An impatient noise, and the line cuts so that the phone is suddenly empty, radio waves disintegrating while she shuts her eyes. She puts it down on the table, and turns back to her apartment. It’s empty, and something small and shrinking inside her enjoys the echoing space, the dark of early evening, the freedom to lie down without anyone seeing– on the floor if she wishes.
She is a fiery sieve, a burning screen, a raging filter for tiny parts that do the work she cannot see, that make her up. She is ablaze.
The next dose is in an hour, and the time in between is grey and grainy while she tries to sit still within herself. It will go down, she’ll keep it down. It will bend her deepest self outwards and force her into an about-face so that she ceases to turn on herself. It will upend her so that accumulating silt falls onto the fire, tamping it to embers, turning her to stone. She sits still, and breathes slowly, trying not to think of her lungs as bellows feeding fire.
The hour passes, she takes the pill, her phone rings silently, and her entire apartment seems to vibrate with incoming contact. She is lying on the floor, trying to sink into the wood, trying not to burn. The floor vibrates again, and she answers.
“Are you still there?”
“Yes,” she answers.
“You’re OK, aren’t you?”
“Yes.”
“Are you coming tonight?”
“I’ll try. I’ll see.”
She turns off her phone. She drops it, stomps on it, kicks the pieces into a pile and sets the pile afire. In her mind, she does all of these things and then jumps through the window and into the yard, jumps the fence, jumps off into the blinding night.
Ashley Woodward
She is a fiery sieve, a burning screen, a raging filter for tiny parts that do the work she cannot see, that make her up. She is ablaze.
The next dose is in an hour, and the time in between is grey and grainy while she tries to sit still within herself. It will go down, she’ll keep it down. It will bend her deepest self outwards and force her into an about-face so that she ceases to turn on herself. It will upend her so that accumulating silt falls onto the fire, tamping it to embers, turning her to stone. She sits still, and breathes slowly, trying not to think of her lungs as bellows feeding fire.
The hour passes, she takes the pill, her phone rings silently, and her entire apartment seems to vibrate with incoming contact. She is lying on the floor, trying to sink into the wood, trying not to burn. The floor vibrates again, and she answers.
“Are you still there?”
“Yes,” she answers.
“You’re OK, aren’t you?”
“Yes.”
“Are you coming tonight?”
“I’ll try. I’ll see.”
She turns off her phone. She drops it, stomps on it, kicks the pieces into a pile and sets the pile afire. In her mind, she does all of these things and then jumps through the window and into the yard, jumps the fence, jumps off into the blinding night.
Ashley Woodward
No comments:
Post a Comment