There Are a Lot of Bodies in This River

June 26, 64

My house burned down a few days ago.

Well, not just my house. I mean nearly the entire city. Probably two thirds of it. Neighborhoods. Temples. Homes. Shops. Businesses. They’re all gone.

I don’t know if Rome has ever seen anything like this before. Father says this must mean the gods are angry. But I don’t know if that’s it. I don’t think that Vulcan is to blame here. But truth be told, I just don’t know if I can really put my faith in the gods right now. I’m sorry. I am a good Hellenist. But it’s hard to put your faith in the good in the world when you’ve watched it all crumble away and have spent the past few days in homelessness.

I haven’t been sleeping very well lately. Father forbade me to visit the rubble ruins until the fire was gone. I told him that was silly because our burnt house would’ve definitely been looted by then. He slapped me on the cheek and told me I should know better than to talk back to him. I don’t like him very much.

It’s not like I was right or anything. When we arrived at our old district, the place was entirely burnt to the ground. I think there were two other districts in Rome that were also straight-up burnt entirely down to the ground. My life is lucky like that.

When we were about to go, Father punched me in the arm for talking back to him again. I fell over into the ash and he refused to help me up. When I struggled to get up, a small, leather-bound diary appeared. I picked it up.

“Father!”

He turned around.

“What?”

The diary disappeared. I stared at my empty hands like an idiot.

“Get up,” he muttered.

I did. I stood up and just kinda stared at the—

“LET’S GO.” Father yanked me away.

I don’t know how to read or write. I have never gone to school. I’m not even sure how old I am. I think I am about twelve. I do know the exact way to avoid each crack in the paths I’m pulled along. I’m not being metaphorical. I mean that I memorize every single crack and cranny in the stone roads. For that reason, I tiptoe a lot. But I also just always tiptoe when I walk. I only stand on my toes. It doesn’t feel right otherwise.

Father says this behavior is unnatural, so he tries to punish me again for it. I swerve. I am very agile. His grip on my wrist gets tighter, but he decides to leave me alone.

Father leads us walking for I don’t know how long. I’m good at avoiding the cracks as he tugs me this way. Father says I look like a spaz dancing around in the walkways. That word hurts. He tells me I need to get over it.

Eventually we reach the River Tiber. Father tells me to kneel down and stare at all there is to look at. He tells me to be grateful.

There are a lot of bodies in this river.

I mean, that’s unfortunately not unusual. Ever since Emperor Nero came to power, there have been a lot of bodies in this river. Nero’s kind of a wacko. He thinks he’s a god.

No, literally.

If you don’t worship Nero as a god, you will actually be thrown into the River Tiber. I am not making this up. There are people dead because they didn’t say our ruler was a god. Legally, I have to declare Nero as one of my gods of worship or else I drown. I don’t know how to swim. Father made sure I never got near much water growing up. I don’t get to travel much. I’ve never been outside of Rome. But Father likes to take me out here to the river sometimes to remind me that I should be obedient. He knows and I know that if I ever fall in, I’m done for.

I’m not sure if he’s been doing this before Nero. The guy’s been in power for ten years now, so I have no memory of the emperors before him. I don’t know if he would take me here as a baby. And, god, this river stinks. I mean, it doesn’t stink as much as it used to. I think people are a lot better at pretending to see Nero in godliness than they did when I was a little kid. That, but I also might just be more used it. Who knows?

“Pray,” he orders.

“No,” I mutter under my breath.

“PRAY.” He hits me in the cheek again.

I don’t think there’s anyone else in Rome being treated like this. I really don’t think anyone else is using this place for this purpose.

Good Jupiter please strike Father and leave me out of my misery. But I pretend. I’m good at pretending. Sometimes.

When we leave, Father gives me a glare because I start picking at the back of my head again. I really cannot stand the sensory feeling of hair touching my head. Whenever I have it up in a bun, I can always feel all the tightness and I hate it. There are always those strands of hair touching my neck no matter how tied up it is, and I hate that too. When I go to bed, I have my hair down and I can’t handle the sensory feeling of that too. I hate the way that hair feels and for that reason I am always picking at it. Father tells me to stop because it looks super unattractive. I cannot help it. I cannot stand it. I cannot handle how it feels to always be constantly feeling it there. I don’t understand how anyone else puts up with this.

I have a feeling that I might be more sensitive to physical pain than most people around me. I know this because I always seem to have a much bigger reaction to pain than other people. Father constantly scolds me for it and tells me to stop being so loud. “You only started screaming when you were six.” “That didn’t hurt.” “That didn’t hurt.” “That didn’t hurt.” “You say ‘ow’ too easily.” “Your reactions show that you are weak.” Whenever I express even the slightest amount of pain, he tells me that didn’t hurt and that I need to stop being such a baby. I don’t know if he’s right or not. I don’t think I know if anyone else expresses it in the way I do. It’s really hard to know how I actually feel sometimes when he’s always telling me how I should feel.

Father takes me to the Temple of Juno to pray some more. I mutter something under my breath about how Juno really doesn’t want this. Father hears and slaps me on the back of my head. I am not quiet. I am very loud, apparently. Father tells me to stop being loud because I am yet sensitive to sound and this makes me a hypocrite. I don’t know. I don’t really think my voice is loud to my ears but everyone else around me says it is. I really struggle with my volume if I can’t even understand it.

Father says I should understand Juno better because Juno is the goddess of femininity and womanhood and I clearly don’t understand what it means to be a girl when I have a mouth like mine. I tell him he wouldn’t know womanhood either and all that does is make me have to go here even more. I really don’t understand what he’s talking about, either. It seems like a lot of the goddesses are pretty sharp-tongued.

We walk over to the Temple of Capitoline Triad. This is the Temple of Jupiter, Juno, and Minerva. I think about the fact that Minerva is literally a war goddess who was born screaming in full battle armor emerging from Jupiter’s head. I think my father’s definitions of femininity are very strange.

When we enter, my father always ignores Jupiter. He’s the one god my father always ignores. Even though he’s god of the skies. Even though he’s the god of gods.

He’s never explained it to me, but I think I know why.

After we leave, we go to the public building we’ve been staying in one of the past few days. We have been lucky to be some of the Romans who have been supplied with shelter after the Great Fire. That’s what people have been starting to call it lately.

When I saw my bed, the leather-bound diary was laid upon it.

I opened it and I felt the strangest urge to brush my finger against the paper. Ever so delicately.

A word appears.

I don’t know why, but somehow, I’m able to read it. I have never been taught how to read. I have never been taught how to write. I have never, ever, not ever in my life until now, read a single word.

I keep flicking my finger delicately against the paper. And more words keep appearing. Somehow I can read all of it. And the more I go through, the more confused I get. But it does stop after a while. After a while this is nothing but blankness after the words my fingers brushed out.

It’s this entire entry. Somehow I have read and written an entire diary entry with my finger.

MERCURY-MARVIN SUNDERLAND

Mercury-Marvin Sunderland (he/him) is a transgender autistic gay man from Seattle with Borderline Personality Disorder. He currently attends the Evergreen State College and works for Headline Poetry & Press. He’s been published by University of Amsterdam’s Writer’s Block and UC Santa Barbara’s Spectrum. He is @Romangodmercury on Instagram, Facebook, and Twitter.