Storm

Storm

In my dream you were there

And we were in the kitchen;

My kitchen

I asked you

Is there a storm coming?

You didn’t look at me

But you said

Of course there is, can’t you see it out the window?

Full Refund

Full Refund

Push me, just don’t be surprised when I fall…

The smell of coffee was the smell of morning and Barden found, yet again, that it was certainly a comfort. He could hear the shower running out in the bathroom and he could see the light coming in underneath the bedroom door. She must have already opened the kitchen blinds 

Barden kicked off his pyjama bottoms and climbed into his jocks and socks. He raised his hand toward the bedroom screen and brought to life an expanse of early morning ocean. The virtual waves crashed rhythmically onto the virtual sand. Perfect, he thought to himself. 

He sweetened the coffee and added a dash of almond milk. Things were missing — bacon, eggs, bagel etc. Barden frowned to himself and listened closely. The shower was still running. 

In the bathroom he found his clothes laid out amidst the steam but behind the curtain, nothing. On the sink: his toothbrush with paste already on it and his beard trimmer charged and set to blade one, just how he liked it. Where was she? 

On instinct he almost called out her name. No. Don’t be silly. Old habits die hard as it were.

Suit, vest, tie. 

Cufflinks, shoelaces, scent. 

Barden felt clunky; out of practice. He felt embarrassed that he didn’t know where she was. He felt absently angry that she hadn’t come when he needed her. The cufflinks alone had cost him five minutes. 

Back in the bedroom he raised his hand and the ocean disappeared. The bed was unmade and the paraphernalia from the night before littered the floor. Barden felt his ears twitch with distaste. The room should not be left like this. They did not operate this way.

Watch, ring, badge. 

Shirt tucked and buttons done. 

Where was she?

He turned on his heel and stalked back out to the bathroom. The steam persisted. Barden peered around the glass to find nothing and then turned the shower off. 

Fine. She was sulking somewhere, working on an overdue task, or updating, or in shutdown because of some error or whatnot. It wasn’t the thing itself that upset him, it was the inconvenience of it. Fine. Whatever. 

Out the front door and down the steps. It was strange to do it without her, but Barden finally felt the real sun on his face and he couldn’t help the smile spread across his face. He started walking towards his Macchius 2300 when he noticed something slumped on the front lawn — something that was ruining his manicured couch grass. 

Misha

He said her name before he could help himself. 

The bullet had entered under her chin and the entire top of her head was mince meat. The gun from his secret cabinet was only barely in her hand.

Misha

Gary from next door was walking down his front path.

“Woah, Bard. You got one of those corrupted units?”

Barden looked up, and then down again at Misha’s blown out head and the mess of circuits that littered his lawn. The coffee didn’t feel so good in his belly anymore.

“Dude,” Gary continued, “don’t worry. Just call SureCorp, they’ll replace that shit immediately. You’ll get a full refund.”

A Mortal Shell

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 12^th. 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.

Untitled 19.11.18

Untitled 19.11.18

Perhaps I am wrong

But surely

There is some sweetness to be tasted

From the fruit I have picked

Surely

Some tea to be made

From the milk I have spilled

Surely

Some warmth to be felt

From the bridges I have burned

And surely

Some blood to be saved

From all those broken hearts

Numbers Game

I haven’t been very good. I mean, there have been good things and then there have been not-so-good things, but it’s been an overall kind of bullshit mess of a time that I’ve had. It’s such a bummer that five days of good bloods can be ruined by one day of rollercoaster madness. I’ve tried to so hard but all I can do is miss you. I suppose you don’t think of me. That’s what I expected. I gave him a sedative so I know I can relax tonight, but me…? I just can’t seem to take the edge off these days. Maybe I’ll take a sedative myself. Maybe I’ll sleep it all away. Maybe that won’t work and I’ll wake up in the morning with all the lights still on and the television repeating Game Of Thrones like it’s the only thing that ever existed. 

Anyways. I read a Gabrielle Tozer. I loved it. I found something that she recommended and it was another YA, written by Claire Christian. I started it — it was called Beautiful Mess — and I was immediately disheartened. The story wasn’t a flop but the grammatical errors were NOT few and far between, and they stuck out like olives in a macaroni cheese melt. I got to the third chapter and almost put the damned thing down. 

Still, I finished it because I tend to finish most things that I start reading. I promised myself I would try to come away from the book with something. Something. In the end I couldn’t help but like her spoken word poetry formatting. You’ll have to imagine me speaking it because I will never speak it and no one will ever hear it. Here goes. 

