those severed bodies sprawled on marble floors. “What don’t I know?” My sister’s perfect mink face. “That he fucks them, of course. That’s how he makes new ones. He turns into a bull and sires their calves, then cooks the ones that get old. That’s why everyone thinks they are immortal.” “He does not.” They howled, pointing at my reddened cheeks. The sound drew my mother. She loved my siblings’ japes. “We’re telling Circe about the cows,” my brother told her. “She didn’t know.” My mother’s laughter, silver as a fountain down its rocks. “Stupid Circe.” Such were my years then. I would like to say that all the while I waited to break out, but the truth is, I’m afraid I might have floated on, believing those dull miseries were all there was, until the end of days.