Chapter 5 : ʕ ಡ ﹏ ಡ ʔ

Off to New York. Aunt Lysa and Sweetrobin are dead, did you mention that? When you go home to New York it’s you and Littlefinger, the two of you, on Madison Avenue, with no one else but the cleaning lady, Brella, and the cook, Maisy. Randa took the week off. Littlefinger keeps busy most of the time, he’s a businessman, handling your affairs. It's been that way since you moved in at fourteen. He has a private jet, which you share, as family, so he jet sets to Germany, Sweden, Switzerland, Bermuda, China. He's been to the Middle East, which is scary, because terrorists. You don't always get to know where he goes. He'll be gone for days or sometimes weeks, calling and emailing instructions, trusting Brienne, Randa, and the Kettleblacks to get you from place to place. Not to worry—the globe is small nowadays. Littlefinger is always close.

But you're a star. You keep busy too. You have a lot of friends in the city and places to be. But they also have places to be, especially around the holidays. You should have gone to the Maldives with the Manderlys. No, Joff should have invited you to his chateau in the Alps. You went last year and finally, finally, his mom was nice to you. She told you about the family ring, fifteen carats, yes fifteen! Princess cut, golden band, set with rubies on either side.

But that was last year, sigh.

This year it's you and Littlefinger.

You have a quick welcome dinner. Littlefinger kisses you and talks the whole time over a spread of roast chicken, glazed haricot vert, and potatoes au gratin. For you, arugula salad, with walnuts and dried cranberries, no dressing. "Careful," Littlefinger says, eyeing your next forkful. Ugh. He's right. You set your fork down. You can tell he's still mad about your harmless sleepover with Sandor, and Osmund told on you for running off to the loading dock. You know, because all he'll talk about is Joff. "Oh, things are so much better!" you chirp. "You don't have to worry about me, we're very much in love."

The nothing in your mouth tastes like extra nothing tonight. It tastes uniformly empty, like ash.

Joff hasn't texted you back since your good morning my prince xoxoxo <3 text.

You call up Jeyne the next day because you have nothing better to do. She comes with you to get your next no-baby shot and then some therapeutic mani pedis and shopping on Park Avenue. Not so therapeutic for you, because she won't shut up about her boyfriend Theon. They're not even engaged but she moved into his townhouse! The scandal!

You pick up the latest Patek Philippe Gondolo for Littlefinger’s gift, and an armful of Coach and Juicy for yourself (tour is hard, you deserve a treat!) Besides, you can buy however much pink stuff you like on your credit card—as long as Littlefinger doesn't see.

You come home to dependable company: your computer. Not your Macbook, your iMac. That's the kind that sits on your desk (a Hille, way too space age but Littlefinger won't let you choose your furniture). It runs the Sims 2. Pokemon and Animal Crossing are great, but Sims is better. You make people, build their houses, and run their lives. The best part is choosing their clothes and doing the interior design, obviously. No wait: the best part is making Sims fall in love. You have probably a dozen different versions of you and Joff, and like, hundreds of babies. You have a few families with dad, too.

But for whatever reason you don't feel like playing with any of them.

You decide to build a new family instead. Maisy brings you a big bowl of cut-up strawberries and a cold glass of Diet Cherry Coke. She's not supposed to, but she even sneaks up homemade whipped cream for dipping. A little is fine, and besides, Littlefinger is out tonight. Blame the sugar, but as soon as you open up the new family creation screen, and the first sim pops up, letter by slow letter, you peck out the last name Clegane. First name Sandor, and he takes a scary familiar shape: big nose, heavy brow, square chin, hollow cheeks, gray eyes and long, black hair. Skip the scars. (Arry would know how to download a mod for them illegally, but Sandor's prettier this way, after all, it is a dream world.) He wears a black polo, black jeans, and black boots. Okay, onto the personality.

This is hard.

Sloppy or neat? He spit in your mouth and came on the floor, but he cleaned up your hands, and that's not to mention the whole bathroom puke incident. Let's go with three-quarters neat. Shy or outgoing? Um, he told you like the most traumatizing life story EVER the first night you met and fed you a chocolate strawberry in front of everyone. Outgoing to the max. Lazy or active? On account of those devastating muscles, let's do all the way active. Serious or playful? This one is hard. Does teasing count as playing? He's always teasing. But he's also always scowling and grunting. He's serious. You bump the counter down except for one little dot of playfulness. Grouchy or nice? Grouchy, duh! Look at his dang angry eyes! But nope, that's not right. Perfect tits, remember? He said that! He also said you had a pretty cunt. Dirty, definitely, but nice. It counts as nice. Plus he saved you from falling off the stage. Sigh. Still, you can’t commit to full niceness. You put him right in the middle. Perfect.

