that is what the survivors would tell their children. Some ran out of their huts only to be immediately bludgeoned or shot. The enemy took their time with others, stripping them, skinning them, their bones retained as souvenirs, cracked-open skulls serving as candle holders. Still more of the enemy were pressed for time, and simply threw would-be escapees down the well, then tossed grenades in after them. Some fled into the mountains, where the roving packs of wolves awaited, if you didn't starve to death first. The razing of the town took place on a full moon, so for the first week afterwards, you could see the wolves from a distance, their eyes glowing like fire as they flowed between the trees, and when they set upon you could find warmth and comfort in their hard breaths, appreciate their bright teeth, brighter than any human teeth you saw in your life, just as they sank into your neck.
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I do not remember specific activity from childhood, only observations. I would stab the tip of my finger with the record player needle - something exact as that. The first moment I realized my father's breath was bad, or an awkward moment catching my mother in a state of undress, her breasts small and already drooping. There was so much sun, too much of it, and in those roads as wide as rivers, it shone down on you. In daytime my sister and I played hide and seek from it, and from each other. My sister with the bouncy head, and the arm I slammed in a car door once, because I was lazy enough to do it. Her face went all red as a result, and she never seemed more alive. An accident, I told Mother, and looked straight at her, blame-less. It all comes back, she said. Everything you do returns. But no, the toad I accidentally
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