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ENG 224 Essay 2, Introduction, "The black," she says, "…
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"The black," she says, "reminds us that we are mortal and that youth is fleeting. Also, nothing makes pink taffeta pop like a dark void." (125)
Women like the one in the viral video, see-through and glowing faintly, like afterthoughts. (134)
"The women started showing up a few years ago—they would just fold themselves into the needlework, like it was what they wanted." (135)
"But she said that as long as they sought us out, it was alright" (135)
A little girl standing in front of the counter ask her mother for a pretzel.
"Susan," the mother admonishes. "Pretzels are junk food. They will make you fat." And she drags her away. (136)
When they come out, I can see the faded women all bound up in them, fingers laced tightly through the grommets. I cannot tell if they are holding on for dear life or if they are trapped. The rustling and trembling of the fabric could be weeping or laughter. (136-137)
"Gizzy, is your daughter—is she here? In the—in the store?" (138)
I crash past the table and grab Petra, though not before she has plunged the needle of the dart into her hand twice more. She is screaming. Blood streams down her arm like maypole ribbons...For a moment, I am terrfieied she is fading again, but no, she is still solid, just limp with exhaustion and stubbornness. A dark trail marks the path we have taken. (143)
"I've been doing some reading," says Petra in between pulls of ice water. "It turns out that they think that the faded women are doing this sort of—I don't know, I guess you'd call it terrorism? They're getting themselves into electrical systems and fucking up servers and ATMS and voting machines. Protesting." (144)
They are talking about how we can't trust the faded women, women who can't be touched but can stand on the earth, which means they must be lying about something, they must be deceiving us somehow. (146)
"I don't trust anything that can be incorporeal and isn't dead," one of them says. (146)
The dresses are coming apart, looking more alive than I have ever seen them, the fabric splitting away from the form like so many banana peels, flaps of gold and peach and wine. "Get out," I say again. They are blinking, unmoving. (147)
From the blackness of the floor, I see them all, faintly luminous, moving about in their husks. But they remain. They don't move, they never move. (148)