In the marble tub deep as an Egyptian coffin, head flung back against the rim of the tub and eyes half-shut, vacant. Beneath the surface of blue-tinged water, the pale thin body shimmering naked.

Many photographs of this girl—M.H.

Abruptly then, a sequence of photographs of another girl, of about the same age and physical type—B.W.

Wanly pretty (white) girls. Thin-armed, with small breasts, narrow torsos and hips. Captured in the throes of deep sleep. Positioned as if dead with eyes shut, hair spread out around their heads. Lips slightly parted and hands clasped on their chests.

Turning the stiff pages, and more photos . . . More (white) girls.

Also, locks of hair. Folded-in notes fastidiously recording measurements—height, weight, circumference of skull, waist, hips, bust.

Clumsily I shut the album, returned it to the shelf. Took down the most recent album which was 1991–92. But before I could open it there came Mr. Sandman’s voice from the kitchen: “Vio-let!”

Mr. Sandman was assuming that I was in the bathroom. In another minute he would come seek me. Quickly I shut the album, returned it to its place on the crammed shelf, shut the door.

Heart thudding in my chest. Such violence, like a fist punching my ribs.

None of the girls I’d recognized. My predecessors.

“Vio-let, dear. Come here at once.”

ALREADY FORGETTING HOW IN SOME OF THE PHOTOGRAPHS, THE camera was close, intimate. Bruised mouth, open. The silk robe had been pulled open, or tossed away. Small pale breasts with soft nipples. The curve of a belly, a downy patch between legs.

In one, a girl with opened, dilated eyes. A look of fear. A smear of blood on her face. Hands not clasped on her chest in that attitude of exquisite peace but uplifted as if pushing away the camera.

But already forgetting. Forgotten. The ugliest sights.

Unless it was myself I’d seen, confused with another.

What had he done to this girl? Stared and stared.

She’d failed to fall asleep properly. She’d been stubborn, resistant.

Or, he had not drugged this girl because he had not wanted her to sleep. He had wanted her awake, conscious.

But why was this? Why was one girl treated differently from the others?

You are that girl, you wish to think. Always, you are different from the others.

NOT TRUE THAT ALL TIMES WERE THE SAME TIME. FOR THERE WAS the last time in Mr. Sandman’s house that would not be repeated.

Inadvertently he’d given me an overdose. A fraction of a teaspoon of fine-ground barbiturate dissolved into sweet blueberry juice but he’d miscalculated, or he’d become complacent over the months. For so obediently the stupor came upon me, each time a mimicry of the time before, his vigilance had diminished.

And then, Mr. Sandman couldn’t wake me.

Vio-let! Vio-let! Wake up, dear . . .

No memory of falling asleep. Only vaguely, something in my hand that had to be taken from my fingers to prevent its spilling.