The next sim: you.

Sansa Clegane.

Mr. and Mrs. Sandor Clegane.

Okay let's not linger there. You move onto the house. You use the same one every time, one that Arry downloaded for you. It's a Tudor fairy cottage with a wild sprawling garden with pretty lights and a path that leads straight to the hot tub. You get right down to business. Digital Sansa puts the moves on digital Sandor right on the front steps in broad daylight. Doesn't matter if you have the same last name, you're starting from scratch.

Here it goes: Chat, chat, chat, admire, chat, admire, now onto tickling, whoops he didn't like that, you rebound with gossip, yes he likes the gossip. Gossip, gossip, gossip. Time to move in. Admire. Admire. Admire. Hug. He takes it! (He probably gives the best hugs ʕ ಡ ﹏ ಡ ʔ) Five hugs. Oh, you're getting there. Crushes already! Charm, charm, charm, hug, suggestion, hug, hug, charm, sweet talk, romantic hug, romantic hug, romantic hug, sweet talk, sweet talk, back rub, back rub, hold hands, caress, caress, peck, peck, peck, oh my God.

It's time.

Tender kiss <3333

The first one is so special. You quickly leap into his arms though, and smooch, and have like five million make outs. Then it's tender kisses and back rubs, and more holding hands. The holding hands part is nice. The caresses are nice too. Best of all is the serenading. You make Sandor do that part, though. He looks good down on his knees. And you know what comes next.

This is embarrassing, but you've soaked through undies, and you're in a nightie, so you're sticking to the leather on your desk chair. You don't move though. You eat a few strawberries and squish your thighs together and let your clit glow because suspense is better than sex. You put Sandor and Sansa in the hot tub. You kiss, and cuddle, and make out some. Foreplay is very important (or so you think). At last, at long, long last: woohoo. Five sessions.

You'll save the making babies for tomorrow.

For now, you waddle over to your bathroom and get rid of the pee you've been holding onto for oh, idk, three hours. You're a special kinda slimy down there, which you discover when you wipe. You think about a bath, the faucet, but no, what you really want is something inside. You fumble around in your vanity drawers, find the brush with the biggest handle, and hurry back to bed. Under the covers, you strip naked. This is naughty! You don't do this often, really, you don't. The water is much better. Cleaner. But you put fingers on your clit and slide the brush handle right on in. Oh my God, it feels so good. You go to town. You plunge, plunge, plunge with the handle and rub your clit until your wrist aches. He's over you like a shadow, big and strong, hotter than hell, muscles bulging, cock out. Your pulse screams: Sandor! Yes, Sandor! Put your cock in me please. Oh my God, like that. All of it. Your cock is so big inside my tight little cunt. Oh God yeah. Fuck me. Fuck me with your huge cock. It's so big. Oh my God, just like that. I love it when you fuck me like that. I'll be good. I'll come for you. I'll come on your cock. I'm a good little bird. I'm—I'm—I'm—

You come hard. Like a rocketship to outer space, stars sparkling, body levitating, body gone.

Is this what it would be like to meet God?

Then you return to the flesh, with a brush half up your guts, in a little damp-sheet puddle of come. Wow.

All that from thinking of Sandor.

How about you just kinda forget about this for now?

—

You and Littlefinger run the Christmas party circuit together. There’s the Boltons, the Freys, the Mormonts, and your favorite, the Reeds. Their townhouse is so cozy, like the one you grew up in, with mahogany paneling and polished colonial furniture. Mr. Reed is a big fan of regionalism: the walls are lined with Curry, Wood, and Wyeth. Country scenes, scenes of simple people in town squares and farmhouses; to you, a life as distant as a dream. Daddy used to explain the paintings to you each time you visited, and besides, half of them are his. Mr. Reed is Daddy’s trustee.

