The Genocides by Thomas M. Disch Page A

Greta is waiting for you.”
    “Huh?”
    “You’ve been sleepwalking—or something. Now get along.” She had already pulled him away from the bed and let the curtain drop, veiling Blossom. She was a few more minutes seeing Neil out the door, then she returned to the trembling Blossom.
    “What did he want? Why did he—”
    “He’s been upset by the things that happened tonight, darling. Everyone is nervous. Your father went out walking and he isn’t back yet. It’s only nerves.”
    “But why did he—”
    “Who knows why we do the things we do in our dreams? Now, you’d better get to sleep again. Have your own dreams. And tomorrow—”
    “But I don’t understand.”
    “Let’s hope Neil doesn’t either, love. And tomorrow, not a word of this to your father, do you understand? Your father’s been upset lately, and it’s best that we keep it a secret. Just the two of us. Do you promise?”
    Blossom nodded. Lady tucked her into bed. Then she went back to her own bed and waited for her husband to return. She waited till dawn, and all the while, outside, the sausage machine kept up its dreary rasping song.

    Waking was pain. Consciousness was consciousness of pain. Movement was painful. It was painful to breathe.
    Eddying in and out of the pain were figures of women—an old woman, a girl, a beautiful woman, and a very old woman. The beautiful woman was Jackie, and since Jackie was dead he knew he was hallucinating. The very old woman was the nurse, Alice Nemerov, R.N. When she came it was more painful, so he knew she must be real. She moved his arms and, worse, his leg.
Stop that
, he thought. Sometimes he would scream. He hated her because she was alive, or because she was causing his pain. He was alive too, it seemed. Otherwise, would he feel this pain? Or was it the pain that kept him alive? Oh, stop it. Sometimes he could sleep. That was best.
    Ah, Jackie! Jackie! Jackie!

    Soon it was more painful to think than anything else, even than having his leg moved. He was no more able to stop or diminish this pain than those that had preceded it. He lay there, while the three women came and went—the old woman, the girl and the very old woman—thinking.
    The girl talked to him.
    “Hello,” she said, “how are you feeling today? Can you eat this? You can’t eat anything if you won’t open your mouth. Won’t you open your mouth? Just a little? Like that—that’s fine. Your name’s Orville, isn’t it? My name’s Blossom. Alice told us all about you. You’re a mining engineer. It must be very interesting. I’ve been in a cave, but I’ve never seen a mine. Unless you call the iron pits mines. They’re just holes, though. Open a little wider, that’s better. In fact, that’s why Daddy—” She stopped. “I shouldn’t talk so much though. When you’re better, we can have long talks.”
    “That’s why what?” he asked. It was more painful to talk than to eat.
    “That’s why Daddy said to … said not to … I mean, both you and Miss Nemerov are alive, but we had to…”
    “Kill.”
    “Yes, we had to, all the rest.”
    “The women too?”
    “But you see, we had to. Daddy explains it better than I do, but if we didn’t do that, then the others would come back, a lot of them together, and they’re very hungry, and we don’t have enough food, even for ourselves. The winter is so cold. You can understand that, can’t you?”
    He didn’t say anything more for some days.

    It was as though, all that time, he had lived only for Jackie, and with her gone he no longer had any need to live. He was drained of desire for anything but sleep. When she had been alive, he had not known that she had meant so much to him, that anything could. He had never plumbed the measure of his love. He should have died with her; he had tried to. Only the pain of memory could ease the pain of regret, and nothing could ease the pain of memory.
    He wanted to die. He told this to Alice Nemerov, R.N.
    “Watch your