Having finally been cornered by her mother and forced to watch just enough of an episode of a certain popular science fiction show, Angela became ruminative. That is, she became ruminative for her, since she was already more ruminative than anyone else in the room, on most days, anywhere.
Oh my was she ever. For someone like Angela, grocery shopping was no easy task, for she often wondered, as she selected a bag of carrots, for instance, how the other carrots which remained unselected felt about it, if the carrots selected felt more proud or doomed, where they all came from and what the life of the growers of said carrots were like. Did they have neighbors? What were the names of their dearest friends? Did one of those friends bake zucchini bread? Was it a labor of love, or something forced on him or her by their society kept? Should she make coleslaw and, if so, would raisins be a plus or minus in the total mixture?
That is a small sampling of the kinds of questions which ran riot through her skull, as she performed the simplest tasks. This show watching, it was not a simple task. There was something about the “gate” that they went through which was eerily familiar. Try as she might, though, however long her mind chewed the cud of memory, she could not think why it would be familiar at all.
“Something in a dream.” she half-whispered to herself.
“No, dear. Jaffa.” said her mother, patting her hand.
Something inside Angela had broken. She didn't need to remember to know that much. It was there, plain to see, in the depths of her mother's eyes. Something had most definitely broken, and her mother had somehow helped it to shatter. What, though? How?
She didn't know how to ask and wasn't sure she wanted to know, most days. “Let it drift over me, this life.” she thought to herself “and let it be done. This too shall pass.”
It did not pass, but, the days did, and so time went on and forgot the young girl who had fought fiercely with her brother for every inch of ground gained in their sibling rivalry, whose heart was broken oh so many times by young men with sweet words, who … who …
“Who … ?”
“Who, what, dear?”
“Who .. am I?” Angela asked, turning fearful eyes to her mother's own. “Who am I? And, where is your daughter?”
“If you mean your sister, she'll be here later.” replied Mrs. Abelard. “If you mean anything else, I'm not sure what you mean. As to who you are, why you are Angela Erskine Gracile Abelard, are you not?”
“Am I?”
Flustered, her mother patted her hand, then moved across the room to her knitting. Picking it up, she began to fidget with yarn and needles. “Who else would you be?” she snapped.
“Then, tell me, if it is true, that I am me.” Angela demanded. “I know you do not lie, so tell me and then I can be.”
“Be what?”
“Just, be!”
“I already answered your question.”
“Tricky. You did answer, but, not with a yes or no. You answered with another question.”
“Can't we just watch the show?”
“No, we cannot. It disturbs me. They keep walking through something that should lead somewhere, but, it always leads to the wrong somewhere and it doesn't look right, anyhow.”
“I see.” said her mother.
“Do you?” Angela asked, though she felt strangely numb and past caring. She could feel that sense of a room about to go bad.
It went bad. “I see it's time to administer this.” said her mother, stepping over and plunging the needle into Angela's neck.
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