A Mortal Shell
I mistook my death for bliss
Bayside — It Don't Exist
***
My dreams are the best place to be. Even when they’re bad. Even when they’re nightmares.
It’s Saturday. December 12th. Two-thousand and fifteen. I know this because Daniel keeps a little block calendar on the display bench that sits across from my bed. It’s one of those ones you have to turn the blocks over each day — hand painted I suppose — maybe it used to be Christmas themed. Now it’s faded. At least it’s not dusty like everything else in this room. At least it’s not dusty. Not like me.
I can’t stand the dust. I can’t stand that I feel dusty.
It’s Saturday, which means Daniel will be home all day except if he has to run errands. It’s Saturday, which means he’ll be depressed. Normally Victoria has to spend the majority of the day with me. Her colourful printed nurse shirts and squeaky plastic sneakers fill the space with a certain satisfaction. She punctures the sterility and I find that I can finally breathe with her around. But it’s Saturday.
Daniel walks past my room without looking in and I know he’ll be on his way to make coffee. The smell will float in, tempting me — no, no, I can no longer be tempted, only teased — and perhaps he’ll put a croissant in the oven and brown some ham, fry an egg, melt a slice of cheese. I blink. I try to look down but I’m not so strong this morning. Sometimes I’m bigger and better than I can even imagine, but most of the time I’m not. I try to look down again but I can’t seem to see my feeding tube right now. I don’t know why I would want to see it and so I change my mind and instead, close my eyes.
Daniel and I are driving to the house in the Catskills. Ift’s raining hard and he’s gripping the wheel, saying we should never have left with the storm prediction. I put my hand on his leg and tell him it’s okay, which of course makes him worse. My throwaway reassurance never did anything for him. His worrying never did anything for me. I’m looking right at his concerned profile when we hit a patch of slick, wet road.
Sometimes I can move my left big toe. Today I try but it doesn’t happen. I start to smell the coffee from the kitchen, and perhaps toast. My mouth is dry — it’s always dry — but I will myself to talk. Can I have a cup? I would ask. Can I have a cup? Maybe I would just scream. CAN I HAVE A CUP?
Sometimes I can move my left big toe.
The water makes us slide across the freeway but Daniel corrects us and huffs out a breath of anger. “I can’t believe you’re not going to quit.” He’s talking about my job and I really don’t want to have this fight right now, but it looks like I have no choice.
Sometimes I get an erection. It can be for no reason, or sometimes it can be because my mind and dreams have been good to be.
Egg and bacon sandwich. I can smell it properly now. Daniel walks back past my room and still doesn’t look in. I don’t will him anymore — I have given up for the day. Willing doesn’t work anyways, does it?
We never painted this room that I live in. It must have once been a pale blue because I can see patches of it in the corners. Now it is the colour of old sunscreen. I don’t know if that’s a colour for sure but it’s what I see. My custom bed takes up most of the space. All the monitors and other medical devices have the rest. Other than that there’s the small display bench with the block calendar, a tiny ticking clock, and a stool at the end of the bed. Daniel keeps the vacuum leaning up against the wall in the corner and sometimes he stores his golf bags in here. I am furniture now. I am furniture among the furniture. I have faded into the background.
We skid back on to the right side of the road and I can feel myself gripping the chair. I must have white knuckles. “And how will I pay my bills if I quit, D?”
He’s silent and I know he wants to say that he’ll pay them for me but that’s not what I want. Daniel turns to me and asks, “But how can you possibly stay so unhappy forever?” I don’t know the answer to this question so I stay quiet. Without even looking at him I can tell Daniel has had enough of me.
“You’re a fucking loser.”
And just as he says it we hit another patch of wet road and this time there is no correction that can be made.
***
“Morning.” Daniel carries his coffee and croissant into the room on a small wooden tray. He places it on the end of my bed and I know he’ll stay there for his breakfast, perched on an uncomfortable stool that is covered in the dust that smothers everything in here.
I can’t stand the dust. I am covered/smothered in it.
Good morning. I try to say it with my eyes but he doesn’t often look at me so it’s not noticed. Morning. Good morning my love. I say it over and over in my mind; with my eyes; as loud as I can manage. Good morning my love.
My memory isn’t good, and for that I hate it. The things I do remember are pointless and unhelpful. I remember things that ar e far too close — the taste of metal in my mouth; the hot, slick blood on my fingers; the broken window slicing through my neck and then my cheek. Fuck you memory, I think. Fuck you.
***
Daniel doesn’t say anything else. He just sits at the end of the bed, eating his breakfast and spinning the wedding ring on his finger. I wonder if he thinks I notice. I wonder if he thinks I’m aware of anything at all. The irony of it all is that I’m aware of everything. My short term memory isn’t reliable but my memory of the past is so good that it hurts.
Daniel’s croissant crumbs fall like tiny pieces of calligrapher’s gold leaf onto the blanket that covers my feet. He’s reading something on his phone as he sips his coffee (the news maybe) and he doesn’t look up at me. I see his profile and I am ripped back to that last day — the day with the rain and the road.
I was in the hospital and I wasn’t fully conscious but I could hear the beeps of machines and I could smell the disinfectant and I could feel Daniel at my feet, holding on to me, but at the same time, letting go. I heard him clear as day when he said his last real words to me. In the end he was crying.
***
6:15PM
You’re a fucking loser.
6:17PM
You're a fucking loser in a shit job, making shit pay.
You can’t speak up for yourself.
6:34PM
I hate you.
