⠀⠀⠀ prologue: ⠀⠀⠀ a father is a blade that never stops cutting ⠀⠀⠀ ⠀⠀⠀ ⠀⠀⠀ ⠀⠀⠀ ⠀⠀⠀ ⠀⠀⠀ ⠀⠀⠀ ⠀⠀⠀ ⠀⠀⠀ ⠀⠀⠀
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i. Yellowjackets ii. Jamacia Kincaid iii. Succession
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I.
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𝕷ives are very fragile things, my father tells me one afternoon. We are by the ocean and he draws a precise outline of a body into damp sand. I sit where the salty waves lap gently at my legs and watch as he draws neat crosses on certain parts of the model. I bury my hands into the sand and absently mush the wet grains between my fingers, then I let the encroaching water wash it away. Back into the sea.
Firmly, he says, "Marina, look."
I quickly turn my attention to the makeshift corpse in the sand. I make note of the crosses— two by the jaw, one underneath the chin, one on both wrists, the inner thighs, the tops of the feet, the chest, and a few more scattered around the stomach area. I am nearly sure what this is without my father having to say it. Eleven years is a long time to be a surgeon's daughter and not understand anything of the body.
