A story does not always come in a row like rising corn: sometimes it comes in pieces. I’m sorry to say that we will begin in the third act and leave the first alone. See, below.

We begin with Andromeda. She is standing in a white room. In front of her is the mother who bore her — or, rather, some of this mother. Andromeda watches. Her eyes are like a snake’s: unreadable.

What Andromeda would tell you is that she grew up alone. Of course, this is a naked lie. Andromeda has always been surrounded by people. Her nanny and sometime suckler, Aeschylus, who reveals the secrets of life and afterlife with an abandon that leaves Andromeda without a sense of tact. Her guardian and boyhood crush, Agamemnon (who else?), who stands at the door scratching lottery tickets and losing. Her teacher, Anonyme, whose face is twisted by a childhood disease. Quite a selection of toys for a child. Andromeda was suckled, guarded, taught — certainly not alone. And yet she would say so.

The parents were absent. The father died some years ago on the noble field of battle, and the girl Andromeda has strong dreams of his glory, his abdomen cut and seeping, his eyes weeping blood. The mother was serving the City. What else? Andromeda was born into the family that saves and protects. She is saved and protected.

Andromeda stands in front of chunks of her mother. She blinks, moistening the all-seeing irises.

Andromeda is riding in an old car with the sunroof open. With her are two people. One drives and one grasps at her leg in panic. Like every teenager, Andromeda is half out of the sunroof. Branches flash inches above her head. She ducks and screams and comes back up.

Andromeda was intended to have a brother, but he was born still. Pieces of her mother were in no state to bear a child.

Andromeda sits next to Principal Murray at assemblies. She is not a star pupil. She is a model student. She is the special one: you know how it is. When Principal Murray isn’t looking, she’ll flick her lewd tongue between two spread fingers.

Anonyme does not allow Andromeda to apply to colleges. It is not what your people do, they say. You are meant for something better.

Andromeda bites her fingers down to the bed and peels the narrow skin from each side of the nail. Her fingertips are a constant flame.

Andromeda kisses Lucy Parks in the printer room. Her mouth feels wide, clumsy. The wetness of her tongue spreads irrevocably along her spine and down her legs. That night in bed, Andromeda hallucinates one thousand houses, silently. Andromeda never falls out of love with Lucy Parks, and never loves anybody else.

Andromeda asks to see her mother, but she’s too ill. Andromeda asks to see her mother, but she’s too busy.

Andromeda kisses Joel Thompson in the bio classroom. She guides his hand past her waistband and between her lips. She weeps and comes a second time.

Andromeda asks to see her mother. She is away, long away.

Andromeda turns sixteen and learns how to come of age alone in the dry bathtub. She imagines cyan water.

Anonyme, Aeschylus, and Agamemnon discuss. Andromeda stands before her mother.

Agamemnon, Anonyme, and Agamemnon decide. Andromeda stands in a white room.

Andromeda looks into the liver of creation: processing.

Andromeda stands in a white room. Her vision rocks the disembodied arms, breasts, organs, eyes as if on shallow waves. The lips, suspended in the northwest corner, part.

“You have grown up to be so beautiful,” the mother of Andromeda says.

“I’m here,” Andromeda tells the ruby ceylon lips. “Alone as anyone.” She holds the skinful hand. “See, separate.”

The lips of the mother of Andromeda can’t help but laugh.

“Don’t be afraid,” the lips say. From another part of the room, the tongue shapes the syllables. “You won’t be alone for long.”

– Ellen Ellis