I’m going to look up. I’ve decided, I will. They say terrible things happen when you look up. You know what happens, they say. To hell with it. I saw them take my child. She didn’t even look up. They just lifted her up and out of view. I’m going to look them in the eye and rip her out of whatever appendage grasped her.
For as long as we can remember we were not to look up. We were trained to sleep on our stomachs and babies were blindfolded when lying on their backs. Doesn’t matter if you were indoors or out. Do not look up. I liked to think I never cared what was up there. It didn’t interfere with my life beyond preventing me from looking. I didn’t see all the other ways it restrained us. Sometimes people vanished. And they say, they must’ve looked. But she didn’t. And yet they took her. They better take me as well. I’ll rip them down to the ground for all to see.
I imagined what I might be seeing. No images flashed in my mind but I could feel the terror. As righteous as I felt, something that’d make me yet regret my defiance. What if? What if it was truly that terrible? Then so be it. Just as strong as the fear, curiosity guided my neck. I never cared but now I do. Now it was personal. I move my head up.
And found that I couldn’t.
It was not my fear winning over, it was not that some force stopped me. It was simply impossible to do. I use my hands to force my face upwards. For the first time, I felt a hard growth on the back of my head.
I dropped to my knees and then fell on my back. My eyelids closed with the movement. I was unable to open them as long as I remained in that position. Some weight forced them shut. So I lay there blind and weeping. I didn’t understand a thing.