasps, sometimes screams. Does wonders for a girl’s self-esteem. I was more terrifying than a demon’s pickled sex organs. But at least I was more interesting than ice cream. Not as tasty.

Crane usually described me as a murdered child and gestured to the knife plunged into my side. Except for special occasions, the blade was staged. But the muscle and ribs showing through my translucent brown skin were not. My withered right arm rested on my belly above my normal left one. My hair, long and dark, splayed around my head to highlight my sunken cheek, exposed teeth, and of course, horror-of-horrors, my empty eye-socket.

Well, not totally empty. I put a little bowl of dirt and some worms in there.

“How the hell is it still alive?”