George
wants to know what we’re going to talk about.
Well,
I don’t know, I tell him.
I
guess about what’s on the other side of the wall.
Okay,
he says, what’s on the other side of the wall?
Grass,
I answer. And trees. England.
Dogs. Cats
Birds
and cows and children and French fries.
Music,
some of it beautiful. Pictures and art.
Questions
about steam and smoke and words that
cannot
be pronounced.
All
of these things and more.
Hmmmn,
he replies, I know about most of
those
things.
I’m
not sure what’s in it for me.
You
can’t want to be inside of those walls,
I
protest.
It
must be boring, and so lonely.
Boring,
no, he says, because I still have
my
mind.
Lonely,
sometimes. But I wasn’t made to
feel
much.
I
could ask what you were made to do,
But
I don’t think I want to know.
That’s
not a secret, he says. I was
made
to think.
And
I do think. I tell you things,
sometimes,
when you’re half-asleep,
or
not afraid or interested or
desperate.
I
wish you were more interested.
I
would tell you more.
I
know enough, I answer.
But
you don’t, he insists.
You
really don’t. I could tell you
about
the oceans and why the
rivers
flow and what makes
you
not want to wake up.
I
could tell you so much.
The
boys come, scale the walls.
They
whisper things to me,
so
that I know why.
Sometimes
I escape,
but
this is my home.
And
the dolls with knives
chase
me. Dolls as
big
as you are.
I
don’t like them very much.
No,
I say, they don’t sound
very
nice.
They
aren’t, he answers.
they
shout things at me from
the
other side of the
walls.
“You,
boy,” they say,
“you
shut up, or we’ll cut
you!”
You
wouldn’t think a doll
with
blonde hair and
pig
tails could be so
vicious.
I’m
sorry, George,
I
reply.
I
didn’t know. I wish
I
could fight them for
you.
They
would slash you to
ribbons,
he
says. You, who
can’t
shout, who
runs
in slow motion,
who
can’t dial a
phone,
or remember
our
mission.
I
wish you were interested in
our
mission.
I
have to stay here until
you
set it in
motion.
That
isn’t going to
happen,
I tell him.
Are
you or aren’t you
my
friend?
Friend,
he repeats,
sounding
surprised. Why
would
I be your
friend? What would the
point
be in that?
We
have a war to
fight,
and
I am your weapon.
The
boys are nice
enough,
and I could do without
the
dolls and their
knives,
and sometimes
my
thoughts echo.
But
there is no love
here.
Look
somewhere else
for
it.
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