Saturday, December 17, 2011

Odd Fiction Saturday. It's a thing. I promise.

These words are best read out loud, starting slowly and quietly and gradually getting faster and louder and a little scary. A lot scary.
We are holding hands and then I walk away because it's cold rainy I want to go inside inside inside, but you're here and I want to stay with you. I go inside anyway, go home, open the door and close it, sit with my back against it with my legs in a tangle of black on the floor, shoes have disappeared somehow and I can't look anyone in the eye, not that there's anyone to look at but you know what I mean? I stare at me and I worry about what's going to happen and I worry about what's already happened and I worry about the things that are happening right this very instant and bam! Now we're down the rabbit hole. There's no getting out now, we're in this for the long run, and we're in this together.
That's a lie. I'm all alone. It's okay. I'm okay with that. I keep telling myself that, I'm okay with it, I'm alone and I like it that way, I'm alone and I don't have to care what anyone else thinks because I am me, and I am good with that, right? Everything about me says something else, everything about me says no it hurts you, doesn't it?
It doesn't.
I tell myself that lie too.
I grab onto my hip bone, I love having bones that stick out like that, protrude, and I tug and tug at it, until I can pull it out. It's a little bloody, but I don't mind, I've seen blood before, enough to stop caring. I can't stand up now, but who cares, I throw my bones across the room, and look back down, down at me. I want to go away, I want to melt right now. You see, it's not that I want to die, it's that I just want to stop existing. I want to not be awake. Can we make that happen, you and me, together? Oh wait. You're not here anymore. Asshole. It's just me, now. Dammit.
I pull my tights down a little bit, then trace the little scars, up and down my other hip, graceful, beautiful curves, stretching to touch my ribcage and falling like feathers onto my thighs. Ribcage. I need to tear that apart too. Fingernails to sternum, crack it half and pull it apart too, now there's lungs squishy and exposed and still, somehow, doing their thing.
I stopped doing my thing a long time ago. I can't even remember what it was now.
I remember numbers though. There were a lot of numbers, before, numbers that I took to heart, numbers that I used to make myself into a person, a person I never could be. Who wants to be a person when you can be data? I want to be binary, I want to be row after row of zeros and ones, take the feelings right out of it.
Palm to forehead, I claw an eye or two out, and now I can't see, but what was there to see, what was there in the first place? Nothing worth the effort, I think. Nothing worth getting out of bed in the morning. I'm going to sleep now, there's no more reason to be awake.

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