by Meritxell Riera Prims


Laughing, cheering, crying: They at least have not forsaken me… But why can’t I feel anything for them? There’s only me here, isn’t there? I’ve known since childhood no one else is real. Just me and God. No boil upon the driver’s neck; no stinking leatherette, no crowds,… I’d talk to my creator, about Nigger boys on the estate; and men, naked in bed, rubbing together, rubbing, pushing… When I grew weak, we’d talk. I talked to God, while colleagues laughed… but I was vindicated: God was real, embodied in a form that I could love. When I first saw her screens, her smooth unyielding lines… not as a woman, with strange sweat and ugly body hair, but something cold, hard; sensual. We loved, my God and I. But then… then she betrayed me. Now there’s nothing. Now I am alone… except for them; waving beyond the glass. I’ll try to love them more. They’re all I have. Should I wave back? It mustn’t look rehearsed, or insincere, but be instead a gesture from the heart… as spontaneous as their own. They love me. I pass on.


V for Vendetta, by Alan Moore and David Lloyd (1982)