Dec. 3/10

Sleep pierced with nightmare.  Flashing images of things that didn’t make sense.  Tossing and turning post dream seemed futile.  She skulked to the living room and like lava spilled herself onto the couch.  Nina Simone sang somewhere far away about her lover’s black hair.  The tv was like a dead elephant in the room; a giant mass of dying matter.  The thought of turning it on disgusted her.  She was numb and raging at once.  Conflicting emotions were like opposing forces waging a war inside her head.   She was tired of the hypocrisy that surrounded her; the endless parade of self pity and tears.  The monumental display of shallowness.  The awful pretense of friendship.  Behind every smile were a thousand daggers.  She had no blood left; her body was like Swiss cheese: soft and full of holes. 

What fresh hell is this? She asked herself silently each morning.  What atrocities did the day bring? At night, unsolved matters haunted her.  Was caffeine a solution? A century ago, it was.  Would eating away at herself make her feel better? If she ballooned to a staggering 500LBs, would that make it ok again? If she cocooned herself in an incubator of fat and flesh she could hide from the world.  Her skin would grow hard and tough, like a wall, and then nothing would bother her. Nothing would matter. Nothing did matter. Every day was a new struggle. Fake people who tossed around the word “hun” like it was a Frisbee to casual by-standers.  On stage we were all the best of friends; we smile and laugh and hug and share secrets.  If she spoke the truth the world would end. The walls would come crashing down and there would be no place to hide. If she admitted to weakness, everything she held so close would break free; everyone would see who she really was. The mask would fall off and she would stand out: a freak.  When Nina Simone sang about strange fruit, she could feel the pain in her voice; she could feel blood dripping down her legs and creating an ugly mess on the carpet. There was suddenly a warm breeze and a faint smell of southern magnolias.  

Nothing she did was right. There was only twisted method to her madness. No one could follow her; she didn’t speak the same language as the rest of them.  And then the pieces that helped keep her together started falling away; the not so important ones fell away first, rotten patches of flesh floating in the ocean; then larger pieces: road kill across the highway.  And finally, the most crucial piece of all: the one that kept it all together.  The one that voiced reason, offered logic in an M.C Esher picture. Drifting away to a place that was unreachable. And when it was over, it would be final; like a death where no one died.  There would be a gap; a huge gaping hole in her brain.

But how does this story end? Would there be a call at 3 in the morning? A paper announcement? Silence?

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