The Right to Be Forgotten: Thirty-One
When I wake, I can feel my hair rebelling against its newness. My hand slips over it into nothingness. I’m too weary to mourn that loss.
I remember the drawer I was too tired to open last night. Inside, I find what E wants me to have. A stainless steel water bottle. Packets of birth control – to stop my flow, which would be ‘unfortunate’. A whistle, which only confuses matters, since I’m supposed to avoid police or help or decency in general. Chocolate covered espresso beans. To blunt the edge of addiction.
By now you know that Cindi is my good friend. She will be another way to help us keep in touch. You can leave messages with her from time to time. Please be sparing, though, as she is taking some risk in her efforts. Don’t be angry about the pink – it will suit the you that is coming. I hope when that version of you arrives, you will recognize her by her strength and vision and pink hair. It must be awful to live nowhere, and I applaud you for your courage! However, you must not fancy ideas of apartments and jobs. You are of less use in an ordinary life. You are meant for an extraordinary life! Your sacrifice
And that’s where I quit reading. Sacrifice. Courage. Risk. Pink. These words march around the room, this eight-by-eight cell that isn’t even mine. They condescend to me. They patronize me.
I want to burn down the world.