i'm standing in someone else's livingroom. he is in the door, across the way. the place is sparsely decorated in art deco whites and silvers and modern recessed lighting in the walls and ceiling. i make a move to go towards him, and notice my legs are wet and freezing cold up to the knees. i look down to see the room is flooded in water with a thin film of crystal clear ice over it. i am shivering and looking at him questioningly. he looks away, turns, walks away, legs moving up high and crunching and splashing through the ice and water in the hallway. i stand there in the cold room, trembling, clutching my elbows. this is not my beautiful house, i sing-song in a whisper, breath clouding my vision, i am not a beautiful wife.
________________________________________________________________________
it is the moment i am shot by a gun, a random and innocent bystander. i see every grain of dirt imbedded in the pavement. the sound of the shot is louder and sharper than i expect. i smell the person next to me, their fear. all the reds and yellows on the roadside signage are gaudy, brilliant, horrific. the moment is brief. i do not have my life flash before my eyes. i hardly feel anything but the sensation of being pushed, hard, down onto the ground, by an invisible concussive force, and a deep burn in my belly, and all the wind forced from my lungs. there are a lot of people around and at first there's no sound, only smells. no one grabs for me. i sit down hard and watch in fascination as the tires of a car go by. i have to tell you something, i'm trying to form words, but i can't make them come out. i refuse to cover the wound with my hands. i let the hole, the tissue, the burn marks, the blood greet the air. horrible air, horrible life, horrible world, look upon your works, and despair.
No comments:
Post a Comment