electra goes through her gallery of fantasies to fall asleep to, from least to most revisited

          5. the one where mother gives up her anger

eventually your father comes back & takes you in his virile arms, & marvels at how much you’ve grown, & you tell him all you’ve accomplished in his absence (which isn’t much), & he tells you he’s proud of you anyway,
& his presence is like a ray of light expunging the poison out of the house, & your elation is enough for your mother to remember why she loves him & forgive him, the way you’ve forgiven him, because for family you get to close your eyes again & again until they’re scabbed over & you’re blind—
& it doesn’t matter if your sister’s absence still hovers like a headless wraith, sucking the lungs out of the house, that you feel her presence looming grand over your every achievement,
you all have each other now— your glorious father, your reticent brother, some agreeable version of your mother, rehabilitated from her rage— & that’s all that’s needed for one happy golden family isn’t it

          4. the one where you get married

it always begins with your figure draped all in white, breathtaking & gorgeous as a ghost, with your hand exposed & blazing where your father holds it, as he leads you like a sacrificial victim down the flowered aisle towards your sorrowless future—
& you don’t yet know what your husband will look like, so you dress him temporarily in your father’s features, to not leave him faceless & naked, because for as long as you can remember you’ve dreamed of marrying a man who’s alike your father, handsome & revered & a little domineering—
but the fantasy gets hazy & ends before its consummation, because being embraced by your husband-father overwhelms you & the blood & emotion rush to your head so you need to think of something else because you can’t bear his ardent eyes on you, his hands on you, your distressing failure at recalling a single instant where he’s ever touched you, when he’s ever held you

          3. the one where father never left for troy

there’s no classmates persistently asking ‘where’s daddy’ when he never shows up to pageants & talent shows, their snides & sneers when you announce with beaming pride that he’s leading the war (as if it’s your fault their older brothers were drafted), your bullheaded loyalty despite how much you miss him, how much you curse the war for taking him from you, for being yet another unbeatable contestant along with your mother in the battle for his affection, in which you always seem to come last—
no sideway looks & hushes of silence in the following weeks after the news about your sister broke, when you were hurled back to school feeling like a leaking wound being scuffed across the dirty floors, a moribund dragging his bowels around—
instead it’s been a lot of sunday dinners, of laughter & swirling on the lawn until your world becomes a blur. a lot of picnics, a lot of fun activities & bike rides & being driven to archery & ballet & picked up from school & secret ice-cream trips before getting home, a lot of bedtime stories, with a lot of girls turning into trees or getting abducted by winged creatures, but you don’t ever have to worry about any of that, because your strong, valiant daddy is here & he’ll protect you from everything, & he’ll always be here because he’s sinless & no one wishes him dead

          2. the one where he sacrifices you

you get to be the chosen one, the immaculate child coveted by the gods, to be packed & boarded, dressed in your sunday best, to go past breathfogged cities & mountains & fields full of grazing animals you’ve only ever seen the innards of, your heart in your throat—
& he doesn’t even need to deceive you with the prospect of a wedding because you’re the daughter of his mind & you instantly understand the importance of this, that it’s for the mighty gods, & either way you’d make the journey even just to see him, to be with him for a while longer, & you promise yourself you’ll be brave & not cry, you’ll make him proud—
never mind the fact that you won’t return from this, that you’ll no longer hug your brother or hold his small hand at the grocery store, that you won’t feel your mother’s fingers brush your nape as she braids your hair, it’s worth it just to feel his burning hand on your sternum, his beard grazing your ear, his warm breath against your hair telling you how much he loves you, to not to be afraid, that he’ll try not to hurt you, how heroic you’re being; to stare in admiration as he unsheathes his large knife, to look up in adoration while he repurposes your life, molds you into someone worth loving, worth grieving

          1. the one where you save him

you stumble upon the scene at just the right minute, your father wineflushed & slick in the bath, half-dreaming & relieved to be back home, unwary of the axe raised above him, its impudence jarring in your mother’s slender arms— how she freezes when she sees you, a glimmer of tears in her eyes, your sudden sight jerking her back into her motherly self,
so she lowers the weapon, tremulant as a leaf, & your father opens his eyes & spots you, & calls you over to him instead of losing his temper at your trespass, (after all this is the land of delusion where anything is possible), & he embraces you with his soapy, scented arms, telling you how much he loves you, how much he’s missed you, & you pretend-squirm & laugh when the suds trickle down your dress, soak into your hair—
& you meet your mother’s eyes from over his broad freckled shoulder as she stands mute & tortured as a saint, your smile laden with collusion, because now you get to keep her secret, now you get to hold the axe very softly above her head