Worse Ways

I wish my toes were red. Ruby red, like the ones I imagine in Marlene Dietrich films. Movies seem so long ago, Frida says I shouldn’t remember them, but I do. Little flicks of silver and white funneled into dreams on screen. I used to close my eyes at night, trying not to smell the rotting flesh and I would dream of film. Sahara desserts. Glamourous bars in tropical towns. Dance floors so shiny you could see your face reflected in them, and some handsome man, his hair slicked back, his feet barely touching the floor and whirling me in his arms round and round.

I would fall asleep dizzy, but I would sleep. I don’t think Frida has slept in years. She doesn’t look it.

I try not to think of my own looks. I haven’t been brave enough to step towards a mirror. I know my ribs are protruding and my breath has been foul for months. I’m quite sure two of my teeth are rotting, but at least they didn’t end up in buckets.

We heard stories. Awful stories, about buckets of teeth.

I hope they never make a film about that.

I don’t know why I picture film stars with red nails. It’s a bright red, not a harsh one. Not like blood. I thought about cutting the number off my arm, now that we are out, but I don’t think I could stand the sight of any more blood, at least not my own. Frida says that’s why they put the numbers on our arms in the first place: so if we try to cut them off, we take our own lives doing it and spare them all the trouble.

I worry about Frida.

But I worry more about where we’ll go. Nobody wants us. Strange, how so many wanted to save us, but nobody wants us. Not really. Everywhere we go, we’re turned back.

But as Frida says, it’s not so bad. We’ve seen worse. Friends turned to soot. Friends turned to soap. Oh yes. We both know there are much worse ways to be rejected.