Numbers Game

it starts with blood and it will end with blood // don’t be afraid to be yourself, they say // but the only thing I fear // is me // my body, my disease // the inevitable dessi-fucking-cation of who I am and my physical existence // and all the things that could happen to me // four-point-five I should be thankful to be alive // seventeen // why are you being so lean, lean, lenient // oh no, no no no // no doc, sir, no sir, no sir doc, I am anything but lean // nor am I lenient // twelve-point-two // I know I’m not supposed to, but I feel blue // no, scratch that // I feel black // it bears repeating // because who will listen when you’re covered in black // and the numbers don’t matter // even when the game you’re playing is a // Numbers Game // fourteen // nine-point-six // twenty-two // what will I do // when I finally realise that all of the // sharp points // and the knifelike ends // have led me down a path to nowhere // just blackness // black black black // it bears repeating // because eventually blood turns black // and it will end with blood //

Deliberate Vines

Deliberate Vines


I am pulled apart
For a long time now
By something with fingers
That are slow and
Deliberate
Something inside;
Something like vines
And
I crumble from within
A quiet and sure decay
A promised ending.

Nine Seconds of Jason

Alright. Cut me some slack because I haven't edited this rubbish or checked the formatting, but I'm fucking tired and lonely and talking to myself at this point. I thought this would be shorter and that I would finish sooner, but it wasn't, and I didn't. So you'll have to wait for more. That's if you're here. That's if you care. That's if you exist. Anyways. Thank you.

Nine Seconds of Jason

I — Work 

Mei was tired, and the problem with being tired is that if you tell anyone that you’re tired they will always one-up you, just like Serena was doing right now. 

“Look, it’s not that I don’t understand,” Serena was saying. “It’s just that we all get tired from time to time.”

From time to time. Mei choked back down the snipped words that threatened to escape her and formed a more pleasant response. “I know. We all do get tired. I guess I’m just feeling it a bit more today.”

Serena rewarded Mei with a smile, but somehow it seemed confrontational / condescending. “I understand.” Lie. “It happens to us all, doing all these crazy shifts.” Lie. “I can totally empathise.” Lie.

Mei’s phone rang with a startling TING that simultaneously woke her up and gave her relief — Serena finally had an excuse to leave. And as if on cue, the perky blonde waved with just her fingertips, turned on her Nike-clad heel, and departed down the cubicle lined hallway with the grace and pep akin to those in middle-fucking-management. MFM Mei said to herself, which always sounded like a B-rate radio station. 

Mei answered the phone and even if it was a memorable call she wouldn’t remember it within the hour. That was her life — call after call, complaint after complaint, shift after shift, change after change. She worked through until midnight (which was when she had been waking up the week before, and when she had been half-way through a shift the week before that, and when she had been deep in REM the week before that) and clocked off without eating her lunch. Mei exited the shiny matrix of glass and marble that was her workplace building and wondered how many of her lunch containers had grown old and festering in the cafeteria refrigerators while she clocked on and off without ever asserting herself and taking the breaks she was entitled to.

No point wondering she thought. The answer was All.

II — Home 

Mei caught the late train back to her apartment (or was it technically the early train), heaved herself over the arrangement of junkies on her front stoop, and bundled up the stairs to the emptiness that awaited her. Shift after shift left her a ghost. Perhaps that’s what she wanted to be. More likely it was just what The Man needed from her. Telling the difference was becoming harder and harder. People like Serena who worked nine-to-five pretty much every week of the year were different. People like that — people like Serena — who had consistency and regularity and most importantly normality, they didn’t know what it was like to be a ghost. An imprint of an imprint of an imprint of yourself. 

Mei walked through her apartment and found it to be just as lonely / empty as she had anticipated it to be. Todd had left more than six months ago but she’d still found herself expecting him to be there each time she got home. Who would stay she asked herself now, as she undressed and (barely) lifted her limbs into the shower. The water ran over her and while Mei wanted everything to wash away, it never did.

Mei was lost inside her head when someone asked her something.

“Hello?”

She jumped, righted herself, listened harder. Was someone at the bathroom door?

“Hey.” The voice again, but closer this time.

Mei felt her stomach lift in fear and her heart double it’s pace, but she knew that she’d heard the voice. Perhaps one of the junkies had come in through the front door after her, while she wasn’t paying attention.

“Can you hear me?” the voice asked. It was right above her and too loud — startling her and catching her off guard.

“CAN YOU HEAR ME?” it shouted this time. Mei turned too quickly, grabbed the shower curtain without thinking, and fell painfully onto the bathroom tiles like a sack of potatoes wrapped in a wet plastic bag. 

