Week 7: Blue-stained

16 Jan

A nuclear bomb. Nothing short of it. A nuclear bomb might be the single viable explanation for why my living room looks the way it looks. And a natural disaster of divine proportions is the reason why I’ve been living out of my pajamas for the past months. They’re not the same I started in, don’t worry. But they’re not exactly clean either. Daylight… You know, I used to like daylight a lot. Sunrays sidling soundlessly through the transparent curtains and warming up my eyelids with tender kisses. No. No. Where was I? Oh, yeah. Twilight. Much better subject. The magic hour when you’re walking through the house like a ghost, with just enough light not to stumble on the phone cord but dark enough to let your darkest musings roam free and tear-stained. I haven’t done the dishes in a while now. I’ve been drinking from he same chipped glass for months but that’s okay, right? It’s my bacteria. Not like there used to be someone with me, sharing, caring, you know, what another does and stuff. No. No. Where was I? Oh, yeah, that blue wall. Well, it didn’t use to be blue, that’s all I’ll say. I heard the sea boom through it, boil through it, murmur…blue. So yeah, that’s just how things are. A nuked living room, dust everywhere, the kitchen smudged, his guitar. No. No. Where was I? Oh, yeah. The itching. God, yeah.  Well, it’s only in my left foot so that’s manageable I suppose. If I concentrate a bit I can make the whole foot disappear, wiggling toes and all. It feels better that way. I don’t smash it into the side of the door half as much as if it were actually there. Last month it turned black but I’m not sure of it’s the dirt or what. Everything is possible he said. I shrieked and kicked his bag out the door. No. No. Where was I? Oh, yeah. I don’t watch much TV either. It makes me jittery. So many people. I am me and I draw on my arms when I have nothing to do. I’m covered in sharpie. So is the wooden floor. Go figure. I look in the mirror sometimes and I imagine myself under cubic feet of earth. You know, clay, dense and sticky, and I wonder if I stretch my hand far enough through it, will I feel him? If we’re made of the same stuff will it stop? No. No. Where was I? Oh, yeah. Milk. I hate milk. It keeps you working, they say. Well, I don’t want to work. It keeps you alive, they say. Well, I’d have poured gallons of it, white and foamy and disgusting, gallons, whole gallons, endless gallons of it on him and it wouldn’t have brought him back. And it’s my fault.  I’m never drinking milk again and I’m not washing my foot and I’m not wiping my face for all the stars in the sky for all the darkness that hides them for all the heart-stopping screeches that rise from the street. And I’d do the laundry if it brought him back, and I’d stop drawing, and I’d clean the blue-stained wall, and I’d chase the sun right back on the sky but… No. No. I’d make myself fit into that guitar but… No. No. We’d have called her Rebecca. A little Jewish of us, right? A little Sunday School. A little too early. A little too late. Time stretches in ways I cannot comprehend. Forward, only forward, as if time-travel really isn’t possible. But I know… No. No. I don’t know anything and I keep forgetting where I was. No. No. I remember it too clearly, the words that flew, the bag that flew, his frame that flew.  And yellow. All yellow. Taxis make me… No. No. But you know what, maybe she’ll be called Rebecca afterall. If she’s a girl. Or Luke. And today… Today I washed a teacup. It’s got to mean something. Right? Right?

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