Brittany German

The Judge

The Judge I sit on a metal throne in a blank canvas. Where the metal came from, I’ll never know. It has been here alongside me forever. That and my bat. My throne – and I know it’s my throne because no one else has ever sat in it and no one else has ever tried – is tall, but not so tall that my feet don’t touch the ground. I’m granted power, assertion, that much is clear. The throne is molded to my back and arches upwards with pointed, metal spindles. The base is solid, anchored to the bottom of this white canvas, and unable to move. I sit here always. All day. Every day. Forever. I’ve been here for as long as I can remember; there’s no memory of anything else. I’m surrounded by blinding white, and although I’ve been in this one spot for all my time, the white has never ceased to blind me. I am constantly squinting, constantly rubbing at my eyes, constantly aware of my dry eyeballs and the way I have to flex the muscles behind them to look around.