Done with Oppression

silhouette of woman standing on beach during sunset

I’m done with stories of oppression — Twelve Years of a Slave, The Piano, The Handmaid’s Tale…

I need no more evidence of our ugliness. I know it’s there. It’s so there.

And I don’t need what comes after that either: vengeful violence of a hero, a bloody and sinister vindication wrapped around triumph.

Violence is used like a Vegas sign to draw us in and justify the second violent act, and there is always a second violent act.

But I am already justified. I am already motivated. I have my weighted bag of hard-earned ghost stories.

So show me a different ending, the one after the last episode: sun shining into an open window, a circle of people standing patiently aware of their own failings, watching a birth, a new growth, fingers unfurling, soft and unlike their own.

Hands far from shackles.

Mind unbounded.

New eyes opening, using the light differently, writing the sequel so easily, before uttering a word or taking a step.

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