The phone rang, once, twice, three times…
I glanced casually over at the caller ID before the fourth, but I knew what it would read, and I knew I couldn’t answer. Work – of course- and my head turned hypnotized back to the picture in the magazine.
It wasn’t so much that the shadowy corpse depicted there could have been a real-life zombie amid the post-apocalyptic frenzy of today’s entertainment culture that intrigued me. The horror of someone’s death, the creepy circumstances that had naturally embalmed them so – none of that mattered any more than the phone call going to voice mail on my nightstand. What struck me about this necroptic image was the androgynous cloak of meaninglessness a photographer’s lens had cast upon it.
Ha, Call me Caitlyn, I mused.
If only there was a way I could explain to the world what it means to be me, how much easier my life would have been to simply be this poor creature, this hapless victim of freeze-frame forensics, lacking in genitalia more obviously than lacking in life. In a way, I knew I was staring at myself, and for once – for all the mirrors had failed to show me – I knew…
Well, I just knew I couldn’t go to work.
© 2015 Anne Schilde