You and Meera steal mulled wine and chocolate truffles, then hide in the study. The books are locked up behind wall-to-wall glass cases. The most special ones lay displayed on velvet draped biases, face up. First editions: Wuthering Heights, Leaves of Grass, A Farewell to Arms, and the jewel, Paradise Lost. In their own case, three jewels, a crown: The Lord of the Rings. They look so unassuming with their plain cream covers and the black eye of Sauron. You know about Middle Earth—Daddy read the entire series to you, plus The Hobbit. These aren’t the editions Daddy read from, but these are the editions that Grandfather Rickard read to him. You don’t remember much from the stories since you were like, a little girl, and you refuse to watch the movies. It’s sad. You and Daddy had tickets to the premier of the Fellowship. He died three months too soon.

You have the DVDs. They collect dust now.

Mr. Reed finds you staring at the trilogy. He's a short man, with a gray rounded beard, and the kindliest green eyes. "They'll be yours, when you're ready," he tells you. You smile. Mr. Reed was Daddy's dearest friend and lawyer. He called you on your birthday. He told you there's money, like, a lot of money. He's keeping it safe, like the paintings.

"Are you well, my dear?" Mr. Reed asks. He makes you blush, just because he's so small and gentlemanly. Sometimes you forget why Littlefinger doesn't like him.

"Very well, thank you," you reply. "Tour is tiresome, but truly so fun."

"Wonderful, wonderful. I worry for you. I see the tabloids, nasty things."

You don't stop smiling. "Oh, I never pay them any mind."

"Smart girl. And Littlefinger—" Mr. Reed glances around the well-stuffed study. All clear. "How is he?"

"Busy as ever," you chirp. Your smile hurts. "Though we get plenty of time together at home."

"But of course." Mr. Reed picks up your hand from your side. It had accidentally turned to a fist. Accidentally, your nails carved halfmoon indents in the meat of your palm; Mr. Reed holds your hand like you're a fair maiden at court. He thumbs the little hidden wounds, and doesn't lose your eye. "If you need anything, anything at all, Sansa," he says. "I'm but a phone call away."

With a kiss to your hand and a bow, he's gone. You flex your fingers. You kinda want to cry. You take a big sip of spicy hot wine instead. You get why Sandor likes this stuff. Close call. It's Mr. Reed's eyes. They're like Littlefinger's. They steal the truth from you. Or is that your fault? You probably give it away for free.

—

Littlefinger doesn’t want you to go to Christmas Eve service at Immanuel. You ask every year, because Daddy always went, but he says you’ll cause a scene. You’ll upset the Catholics. Instead he takes you to his new favorite restaurant, Flayed, where he doesn’t let you eat hardly anything. Not that you would want to. It was all weird quail heart pates and squid ink soups. Littlefinger doesn’t drink. He never eats dessert.

When you get home, you ask for a sleeping pill. The white ovals, the Littlefinger special.

He watches you swallow—you can’t say you don’t deserve it.

Christmas morning you rise, groggy, to a foyer stocked with bags and boxes, a designer warehouse elegantly arranged around a dazzling twelve foot tree. Littlefinger watches you disembowel each package and smile popstar bright. “Oh my gosh, Uncle, you shouldn’t have! The Gucci purse!” Littlefinger buys you things for pretty girls: Valentino, Versace, Louis, Prada, Marc Jacobs. Emerald rings, mink coats, snakeskin bags, and alligator heels. He knows your best colors (blue, mostly, he says) and knows exactly what styles you should be wearing. (Thankfully, this year, he budged on the Uggs!!!)

You hug each treasure, then Brella gathers the scraps and carries your new possessions to your tower. Your heart feels some kinda way, like a burst-open box strewn with satiny ribbons. Littlefinger has done so much for you! He loves you so! After your profuse thanks, that’s how he answers: “Anything for my princess. I've given you the world.”

When your presents are thoroughly gutted, you run up to deliver Littlefinger’s gift. He unwraps it, and wordlessly replaces the other Philippe on his wrist. “Do you like it?” you ask. “It works,” he replies, then he takes your waist, and right, he wants a kiss. He sneaks in tongue, then breathes, “I love you, kitten.” He doesn't know you're actually a bird, but you chirp back, “I love you too, Uncle Petyr.”

Holidays are about love, aren’t they? Uncle Petyr is your family; he loves you; he really has given the world. If you think about it, he made you a popstar, and who wouldn’t want to be a popstar? He’s done so much work to make sure you’re here in New York, with like, a whole mountain of presents, and not living in boring old Denver, or worse, squalid Portland.

