part four.

dear maladies left untreated, dear expired medication, dear postdate renewal,

How many flies die of old age? How many pass out of this life surrounded by their loved ones? How many flies are living in corpses? How many die there? How many? How many? Stay tuned next for the taste of discounted chocolate.

Act Two 

Life is an act of observation, of categorization, of implication. You understand this. You are good at this. You are walking with your head down, you are unseen in the crowd, you are hiding in plain sight. A stranger stops you on the sidewalk, they tell you about the tragedies that have befallen them. You nod your head. You offer them your sympathies. You remove your arm from their grasp. The sea of people closes back around you, you keep walking. This is not an unusual event. On every inhale, the world shakes. On every exhale, the world stills. Across the street is a bar with a bright red neon sign, flashing even under the noontime sun. Two men walk out of the bar. You have seen them before, in a dream. It is a joke in reverse, but no one laughs as they move to break up the fight.

Later, you practice counting to one hundred. You practice saying the alphabet backwards. You practice ignoring the tremor that passes through your fingertips. This is your moment of denial. This is your refusal to answer the call.

Dusk falls like a haze in your house. You set a glass of water on the table and pick up your newspaper. You cross your ankle over your knee and look at the small black print. The glass tips over and the water spills out; it is the feeling of unraveling again and again. The ink bleeds on the paper, the letters becoming unintelligible. You sop up the mess with paper towels and put the empty glass in the sink. You set the table, you eat your dinner, you cry. You undress yourself, you take a shower, you climb into bed with a hot mug of tea, you prepare to sleep. You do this every night, and tonight is no exception. This action is your chorus and refrain.

Your eyes are pressed firmly shut, but sleep evades you. Your feet are shockingly cold when they brush against one another beneath the covers. Light shines in the outline of your doorframe; you forgot to turn the light off in the hallway. It irritates you — like a fly buzzing somewhere nearby but always just out of sight — but your limbs are too heavy to climb out of bed.

parts one through three of this story can be found in the archive.