mobiusrunning
And Time Was a Moment on Which We Ran
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Perhaps I was dead from the beginning.
Perhaps you knew I would never survive this story, this life, this tragedy.
But I was alive. For (five perfect days | for the hour you watch me | for the years and years I have been in you life, have been in the hospital, all sterile and white).
I was alive.
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I find another seed tuck on my teeth hours later. I peel it off with my tongue and bit down. it still tastes sweet.
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there’s a deep, unsettled feeling in the pit of my stomach as I stare up at her face.
“no more light,” she tells me. “no more laughter. darling, one would think you wanted this.”
there’s a snap.
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when I take my backpack off, it feels a little like I’m floating, and I groan in relief. why do I carry do much? what’s even in it that’s that heavy?
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“surprisingly enough, actually eating makes you feel better. who would have known.” he makes jazz hands as she groans and tucks her head between her knees again.
“oh shut up. you know exactly why I stopped eating.”
“yeah, yeah. your meds made you loose your appetite, and combined with the fact that they helped you focus, you weren’t really able to stop focusing and so you just worked through the day, I remember. still!”
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my gut convulses painfully, and the water comes pouring back out, splashing on the floor. I think there might be some remains of my granola bar, but mostly it’s just water on tile, and you can’t even tell it’s there.
and I’m still desperately thirsty.
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lost track of time on my way to the bottom, by hair bleached while by the unrelenting light bulbs and radiation, I reach p in triumph for the star before I fall back, gravity for gravity reversed. I could fall forever through the center of the earth.
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my hair looks sort of dead. not fried, just faded. bronze and blue and blonde and odd. I wince at the mirror and tug the hat down. I knew that the plant hair was sunlight sensitive, but I didn’t think it would be this bad!
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my throat is try. it’s not too bad until I try to swallow and there’s only dry skin against dry skin. and my head spins when I stand up. and my hearing goes funny, distant like I’ve got water in my ears with a hum of static.
did people know what static was before radios? not the hush of tree leaves or the sea on rocks, but static? did someone listen to the first radios and go oh. I know that sound.
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“I don’t know what you want,” I tell her, crossing my arms and tapping my toe like a stereotypically disappointed parent. “you bolt for the door one moment, then you’re back to exploring the next? if you needed safety, why couldn’t you have come to me so we didn’t have to go through this whole charade?”
she blinks up at me guilelessly, the meows, butting at me hand.
I sigh, then reach for the leash.
“alright, one more time.”
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sorry for the sorrow that’ll run up to your door. for thanks and for the horror of the blue all on your hands. let me call tomorrow now to ask what it might want. a thousand coats were borrowed and they fly now like a flock.
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my jaw hurts biting down on the side of my cheek. my teeth feel raw and it I eat they’ll shatter and bend.
I stumble away from the wall and let out a whoops, grinning blood, gritting fingers against the thought of another day/.
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I keep picking at the new hair they grew for me to disguise me.
two whole feet in five minutes, and I’d been ravenous after, but I do have to admit I look different.
they’d even managed to make the growth look natural. and mostly what that means is that what felt like half of it came raining out the moment I moved after they were done, strands breaking as if from age.
the hair’s all pulled back up into a braid over my head like a crown now, but I find myself picking at my scalp anyway, finding all the short, coarse hairs, some of them even tapering finer because of whatever it was they’d done to make them break.
my scalp almost hurts from pulling at them, wondering at their length. not the length of the long hair, but the short strands left behind.
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the website keeps crashing everything I try to do something, the cat keeps scratching at the door, the tea burn on my tongue lingers, my hair itches and I can’t concentrate.
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I fell over the rail yesterday.
hit the ground at the bottom,
dragged myself up to fight another day.
scratched up my shin last week.
old wood board dragged out of place to crawl
dirt all over my clothes and
smiling with the triumph of a lost item found.
poked myself last fortnight.
my nail bed still hurts from the grip on the needle
to pull it through the cloth
tension finger lost a layer of skin
guiding the needle up again.
I got hurt last month.
the aches and pains of life settling in
of stretching to reach the top shelf
sore from something I’d never done before
sunburned skin against sunburned skin and smiles
living life the only way I can.
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“ah yes, procrastination station,” I mutter, clicking open another useless information tab that is also extremely interesting.
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the dishwasher is loud, like a storm against the walls out the house. the lights are warm. the cat is warm, butting up against my fingers for scrtiches. the candle is warm. the food is warm.
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