Manum super te pone
"Ante respondeas” December story
Place a hand on your body first.
On the kidneys — renes.
On the ovaria.
On the hips — coxae.
On the heart — cor.
Move the hand higher.
On the pulmones.
On the throat — larynx.
On the lingua.
Lower the hand again.
On the great absorber —liver — hepar.
On the stomach without much discipline of refusal — ventriculus.
On the intestine you feed so well.
Pause.
On the columna vertebralis.
On the deep bawl of pelvis.
On the first border of cutis.
Finally—
On the most expensive cerebrum.
Only then listen. Listen carefully.
It will come without a number. The voice would sound like it had already passed through you once before.
That is how it learns you: by sounding familiar, as if going somewhere holy. The call doesn’t care about your name. It assumes you have already traded your access.
That is the first reason not to answer:
Anything that knows you without naming you has already begun to own you.
You follow the sound to a place that was once a church, then a betting shop, now a place lit from within. Inside, people wait without queuing.
On the wall, a poster: Corpus est negotiabile.
What are they so eagerly queueing for?
They say arrivals are never accidents. That even the child born in a borrowed room has been expected. Somewhere, a ledger opens its mouth. Here, there is always room. That is the second reason not to answer:
When there is always room, it is because no one ever truly leaves entirely.
There are mattresses stacked like loaves.
Presence is a consent—no longer the need of your hand.
A man with a voice trained to sound ancient tells you this is temporary. Temporary is the most generous word in the language. Temporary will let you sleep. You won’t feel a thing.
Saints and sponsors? Always valid reasons.
Wings simplified, halos flattened into rings of light. You will wear one.
That is the third reason not to answer:
Anything that warms when you agree grows cold when you don’t.
At first, it gives. It opens gates that once refused you. Bread doubles in your hands. You are congratulated for being adaptable.
People gather to take photos of themselves arriving. Only “donors”.
A woman cleans the floors in the background. Name? Who cares? She says nothing but sings, the sound like wool pulled through water. Her child sleeps in a pram with one wheel missing, as if to stay in place.
And you realise the fourth reason not to answer:
Those who know the cost never raise their voice.
Attention is the real miracle.
Nothing must happen before you understand the fifth reason not to answer:
Anything that wants you to give others your best, already claimed your best.
In pram’s place, a small indentation in the dust. That donation is older than the system. Older than the voice, the call itself.
The call returns. Important matters, it tells you, almost kindly, that you are chosen—and if you don’t give for eternity, an exchange can be arranged. There is a market for everything.
With so-called “corner of your eye”, you see a price list.
And finally, you understood the final reason you shouldn’t have answered:
You stand very still and try to think—really hard.
The voice tells a person in front of you: “That eye of yours has a slightly different colour than the other. Possibly uneven. We could find a match.”
The woman pauses.
“Exactly that?” she asks. “That baby-blueish?”
“Correct.”
It didn’t belong to you. None of it ever did. That was the first condition.
And the moment that thought settles, you realise something worse:
You were ready to consult the price.
And for what, really?
Reading this felt like being told “hand here, now here,” and nodding very seriously while my brain quietly ran away barefoot. It starts like a gentle body check and then—oops—the floor slides and suddenly everything has a price tag hiding under it. I love how the reasons stack up like polite little warnings pretending to be calm. That ending caught me mid-blink, like the story saw me peeking and went, ah, you too.