gunk

There is a neighborhood on one side of the main road that is occupied by militia. It is like they are some sort of club or gang that has taken over the land, and they are constantly watching from their posts to see if anyone infiltrated their compound. She is looking for a house to buy nearby. A real estate agent shows her a house with wide long steps in front. She can see the compound and their lookouts from the porch. The house is painted red, white, and blue.

They are a family – she and a single mother of three young girls. But she is sort of a ghost in the family, a presence, not seen, yet. The house, inside, is a mess, left by the previous owner (who was still there when they first walked in, an old white lady, looking confused yet regal). There is food on the floor, furniture in random spots, soiled rugs, dirty kitchen. They move into the house, but the single mother never cleans it. She keeps wondering why the single mother doesn’t clean. Was she waiting for her to do it? But she is just a ghost, not real yet.

A lady from social services shows up at the door. She can see through the peephole that the lady is hurried and anxious. She and her family worry and wonder if they should let the lady in. They think the lady is there to check on them–their dirty house and scrambling children. But she is not. The lady brings a small child who is comatose and wrapped in a blanket. Now, she is there, fully present, real, seen. She takes the baby and lays it on the bed and begins to rub its body all over. The face is unmoved. She continues to rub. But after some time, the infant begins to slowly wake up and emerge from its cocoon of wrappings. It stretches and comes alive. It is a newborn, still smooshed, slimy, misshapen. But it is alive. Now, they all live in the dingy house, even the social services lady, stuck inside due to the militia.

She begins to feel something rise up in her throat, like vomit or bile, and is forced to reach in and pull strings of gunk from her mouth. They are dirty wet strands from deep inside her. They keep coming. As soon as she gets one out, another needs to be pulled. At first, it is strange, scary, awful even. But then, they all get used to it. Even the children accept this about her. She stands in front of a mirror, with the children running around at her feet and pulls threads, like thick amber floss, from her mouth, slightly gagging each time, feeling relief, and then reaching in and pulling out another one.