BINDING HEADS

Baby Palindrome pukes onto the carpet, again. I sigh, “Didn’t I tell you before? If you need anything, you should just ask.” Still bent over, she looks up at me. “Don’t you understand? That’s what I’m doing here,” she says, expecting me to come closer. I shake my head, “No, no, not again, you do this every time, I’m no-,” but before I can eject myself from the scene, she has fully wrapped her body around my leg, locking me in place. “Please look,” she says and signs with her head towards the puddle, “I just need to know if you’re real.”

We share the same DNA, but not the same concerns, which is reason enough for her to keep testing my humanity. I look down to inspect Baby’s projected content, which appears to contain slightly digested pasta letters. “Where did you get those?” I ask. “Cupboard. It holds everything, including this canned alphabet soup.” There’s a pause. I read, the letters spell out her name. “You wrote your name,” I say. “Yes,” she nods, “correct.”

“You can let me go now,” I mutter as I twist my leg, “I managed to read what your vomit spelled out there,” but Baby Palindrome is not loosening her grip. I can feel our sped-up heartbeats synchronize. “I need you to sign a contract,” her voice muffled by pressing her face against my calf. “Why, what contract?” As I frown down on her, she pulls a pen from behind her ear, which is connected to the inside of her ear canal by a metal chain. “Just, sign here,” she says as she taps with one finger on her forehead while her other hand holds up the pen for me. My hand accepts the pen, tightening the chain. “But what does the contract stand for?” I ask again. She smacks her lips, “It’s a contract that forbids you to take this pen from me.”


Text by Amber Wynants

_{with the support of  the Flemish goverment}