Member-only story
Tell Me Who I Am
A short story about a serial killer facing dementia, the daughter of one of her victims bent on revenge, and mothers who don’t know when to stop.
Kitty had dementia — she was sure of it. But how could you tell? Could you feel your brain shrink and millions of neurons packing their bags before their departure? Dementia was the rude houseguest because here you were, flashing vacancy signs for all your organs to take up residence, free of charge, and then one of them decided it was time to torch the joint. Because maybe it was bored. Maybe it didn’t like your cooking all those years and revenge was best served decades cold with a heaping side of plaque and loss of executive functioning.
Kitty had no means to evict. No way of fighting back. All she could do was get a hose and temper the flames. When the hose ran out of water and the fire spread, all she wanted to do was cry in a sink of water. If only she were the crying kind. If only she could remember where the fucking sink was. A year later, she’d also forget how to bend her head down to the sink and immerse herself in the water. Bu she wouldn’t forget how to die because that’s the one thing the brain remembers.
Dementia is losing yourself, by degrees. Your mind on the lamb with no place to go. So, it wanders lost…
