It’s this series of dreams I’ve been having where myself, and all of my friends, have children who, rather than being the product of two people, are versions of our younger selves.
One of my friends has a website, the banner to which depicts her bare shoulders and innocent face, while beside her sits her child in quiet malevolence, with those same eyes, turned dark with intention.
The dreams are accompanied by a sense of loss and entrapment; the feeling that I can no longer attain what I had always hoped.
He was my best friend. We were sitting at the top of the stairs with his father, discussing the revelation of my fatherhood. His father left me with a glass of whiskey.
I’ll leave you two to it. And he disappeared down, to somewhere darker and deeper.
How are you feeling?
How do you think?
It’s not over yet.
It will be.
You want a beer?
He pulls one out of a box, dripping and cold.
Yeah, but I haven’t finished this. I hold up the glass.
Hurry up then.
I wince and gulp and force it down.
The mother is someone I don’t know, or half remember. She is veiled in superstition and we share contempt, left to brew.She said to my own mother, at the park while they prepared food and in front of my sister: I knew that he would be the father of my child because he is a demon.