Still, you call Arry and talk for a little while, pacing about the townhouse in your brand new Uggs, a tiara, and wispy billowy sleeve, floor length YSL dress (fit for a fairy princess). Arry’s voice is different now, it’s these hormones he takes. But he’s still so familiar it hurts and would it be lame to say you miss him? You don’t say it. Your common ground is video games (you bought all his consoles, even the Playstation, gross). He mostly likes shooting and stabbing games but you both play Pokemon, and to be honest, it’s nice to have someone else to talk about it with. Arry even plays the card game, which would be more awesome if he actually lived nearby. You're heading west too. Closer to the ocean, closer to Joffrey, closer to Arry. You tell him. He says, “No way! With Littlefinger?”

“I don’t think so,” you say. You’ll be married soon enough.

“In that case,” Arry says. “I’ll definitely visit—if you pay for the plane.”

You call Bran and Rickon too. This year you had Randa send them cell phones—it was definitely time. Bran’s voice is also unrecognizable, he's in the clutches of puberty, and Rickon, as ever, is sweet as pie. He loves Nintendogs, he tells you. He has a husky, a poodle, a dalmatian (Fluffy, Shaggy, and Spot). So precious! He wishes you could be with them and Uncle Edmure. “I know,” you say. “I know.” It’s been over a year since your last visit (and it only lasted two days). In summertime, they get to spend a week with you in New York. You promise them trips to more fun places, when you’re not on tour. Bran says he wants to go to Norway to learn about Vikings. Rickon does too, but only because he wants to see the North Pole. “Santa lives there,” he tells you. You giggle and answer, “He does. I promise we’ll go.”

But the calls all end because your siblings have presents to play with and dinners to attend. You text Joff Merry Christmas Love and a picture in your new dress. Lol uggs are ugly, he sends back. Darn. You know they don’t really match, but you were kinda hoping he’d like them. Your phone buzzes again, a double text!

send nudes

Oh yay! You run to your bedroom and whisk off your clothes. If you lay down, and tilt your hips at the exact right angle, your boobs look bigger and your waist looks smaller. You take like, two dozen pictures, and spend fifteen minutes deliberating on which version of you is skinniest and sexiest, until Joff sends ??? so you sigh, pick one, and hope for the best. (The best would probably be you have perfect tits.)(Oh my God, yep, it's true. Sandor Clegane has literally given you your favorite compliment.)(How will you ever recover?)(You won't.)

Joff's answer: it never comes.

Well, that gives you all the time in the world to stare at your nudes. You'll delete them all—Littlefinger would be soooo mad if he found out you sent naked pictures, even though you don't put your face in them. You just need some time to analyze. Your nipples are asymmetrical and a quarter inch too big. They're too pink, too near translucent, and too far down your boobs. And it doesn't matter what angle you use: your pudge is right there, spilling off your hips like white flesh marshmallow. Marshmallows are sweet and delicious but fluffy. Too, too fluffy. Ugh.

Delete.

Brella knocks on your door and tells you dinner is ready. She says Littlefinger needs you to wear your pointy-toed Manolos to dinner. No Uggs allowed. Fine.

Dinner is really pretty, and so romantic. You and Littlefinger sit on opposite ends of the twelve seat dining table, spread with the finest white cloth, holly, and pine garlands that snake around candlesticks and lidded silver dishes. The air is honey golden, warm, and thick with clove spice. Littlefinger hired white-gloved help to serve dinner. “Small portions for the girl,” he tells them.

You wish you could turn back time, obviously. You wish your parents were alive. But you also wish you could remember a time when food didn’t flip the knife and consume you instead. You stare down a plate of blanched greens and filet mignon, with cranberry jelly and the tiniest pot of au jus. Why do I have to eat, you think. Such a chore. What if you just, didn’t? You guess that’s technically what you’re working towards, that purity, the ability to exist for and beyond your hunger. Because each bite weighs you down, gnaws at your soul. Food has such gravity. It’s a black hole and you’re nothing but a bunch of particles, swallowed.

So you want to make polite talk with Uncle. You want to be sitting at a table with Arry and Bran and Rickon, drinking wine and eating bread and forgetting about flesh, and oh gosh, you’d even take Jon, but instead, you quietly battle your plate. You’re ugly, you tell your dinner. Can you go away? Or at least stop looking at me like that? Honestly, you don’t even like red meat. It’s too bloody. It’s too alive. That’s what your insides would look like: roast bird, dark.