Fuuuuuuck. Her back smacked hard against the immovable floor. The cussing continued in her head as the wind had been knocked out of her and the pain clouded her mind — perhaps she had instantly forgotten all the words that weren’t Fuck. Or perhaps it was just the only word that she could remember right then and there. 

By the time Mei scraped herself off the tiles and got to a sitting position on the toilet she’d come to the conclusion that she had hallucinated. Wouldn’t have been the first time. On rotating shifts it was easy to forget where you’d been, who you’d seen, what you’d said, what you’d heard. Some days she would get to work and not even remember putting her uniform on, or getting on the train, or clocking in. Yep, that was it — just a hallucination. 

Mei stood and looked at herself in the mirror. There was already and ache in her back and the bags under eyes were those of an unseasoned international traveller. Still, she opened the medicine cupboard, took a pair of painkillers, and made eye contact with herself. “You’re going to brush your hair, paint on some eyes, slip into that blue dress, and go get a fucking drink.”

Her reflection frowned back. 

“Oh, don’t give me that look you lazy whore,” she scolded. Her reflection shrugged and smiled. A drink it would be. 

III — The Bar

The blue dress fit a treat — perhaps the shift work had helped her shed a couple of pounds — and Mei felt a little more comfortable behind the heavy makeup and the perfume and wad of twenties she had withdrawn from the cash machine a couple blocks back. 

The bar wasn’t seedy but it wasn’t too classy either. Mei hated classy. Seedy was fine but it wasn’t what she was after the day she’d had — she needed to feel good about herself, and if not good, then at least a little better. Definitely not seedy. The bar was just right and she could tell by the light. Not too dim (seedy), but not too ambient either (too classy). It was just a little more than ambient and made her feel a little woozy even before her first drink. She headed to the bar as she tried to ignore the pain that lingered in her back.

“Vodka tonic, with lime please.”

The bartender said nothing and nodded. He prepared her drink quickly and took her cash courteously. She told him to keep the change on a tab and keep the drinks coming. But also the water she added, hoping none of the other patrons would hear her. Getting home was something that she needed to do tonight because, of course, there was a shift awaiting her.

IV — The Toilet

Toilet — “You’re drinking.” 

Mei almost fell off the toilet. “What the fuck!?” 

It was the voice again. “Woah, potty mouth.”

“Dude, who are you?” Mei looked around the filthy bar toilet stall as if she expected to see someone in there with her. “Were you at my house earlier?”

“Yeah, that was me,” he said, and it sounded like he was right in front of her / above her(???).

“Um…okay.” Mei wasn’t really sure what else to say to the disembodied voice.

“You’re drinking,” he repeated.

“Uh, well, technically right now I’m peeing.”

“And on a school night.”

“Okay, mum. I can drink if I feel like drinking.” Mei finished up her business and hiked up her knickers underneath the blue dress. “Wait, can you see me right now?”

The voice was quiet / silent. 

Mei flushed and felt her cheeks flush with colour. “Fuck. How long?”

“How long what?”

“How long have you been able to see me?”

A pause, and then… “Not long. Since yesterd —”

There was sudden silence. “Since yesterday?” Mei asked the air in the toilet stall. There was no response. “Hello? Voice? Are you there?”

She shook her head (mostly to herself) and figured she either needed another drink or to go home to bed. She opened the stall door and washed her hands in the grimy sink / basin. She wondered if this was the kind of thing she was supposed to tell her therapist. Not that she had a therapist. Not that she had money for a therapist. 

The bartender, as requested, had another drink reader for her when she made it back to her seat. Mei drank it fast and then cut herself off, leaving the guy a generous tip before hightailing it back to her apartment. The night was still early but her lower back was starting to ache from the fall onto the bathroom tiles, and the Voice was right. It was indeed a school night.

V — Sleep

It was only a three hour shift change this time, but each one took it’s toll. Mei was awake, staring at the pale morning light that was only barely strong enough to push through the window. She wasn’t thinking of anything other than a strange dream she’d had during the night.

“You’re awake.” The voice didn’t startle her this time.

“And you’re not a dream, then.”

“No, I don’t think so.”

“You think, therefore you are.”

A pause. “I doubt.”

“Uhhhhhhrg. Gross. Do you correct your mother with that mouth?”

A laugh. Mei felt her ears twitch up in a smile of her own, and she too laughed. They were that way for a moment and then he was gone again. “Hello?” she asked the air. “Where did you go this time?”

