Tempered Magazine December 2013 // January 2014 // Issue 01 | Page 37

JELLYBEANS
Performance in Memorium
By Zoë Rodine
A table and chair are carried onto
the stage. The table is draped in a
white sheet, long enough to hang
onto the floor, at least in the front.
Performer enters and places a clear
dish of colorful, assorted jellybeans
in the upper right corner of the
table. Performer sits in the chair at
the table, look out to the audience,
and begins.
My uterus is killing me.
That’s what my perfect cousin
Heather said on Christmas Eve
morning. I imagined a squishy red
internal organ growing ragged,
razor sharp edges and hacking
away at her insides, slicing into
her small intestines slowly until
the blood began to gush out of her
body. At first everyone would just
think she had her period, but then
the blood would spread and pool
and surround her abdomen like
a glorious red halo. Because my
cousin Heather would be perfect
even if her uterus killed her.

She just flopped herself down on
my grandmother’s knobby blue
couch and announced it to the
world: my uterus is killing me.
Except she didn’t really mean
killing, she just meant hurting. I
knew all about uteruses and their
potential to hurt, because I’d gotten
my period for the first time earlier
that year. So when my mother and
four aunts murmured in sympathy, I
murmured too. But they didn’t really
notice my murmuring. I wanted to
shout “Hey everyone, I’m a lot like
Heather! Because just a few weeks
ago my uterus killed me too!” I
added it to my mental list of deadly
things: guns, bombs, swords, car
crashes, heart disease, coconuts
falling unexpectedly from trees,
cancer, uteruses.
When my best friend Anahita said
her legs were killing her after we
had to run the mile in under nine
minutes or else you couldn’t pass
sophomore year P.E., I did not
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