The Red Son by Mark Anzalone

Author:Mark Anzalone [Anzalone, Mark]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9781948239424
Publisher: WildBlue Press
Published: 2019-10-28T22:00:00+00:00

***

My father took me gently by the arm and led me through a great hallway. The darkness of an unlit room fell over us, but his pace remained brisk. A door was opened somewhere, and I could feel a cold breeze kiss my cheeks. I breathed it in, tasting smoke and death. There were stairs leading gradually downward, gently glazed in the smolder of orange candlelight. My father cautioned me to mind my footing.

But I stepped upon the hem of my night-coat enough times to draw criticism. “Art should fill your feet as well as your hands, my boy. Grace is the grammar of art. Never forget that.” When we reached the bottom of the stairs, I could see cold marble flooring, polished so completely it resembled grey glass. We stopped just short of a huge room, where a massive archway emerged from the sparkling sea of marble. It was like the chiseled mouth of a great whale, perpetually breathing orange light and threatening to swallow the world. “You still want to see your wretched mother and your worthless brother and sister, do you?” I must have nodded, for we proceeded beyond the yawning archway.

Quite suddenly, one memory cannibalized another. I could hear my mother’s voice—my true mother, which should not be misinterpreted to mean my real mother. Truth and reality should never be confused for one another, as the two are often bitterest of enemies. I could hear her clearly, superimposed atop the memory of my father’s gallery. “Flesh obligates us, doesn’t it, Vincent? It can determine who and what our family will consist of, if you let it. It can force mothers and fathers and brothers and sisters upon us, solidifying our families as surely as a seating chart carved from prehistoric bone. In truth, we are not beholden to such conventions, as I’m sure your father has already explained to you. Skin can be severed, blood rechanneled, even bones can be broken into bridges that span worlds. We needn’t be troubled by the whispers of the flesh, Vincent. They are the bearers of half-truths and complete lies. What is the skin when compared to the dreams they imprison? You and I have different skin, but we are closer than shadows at dusk. I am your true mother, Vincent. And I always will be, no matter what your skin may tell you.”

My mother’s words faded into the prior memory, where I stood before a large sculpture within my father’s great gallery. The sculpture was molded from the preserved trappings of three dead dreams. His creation had been formed from gristle and guts, bones and plastic-coated brains, broken smiles and whispered pain. All of it had come from the hideously transformed bodies of my remaining—biological—family. My mother, brother, and sister had passed into art and beyond the world. Despite the deadness of her eyes, I could feel my real mother’s gentle gaze upon me, whispering across my face, trying to wipe the tears from my eyes.

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