What Never Came Across

Fiction from the vault. I wrote this in my early twenties.

This short story was originally published in 2004 in a literary journal called “Unsaid.” (TW: some might not like it.)

“Goo goo ga ga," I tell them, and scratch at their faces.

WHAT NEVER CAME ACROSS

by Ottessa Moshfegh

Why don’t I spare you and cut to where I cash in on my upbringing?

My sister, in the attic, lit fires on towels drenched in shampoo. My brother just back-packed the gasoline around the kitchen, then later, smarter, eye-dropped spots onto corners of pillows, collars, scarves, face-cloths, etc. My mother, to start, had little soot-colored mice in glass cases on the porch that she either found frozen or pink and pulsing in the mornings. Coming in during breakfast with her hands full of them-- my brother tainting the milk with gas, sister burning supermarket coupons-- my mother would say a little grace whatever the case was, dead or newborn. I suppose, at this point, on top of all this, what seems all so unnecessary so soon in my telling, is that no one cares if I say that I know how to deafen things.