You push your plate away. Tonight, you’re the winner.

Kind of.

“Well done,” Littlefinger says, after watching the server clear your abundant remains. He stands, walks over to your end of the table, and holds out his hand, “Upstairs.”

You knew it was coming at some point during your trip, and honestly, you’d been spared up until this. Littlefinger isn’t your boyfriend, and he’s not really your uncle. He’s a wealthy family friend, a friend of Mom’s, and he really loves you. He takes care of you. So he takes you upstairs to your bedroom. Always yours. He doesn't even ask: you get naked, very calmly, like he wants you to.

Littlefinger leads you to the bathroom, and you get on the glass-topped scale. It thinks, and thinks, and then: 121. Down four pounds since tour started!

You clasp your hand over your mouth and look up to Littlefinger (or straight ahead, he’s your height, when he’s wearing shoes). “Seven to go,” he says. Beneath your hand you frown.

Littlefinger leaves to sit on your bed. He only lets you keep five plushies out at a time, you're not a baby anymore. He faces away from them on the far edge. He says nothing, does nothing, it’s all you. This is what you want, and what he deserves. You kneel at his feet and unbuckle his belt. You take out all six inches, hard as can be, and put them in your mouth. The first time this happened it surprised you, like oh my gosh, you would never ever date your uncle, and you hadn’t given Joff head, even though he really wanted it. No, the first time Littlefinger came up to this very room, and he pushed you down to your knees. “I’m going to teach you how to be good to Joffrey,” he said. “This is because I love you, Sansa. And because you love me. Do you understand?”

Yes, of course!

And yet, it was like, weird. You never thought you’d see your uncle’s dick. You never thought it would be your first. But he was helping you become experienced, and people show love in all kinds of ways. This is how you show Littlefinger love, so he knows you understand how much work he puts into your career and your looks and your relationship to Joffrey. Like, without him where would all your pretty clothes come from? And could you even trust yourself with food without his guidance? Like, it would probably be way worse than it is now. You would be poorer and uglier and fatter. Littlefinger basically rescued you. He likes to remind you. He knows so much. He knows best. So it’s not cheating or anything, and he's not like, a pedophile. It’s a special thing you have going, because no other relationship in the world is like this. That’s what Littlefinger says.

(Note from future bluebird: it’s fucked up.)

So on Christmas night, you suck his minty dick and blame all five bites of dinner for the black hole feeling in your chest. You think, I don’t really like this. But then also, how on earth would I ever make this end? A blowjob is a small price to pay for success. He never takes it further, like, that would really be gross. He just checks on your lady parts sometimes, because he knows you don’t like them. He wants your surgery too. He knows it’ll make you happier.

You swallow his come and stand up and it’s one of those times. Two fingers slide between your legs and push up. You draw in your lower lip, and bite. “We’ll fix them,” Littlefinger says. You nod. You really, really hate his fingers on you. You feel so ugly. You squeeze your thighs. You get bold, you say, “Can I be alone, please?”

Littlefinger takes away his hand, rises, steals a kiss. “Everything I do, I do for your own good,” he says. “Do you understand?”

“I understand,” you reply, eyes on your bare toes. “Thank you.”

—

There’s a secret Chanel box beneath your bed that doesn’t have Chanel in it. Naked, you drop down, and slither on the fluffy carpet to pull it out. Inside sit your favorite snacks, a bouquet of Sour Patch and Starbursts, gummy worms, circus animals, bottle pops, ring pops, and Haribo berries. Your favorite piece is a box of strawberry Pocky, a special Japanese cookie/snack that Wylla bought for you, never opened. You squirreled this collection away over the course of three years. Sugar air billows up like sacred perfume. Even to be close to so many calories is divine. A rainbow of wrappers gleams and crinkle inside; your fingertips graze lovingly over the trove.

It’s a secret from Littlefinger. Lately you’ve been collecting secrets. Like the secret that Joffrey is starting to really hurt your feelings (he still hasn't texted back) and maybe it isn’t Margaery’s fault. Maybe you are too fat and ugly for him and he’s not gonna propose and that’s that. And secretly, so what, because you’re thinking about someone even fatter and uglier. What’s gotten into you? The Hound? Really, the Hound?

Are you that stupid?

