Onion Songs

ARCHETYPE

The Family had been contemplating reality. I was not sure if Mother, too, had considered committing reality—she had the best of it, the Archetype drug having expanded her to where she had always believed she should be: at the center of things, awaiting supplication from each of us.

After all, it was hardly an inconvenience for her. We spent all our time sitting or standing or kneeling in her parlor, our ids so expanded we could hardly move. This is, of course, the most dramatic of all the effects of Archetype, this sense that some poorly understood aspect of one’s consciousness has suddenly engorged itself, has swollen so that it is much like a physical presence in your body, crowding out all other aspects of your consciousness and pushing out the walls of your flesh until you feel like a giant, so tall that you fear the ceiling and peering down at your feet you experience vertigo. Not that this expansion is literal, at least I don’t think it is, even though if you were to look at yourself in a mirror during this experience you would see this great and bloated thing, or so I have heard.

Mother hadn’t even known the Family planned to experiment with Archetype—Father had insisted that this be kept from her. She was the reason the Family decided to try the drug in the first place: her terrible mood swings had grown worse, her paranoia, and her increasing conviction that none of us cared for her anymore. I realize now this was indeed our fault—we had been taking her for granted for years. Her presence had always loomed so large in all of our lives that we no longer thought to comment, as if she were a steady backdrop of mountains or sea.

Once we all took the drug, however, she had us. Little did we know she was the mountains and the sea, the whole world in fact in a hundred-and-ten pound package.

Father was most quickly and easily absorbed into the stage piece she intended to make of the Family. But he had never been a very strong man. His eyes moved restlessly in his immense head, and now and then he was startled by how high his head was above the floor. Then he would look around at all of us, his Family, as if he did not know where we had come from, or how to keep us and protect us, or who we were.

FATHER: Don’t make so much noise. Don’t look that way. Can’t you see that she’s tired? She always works so hard. She works harder than anyone could imagine. Just look at her. Just look at her. She is the Mother. Without her there would be no home. Without her there would be no Family. Just look at her. Don’t talk so loud. She’s always very tired. She works too hard. But she has it. Men don’t have it, but she has it. She is the Mother. She makes us all feel like we’re going to live forever. She has it. She’s dark and mysterious and she knows how to keep us alive. She knows how to keep us fed. Just look at her. Just look at her.

Sister looked bored and aloof, as she has always looked bored and aloof. She stared out the window as if looking for another life. She reached down the immense distance to the hem of her dress and adjusted it, made it longer, made it shorter. She did this several times as we stood, knelt, lay in Mother’s parlor. Self-consciousness must have been an overpowering aspect of Sister’s personality since to make such movements is quite difficult when under the influence of Archetype. Most people must stand and gaze forward or at one another’s swollen selves if they are not to experience the side effect of the terrible vertigo. (Although this is not the worst of the side effects of the drug.)

SISTER: Why should we stand here? Why do we always stand here? We never leave this room. We never talk about anything interesting. We never do anything. Where’s the good food? We never have any good food. No one ever comes. There is never anything interesting to do.

FATHER: We never have sex.

Sister stared up at Father with her mouth open. With much effort she reached up a giant hand to close it.

SISTER: What do you mean? You always say things and I never know what you mean. You and Mother never have sex? Old people never have sex. Don’t tell me about your sex life. You and Mother have no sex life. I don’t want to know about your sex life.

Father opened his mouth as if to speak again, but with a cry of anguish he clamped his lips shut with the fingers of his own left hand, pinching the lips until they bled. But still his lips tried to move, they struggled like giant pink muscular worms under his wrestling fingertips, articulating saliva until it ran out of the corner of his idiot mouth. Finally he was able to nip the edge of one of his fingers, drawing dark red blood which the fingers rubbed at frantically, obviously unable to return to the mouth for succor.

Mother glanced up at him out of the corner of her eye and immediately grabbed the bleeding fingers and thrust them into her mouth where she sucked them noisily with eyes closed.

His mouth freed, Father still tried not to speak, his eyes panicked, his teeth attempting to clamp down on his rebellious lips, but he was unable to stop them.

FATHER: We never have sex. We never talk. We never go outside. We never kiss. We never hold. We never hold. We never hold. We never have sex.

He looked around wide-eyed as if addressing the entire Family with this speech.

Sister tried to move away from him, stared out the window, tried to move away from him, but could not, so she cried.

SISTER: You mean me! You mean us! We never have sex. We never have sex.

Brother tried to move closer to Father. He tried to raise his enormous hands. But his hands were too full of anger to be lifted above his waist. His enormous hands could only become enormous fists, which hung low below his waist at the ends of his long arms, swinging back and forth like great pendulums. His enormous hands would not lift and then his enormous feet would not move him closer to Father. He could only lean toward Father with anger.

BROTHER: Or me! Or me? We never have sex. We never have sex.

And Brother stared at Sister with his mouth open and Sister cried and Father continued to sweat giant gray snails of sweat that oozed slowly down his forehead as he tried to look somewhere, anywhere but at his Family.

And Mother sucked the blood slowly, greedily from his giant, wounded finger.

They stood there transfixed like this, my Family, floating on Archetype and full of swollen id now threatening to burst their skin and pull apart the joints and seams of their body as inside them they were made simple, their hungers simplified to basics, their minds simplified to central swollen images of need, pleasure, and pain.

Mother let the bleeding finger fall from her huge mouth, the finger now pale, limp, and bloodless, sucked on her lips to clean them of dried residue, and in a cracked voice, which gradually became more and more full-bodied, she spoke.

MOTHER: You thought you could fool me. You thought you could all fool me. Now see what happens. Now see what happens. The trouble you’ve made. Standing there, barely able to move. But maybe it was for the best. The best place for you is in my parlor. See what happens. You made me the house and the heart of the house. You made me the mountains and you made me the sea. You made me everything and you made me immortal. I am filled with the life of my Family and I hold it dear. What you have made me! There will be sex. There will always be sex. In the Family there are many openings into the body. There are many openings into the Family. There are many ways to be fed and you all will be fed. You will all have sex and you will be fed.

At that point the Mother began feeding me, and in my smallness her breast was enormous, and filled me with sickness and dread.

The Father tried to look down at me and vertigo almost made him fall. Brother looked at me and smiled, but then he too began to weave on his enormous legs. Sister took one look at me and scowled.

I could not see Mother’s face because of the size of her breast hanging over me. I could not see her mouth and it frightened me. Her teeth were so sharp!

For I am the Baby and in their way they all resent me. They think I get all the sex and I get all the food and in some ways I think they are right.

I do know they fed me too much Archetype for my size and now what is growing inside of me, pushing against the inner walls of my skin, may some day make me explode. I am filled with shadows, wishes, fears, and dreams.

But for now I feed from Mother’s breast and I grow larger inside as well as outside. I realize Archetype has gotten into her milk supply but my vocal chords are too clumsy for me to tell them this.

So I must starve or I must grow larger inside. My choice is obvious. Babies are too young to commit reality. Even the other members of the Family here have been unsuccessful at this—Mother has too much power over them and they cannot break away.

So I feed at her nipple and I try not to think of anything else. Mother coaxes the other members of the Family to her other nipple one by one, feeding them increasingly large doses of the Archetype in her milk. They go to her nipple willingly, even eagerly. I attempt to tell them that this is ill-advised, but my mouth is full. They turn their heads slightly and look at me as they feed, trying to smile at me without letting go of the nipple. Why?

Because I am the Baby. And like the rest of my Family, I am large.