Open the Cage Door

I'm on a short bridge, standing on a milk crate for a better view. A tribe of gorillas inhabits the creek-side below. The creek is known as Blood River, but nobody knows why. There is a beat up old suitcase somewhere near... well, somewhere, anyway.

There is a child. I am the child, but the child is not me. I toss first the milk crate, then the beat up old suitcase, over the rail. The child and I are in a gang. The child is a ghost. My name is White. I am a ghost haunting a blood red creek. The land bleeds into the river bed. There are oil rigs nearby, rigged to draw up the blood.

Beating the child is a punishment, but it is also a rite of passage. The ceremony is broadcast live. Outrage ensues. The ghost watches all the while. The river is denial. It is crucial not to react, vital, even. Fists stop, close to the eyes, the breath of it stings. The child confesses. Our sins are for giving...

Sweat melts the white pancake foundation. Bald, but for a few wet strands plastered into a single curl on the forehead. The child is no longer with us, but we are the child. Alone on the creek bank. A deposit of sand is the ablution. Many unremarkable years pass, with the river.

The child speaks, “I am come to reclaim... something. Keep an eye out.“

Keep an eye out. Keep an eye on the child. The child is the prize. The child is out. Someone else is speaking. Gibberish. Muffled. Not a language, not a code. They are just sounds that mean something, that sound like something. That is all, just sounds. The child’s blood is the sound of my voice. Gorilla cries.

Open the cage door.