And the boy with my face was still there. Polishing. Smiling.
You will be, he said. When you wake up. You will be him forever.
Because the nightmare was not the running. The nightmare was the waking. slave's nightmare
“I’m not him anymore,” I said.
The boy smiled. It was the worst thing I had ever seen. And the boy with my face was still there
“Who is he?” I asked.
I tried to wake. I always tried to wake. But the dream had teeth, and it would not let go. The boots in the boy’s hands became my hands. The lash on my back became my breath. The horn became the only music. You will be, he said
The faceless woman rocked faster. You, she said. Not with a mouth—with the air itself. That is you. Before you learned to run. Before you forgot how.