Not long Mei thought to herself. 

VI — Work

It was late in the day and unfortunately for Mei, it felt late in the day. She’d had a double shot coffee before leaving her apartment but 7PM was no time to be starting anything other than an expensive multiple course meal. The train was full of people on their way home or on their way out to something fun. The only good thing would be the noticeable lack of Serena.

When she got there the office wasn’t empty but it was certainly filtering out. Ricky from HR stopped at Mei’s cubicle as he passed by. “Just getting in?”

Mei shrugged and clicked quickly through her login screen. “That’s life on rotation.”

Ricky looked legitimately concerned. “When was the last time you had AL?”

“I don’t know.” And it was the truth. 

Ricky scratched his beard, thinking. “Okay. Let me talk to Serena in the morning.”

Mei grimaced. “I’d prefer if you didn’t.

He smiled. “Don’t worry, I’ll tell her it’s come from the top down. They hate when you have too much stocked, especially if they have to payout a resignation.” Ricky left with another smile and Mei was relieved when she realised that she was the only the one left on her level. Before she could enjoy it her phone rang.

VII — Jason

It was 1AM when the voice returned. “Hey.”

This time Mei wasn’t shocked or startled. She took off her headset and put a pause on her incoming calls. “Hey yourself.”

“I’m Jason.”

“Mei, but you probably already knew that.”

“Kind of, but not really.”

“What kind of answer is that?”

“You should be asking better questions. / You’re not asking the right questions.”

“Oh my god. You’re pretty fucking pretentious for a ghostly voice, Jason.”

“You think I’m ghostly?”

Mei laughed. “No. I don’t know why I said that.”

But then there was no response. He was gone. Jason was gone. 

“Hello?” Mei felt lonely and stupid calling out to the empty air. Her screen lit up with incoming phone calls as she logged back in and adjusted her headset into place.

VIII — Home

It won’t surprise you to learn that nothing is open at 3AM except Mickey D’s. Mei didn’t particularly like take out food, but she stopped either way and grabbed an egg wrap and a coffee. The egg tasted of rubber, and the coffee of luke-warm chemicals. Seventeen minutes later she stepped off the train behind a few still-drunk sports fans and —  with bleary eyes — trudged up the road to her apartment. 

Once inside she turned on her coffee machine to make something actually drinkable and pulled out a leftover frozen lasagne. The microwave was still buzzing, it’s internal plate rotating, when her phone rang. It was Ricky, from HR.

“Listen kiddo, Serena is being…well…Serena. She’s cut me off at every angle, but she’s agreed to let me give you the next two days off. I know it’s not much but —”

“Oh!” Mei couldn’t stop herself. “Dude. Dude! Are you kidding me!? That’s amazing. That’s…”

“Don’t thank me just yet. I have no idea what she’ll do to your shift schedule after those two days. But at least you can sleep, right?”

Mei’s face hurt from the smile that had set up camp on it. Her ears twitched with happiness. “I owe you Ricky. I owe you a big one.”

He chuckled on the other end of the phone. “Just think of me when Christmas gifts are getting handed out.”

“I will,” she promised. 

Mei looked at the wall clock and noted that it was just past 5AM. Ricky must have worked on that shit overnight and then called her as early as he could. She didn’t just make a mental note, she took out her diary and wrote a reminder to get him something good within the week. There was an interesting desk piece she’d seen on the internet — perfectly carved crystal likeness of all the planets in a mahogany setting. Most people weren’t kind. But when some were, Mei dug deep, and that’s exactly what she would do this time. Ricky had gone out of his way. She noted the website and made sure to transfer some of her savings out to her credit card. 

She was half way through her coffee when she heard Jason. “Hey, you.”

Mei couldn’t stop her smile as she adjusted on the couch and faced where his voice had come from. “Hey yourself.”

“I didn’t think you’d still be awake.”

She hesitated. “I was waiting for you.”

“Were you now?”

Mei felt embarrassed. “Maybe. I don’t know. I shouldn’t have said that.”

“You’re cute when you get nervous like that.”

“I’m absolutely not cute.”

“You work weird hours.” It was a statement but still, he sounded confused when he said it, almost as if it was a question. 

“I know. No need to remind me.”

“What if you —”

But he was gone again. 

Not in the mood to finish her coffee and full to the brim with reheated lasagne, Mei spent the rest of the morning reading and catching up on personal paperwork. Now and again she’d stop and listen and wait for Jason, but he was never there and eventually she realised that all she was doing was torturing herself. 

~~~ more to come...