Break From Reality. Daily.
Lou and Jetta sat silently inside the tent, holding hands in the darkness. Outside, thunder rumbled, and rain pounded on the plastic roof as if trying to get inside.
Lou cleared his throat. “We have to make a decision.”
“I know,” said Jetta quietly. “What do you want?”
A sudden flash lit up the tiny space like day, and Jetta saw the grief on Lou’s face. Her stomach twisted, knowing she caused him so much pain.
“You know what I want,” Lou said.
For as long as I can remember, I’ve been a runner.
The door slammed shut, rattling the walls. I’d drawn it extra hard to make my point. Outside, I spun on my heels and zipped up my hoodie. The day had gone so well until we began arguing over something trite. And through some circuitous route, we’d ended back at a discussion we’d been having for the last few months. I could have stopped the argument, but I had already set myself up to bolt.
A gust of wind blew when the front door opened.
It had been one of those Rarotonga summers when the heat consumed the day at dawn and baked the island late into the evening. The air was sticky, and many of the young honeymooners preferred the comfort of air-conditioned spas or their cleaned hotel sheets to the beach—even if it was whale season.
Marie Fuller preferred the ocean.
“Not much further, Marie.”
She nodded, eyes on the waves that broke against the front of the boat. She gripped the railing and tilted her chin over her shoulder to acknowledge her husband, but stopped. Leaned forward instead.
I’m back again.
In that stupid plastic chair. Under those heinous fluorescent lights. Drinking copper-flavored fountain water. Eating a doughnut ten other people touched. Listening to those ten other people drone on about their lives. Watching them blow snot into their tissues and then use that same tissue to dry their eyes.
When I first started coming to these meetings, I liked to think I was so much better than all of them, the sniveling messes. They were pathetic.
But that voice on my shoulder whispered the truth behind my dry eyes. I was a monster wearing the skin of an objectively attractive twenty-four-year-old. I was pathetic.
I etched the slanted line onto the wall. Once done, I looked across the expansive wall. Three hundred sixty-five of these lines I had carved into the rough surface of the stone. I had only been in this cell for ten days, but I am an impatient guy by nature and three hundred sixty-five just looked more dramatic than ten. Also, no one really tells you this, but when you’re sitting in a prison cell there aren’t that many activities you’re able to do. Wall carving just seemed to be the most accessible hobby around.
Reminiscing is also quite popular here, so let’s do that now!
Colors have a taste. They also have a feel. Purple is feathery. Dark blue is rich like velvet. I’ll admit, if someone told me that a year ago, I would’ve figured they were high. But almost everything’s changed since dying.
I perched on the roof experiencing the sunset. To say I was merely watching it would be an understatement. Brilliant white smells slightly of confectioner’s sugar and tastes sweet. Orange is like swimming in a warm lake on a summer day with a hint of citrus. As you can imagine, the undulating colors at sunset or sunrise are a whole-body experience. Since I no longer enjoyed the culinary delights of life, these were my favorite times of day.
I heard Elliot’s car long before I saw it. It needed a new fan belt. I was always the one who took care of such things. Elliot pulled up to the curb, coming to a choppy halt, and stumbled out of the car holding his briefcase and a bundle of flowers. My dematerialized lips grinned and a school-girl thrill raced down my spine.
Cyndi awoke before her alarm. She clicked it off, grateful not to have been woken by its beeping—a necessity on most days. But not today. Today was different. It was her day. Her anniversary. It would be a good day full of special moments.
Red-tipped feet in pink slippers, she slipped on her robe and tiptoed out the room—without glancing at the large, snoring lump under the bedcovers—down the corridor, and into the bathroom. Shutting the door, she leaned against it and smiled. It had begun.
Thanksgiving Day, 2011, was haunted. My husband’s family had sealed a time capsule forty years earlier, and our apartment buzzed with electricity from the moment Matt, my husband’s brother, texted Sport a reminder of its opening that day. Sport listed the items he remembered having included: a 7-inch Astron Scout rocket, an issue of Mad Magazine, and a chipped bowie knife.
I wrinkled my nose. Don’t you bury a time capsule? He shrugged, saying they’d stored theirs in the garage.
Joseph walked slowly to the bus stop on his way to work.
It was a short walk; however, it got tedious each day. Lost in thought, he pondered about life. Counting the cobblestones on his way, he could see the moss in the stone cracks drying off due to the heat. In winters it glistened like green crystals trapped in ice, but in summers it waned and dried only to be reborn in spring. He wondered whether his life would ever find that spring again; or are humans just built to fade from the spring of their youth to the withered winter of their lives. He peered downwards as his back had arched and there was little he looked ahead to except for the final days of his life.