You’re going to ruin everything. You want to celebrate three pounds gone, you want victory, but who’s won? You sit in front of a box of sin. Get fat, and Joffrey really will leave you behind. Then who will you marry? Trystane? Aegon? Joffrey is your prince.

But the worst secret of all, the secret that spills out like your tears, and comes back on your tongue as a little candy watermelon coated in sour sparkles, is this: you don’t like it here. This body, this brain, but most of all, this home, three stories of hell, the world’s prettiest torture chamber. You tried to escape. You collected two week’s worth of sleeping pills and ate them all at once. Pneumonia, Littlefinger told the press.

No, you think now. I want to be dead.

The doctors didn’t really believe you. Even so, they give you whatever pills Littlefinger chooses.

You’re not even hungry. You spit the slimy watermelon back into the box and stow it beneath the bed. Then you rise and walk, breath shallow but steady, to the bathroom.

No amount of dresses and diamonds, purses and tiaras, will cure what you have inside. You can't even starve it out: you've tried. It might be a monster. It sounds lame, but it's like Kyo, you know, from Fruits Basket. A fluffy red-headed cat, cute on the outside, but strip away the magic charms, and what's left? A hideous, black, stinky beast. That's what lives beneath your skin and itches to break free. You knew as soon as you saw Kyo's first transformation. You gasped. You cried. You thought, oh my God, that's me :(

You can transform too. It happens when you're alone, when your thoughts bubble like bog muck and turn your shadow out. You see her in your eyes, in the mirror. It's a curse, big eyes. That's what Littlefinger says: Silly girl. I can see right through you. He's right. Bright blue haloes enclose the scary dark. She pushes out your extra six pounds so you know they're there. She says, "You're disgusting. Everyone hates you. Don't believe me? Look on your computer. Read the magazines. Open your fucking eyes." You prod your alien fat. Sometimes you cry. Sometimes, like tonight, you're calm, because after all, the bad cat is no stranger. You met her at fourteen. She guides your hand to your toiletry bag, pulls out a small silk pouch with a golden case inside. There are four silver pins, ultra kawaii ones Wylla brought back from Japan, wickedly sharp, topped with pink plastic hearts.

You run the bath.

It's a big, pretty tub, part of your pretty life. The bathroom has white marble, creamy wainscotting, and glass vases brimming with fresh baby's breath and white roses. The floral stench steams right up and smacks of funeral. You sit on the edge of the tub and drop your feet in. Between two delicate fingers, you pinch a little heart.

There's only one spot you stab. It's the spot you hate, the puffy spot, right between your legs.

You lasered your hair off two years ago, good riddance. Now it's a triangular marshmallow. Now it sits there and teases you with its fluffiness, its frivolity, its empty calories. I'll show you. Pin in. Pin out. A red jewel. A pretty death. It hurts because pretty things hurt but hurting feels good and that's what it means to be pretty anyway. You're getting rid of your insides and learning that they're not as ugly as you thought. It's also a game: how deep can you go? You think you've hit bone. You think if you make enough tiny holes, you'll excavate the excess flesh, and there won't be fat anymore.

Tonight the bad cat is hungry. She sees your lips drooping out from your pussy and she's angry they're not gone already. Joff doesn't like this part of you. He fucks you from behind. He only wants full frontal pics, thighs together. You pick up a gross lip and slide the pin straight through. Oh God, ouch, ouch, ouch. Will he love you now? You bite your tongue and squeeze out some tears and remove the pin and melt into the water, crying.

The bath turns pale pink, your favorite color.

If you were brave enough, you could spill all your ugly insides. Then they'd be pretty.

Then things would get quiet.

You're not brave tonight. You take a long shower and put your YSL gown back on. It’s not meant for sleeping, but you snuggle up in bed with Puff, your Gameboy, your Macbook, and your iPod. You turn on your Sailor Moon Season 1 VHS. The screen world is a pearlescent shell. Inside its bitter dark, deep space, gravity’s void. It’s Sandor’s worse half. He wears himself outside in. God, you’re doing it again, you’re thinking of him. He’s the black hole, but also the sun. Does the sun have a phone number? You’d love to call him up. You’d love for one person, even just one, to tell you who you really are. You’d give up everything to hear his voice, the voice of a wolf, luring in a red-hooded girl. You fall asleep crying, thinking, I’m not a girl, I’m just a little bird.