He wakes up surrounded by darkness. He craves something. Not sure what. He sips his bedside water that tastes of iron, or maybe it’s the blood. He spits it back out. Too dark to know where it lands.
Rolls over and reaches for his phone. 4:03, too early. Climbs off the floor and reaches for the door knob. Scuffles across the cool floor in the dark kitchen. Stubs toes consistently. Opens the fridge. Smells musty like the basement. Like a cat lives in there, or something. Eats an apple, core and all climbs back in bed. How many apple seeds would you have to eat to be affected by the cyanide concentration?
Why is his pillow so unsupportive of his head? His head isn’t that big. Isn’t that heavy. But that is the least of the complaints he has about his sleeping situation. The torn and burned carpet that acts as his mattress scratches him as he turns in the night. He wakes with sores.
Wonders why he tries to sleep at all. Sleeping makes him feel stressed, inadequate. Remembers hearing that sleep was nourishing, once. Could be doing more productive things with his time. But what? Why does it matter? What matters?
Feels guilty. Alone. Lucid. Wishes he had worried more when he was younger. Now worrying consumes his time. Possesses an unquenchable hunger. A hunger shared with those who lack food. Who lack love. Who lack everything but life. Possibly. Wonders if life can be quantitatively measured.
If the kitchen didn’t smell so bad he would maybe make something to eat. Cupboard has beans and rice. He digs for a bandanna to cover his nose and mouth. Still dark in his room. Too early. Knocks over his bedside water and kneels in it.
The bandanna provides a tentative barrier between the smell of stale life and his olfactory. Digs through what is contained by the cupboard and pulls out what is left of his bulk black beans. Of his long grain rice. Sings issac hayes in his head. Feels nostalgic. Not sure what about.
Unscrews the tight cap on his ground cayenne pepper. Drops the cap in the dark. Steps on the cap. Seasons the rice and beans. Uses an old bread bag and a rubber band to cover the ground cayenne pepper. Thinks this wont work.
Escapes the suffocating kitchen that is now not as musty. Retreats back to his floor. Sits cross-legged on the floor. The sun is coming up so he opens the blinds. Devours his food. Enjoys the combination of moist and firm and spicy. Coughs, realizing he had spilled his water already.
Walks to the bathroom to drink from the sink. Looks in the mirror. His bloodshot eyes stare at the bandanna around his neck. His nose bleeds again. Wipes it with soft, stained cut of cotton. Cough has ceased.
Slithers back to his room. Slides back to his position of the floor. Exhausted from eating/coughing/bleeding, he returns to restlessness.
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
No comments:
Post a Comment