‘What does red feel like?’ she wondered. ‘White is light. Grey is thin. Blue is closeness. Black is there, all around my naked self.’
But she had never felt the colour red.
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I often dream of killing my father. Not always in the most sensible way. Sometimes he stands there as I drive a knife through his neck. He doesn’t move, but he does scream. And I cry when he dies in my arms. I tell him I’m sorry. I ask for his forgiveness, but he never says a word. Sometimes he is already dead, a simple concept I am stuck trying to bring back to life in one way or another. Either through making a deal with the devil or pouring him into a mould, trying to shape him back into being. I always fail. And though I cry and apologise, he’s not there to listen. He’s dead. I call out to the heavens, full of anger and hate. I beg for them to give him back, but in a dream there is no one but myself to listen.
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He rode a dying gelding into the camp, dismounted, and shot the horse through its beating eyes. Men stirred in the early morning light, casting pails of filth into the mud and chuckling amongst themselves as they bartered bread for tobacco. They did not react to the gunshot, instead casting hostile eyes at the epaulettes on the man’s shoulders. The Grande Army of Napoleon Bonaparte were used to the unnecessary cruelties of their officers.
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