Untitled Again

If I could just get my brain to reconnect to the situation…If only I could make myself open my eyes, and will myself up off this damn floor.

And if I could, then what?

I have this image in my mind, like a strip of film playing across a screen, only this image doesn’t move, exactly. The picture is of a boy, go figure, and he’s about my age, maybe a year, or two, older. This boy is nothing special to anyone, but to me he’s what makes getting up off the floor so vital.

Speaking of vital; do I have any of those vital signs? Am I breathing and pumping blood? I’d like to check for my own pulse, but that seems silly. Suddenly, in the wake of this woozy spell, I feel like taking a quick nap. Hell, I feel like I could sleep for days.

The strange thing is, there’s this image of a boy in my…well that’s funny; I’m sure that I’ve said this already. Anyways, this boy’s name is Jake, and Jake has this strange, almost awkward way of smiling only on the right side of his face. When he talks, his whole mouth seems to be centered more to the right side of his face. It’s the most baffling thing to watch. I hardly hear a word he says sometimes, but when I do, it’s like pure poetry when that boy speaks to me.

My body, from wherever the top of my body is, to the very tippy bottom of it, feels like what static would feel like, if it were alive. Just try to feel that, and that is how I feel. So here I am, lying on a sticky mess of a floor, in what feels like, maybe, sugar-water? No, that’s wrong, but try to understand. I’m feeling a bit under the weather, so I may be talking a pinch of nonsense.

Where was I?

Yes; a boy. The last thing I think I can remember Jake, which is the boy’s name, saying to me is something about not forgetting the Kleenex this time. So here I am, lying on the floor, and I get that panicky feeling when you think you’ve forgotten something, which was important. It starts in your chest and sort of fizzles out towards your limbs, like a firework, but less hot. I’ve forgot to turn the oven off!

S**t, that isn’t right…

There’s this fantastic throbbing pain somewhere in my chest, or on my chest? I can’t think of much else aside from the burning, but I do consider just how miffed my mother would be if she saw this ungodly mess. She would probably put her hands on her hips, or just above her hips, and lift up her eyebrow in that pinched, motherly way.

She’d say, “Olivia! How could you spill so much blood on your carpet and not clean it up?”

Quite snarkily I’d probably respond with something like, “Because I was waiting for you to complain, Mother, dearest.”

I once had a bladder infection. The pain, just under my ribcage, mostly in my back, felt like there was a clamp on my kidney and it was tightening its grip every time I moved. This, the burning in, or on, my chest, is much worse.

I open my eyes. This must have been incredibly hard to do because I hadn’t realized I’d closed them. So my eyes are open and there, on the floor next to my head, is the box of Kleenex I was supposed to pick up. Hallelujah, I didn’t forget them!

I frown, though, or I think I frown. The shoes that are stomping around near me have smooshed one corner of the Kleenex box. I’ll have to explain that, and the ugly red smear splattered across the pale blue box, to Jake.

Someone, in their fancy polished shoes, deliberately kick my Kleenex box out of their way.

I begin to struggle. I may let it slide that Fancy Shoes stepped on the box, and maybe I’ll even dismiss the nasty redness, but there’s no way in hell I’m going to let them mistreat my Kleenex like that! I fight this astonishing pain and start to fight against hands that are trying to hold me down.

Here I am, thinking I’m about to get way ahead in this Fancy Shoes vs. Myself battle, when I realize this must be a dream. Only, I’m usually awake in bed when I’m realizing the madness was a figment of my mind. I’m in the convenient store where I stopped to grab some milk.

We’re not out of milk! Something is very wrong.

My body’s still moving, and violently, and I’m not doing it. It isn’t me.

My eyes move, and they rest on the strangely peanut-like features of a strange man, upside down, above me, with his hands firmly on my shoulders, pinning me down to this wet, sticky floor. I try to tell Peanut Face that I’m not moving and that he doesn’t have to push so hard, but, unlike the rest of my body, my mouth won’t form words, it just hangs open.

Oops, there I go. Where’d I go? I’m…hazy. Imagine being a vapor. That’s what I am. My eyes feel strained and… Mother would be so upset. She would hate this. She would probably be mopping up this shameful mess already.

 

 

Author's Note

Again, thanks for reading

Reviews

[GrandDystopia]

Nice. Sharp, witty and very interesting, you are able to write smart stuff without sort of talking down to the reader which is a skill in itself and one which makes me jealous. Again, nice.

Keep it up

[JC]

feels like what static would feel like, if it were alive.....damn...youre great at the suspense, slowly drawing readers in, slowly unfolding..its a talent i envy...you really put into perspective how even in the most dire of circumstances we have these really mundane day to day thoughts, you think of others so much and how they will feel, builds the case for altruism...and these flowing poetic lines...i'm looking forward to reading a complete novel from you, hopefully soon.

[An owl on the moon]

I felt like I walked in on a glimpse of life... hearing one voicing such anxiety.. confusion.. longing... You create this emotional canvass and make us long for more paint...