MY HANDS SMELL LIKE INCENSE BUT IN MY EARS ARE TIDES, pulsing. tides, in and out, swelling and roaring, sheets of blood washing over the top step; cascading earthward, splattering, smacking and washing away a million tiny instances of dust, aged polyurethane, and sainthood.
i remember too much, and i work feverishly to hide it. i appear dumb, fawn-like, and impervious to cold reason. i am, instead, the first citizen of a new nation. as such, i must remain diplomatic.
“you bleed just like a neurotypical” says the voice behind me, wringing regret out of my new, vintage, form-fitting, custard colored shirt before i can whirl around. hot drops of surprise fall to the ground. the scent of bubble gum rises.
“what is a neurotypical” i ask, and the voice laughs, darkly. i am being mocked.
“spoken like a true neurotypical!” the voice says before suddenly flying far away from me. my back explodes with pain, as if there had been a secret winch inside my spine and someone just started it spinning, drawing all my muscles together into a knot. i think i am gasping for air.
i am on a pool deck, curled up at the feet of a girl who is not my girlfriend. my back is in spasm. the sky is bright. it pins me to the bleached wood like a wounded bug. in a few days my girlfriend will be yelling at me and flinging punches into me as i ball up to absorb the blows. i am wearing blue trunks that have a tiny checkerboard striping up the side of each leg. i will think of this day each time i see these shorts, which i will refuse to throw out for almost 20 years. they are fantastic shorts, and show off my body well. each time i see the shorts in my closet i will briefly consider yanking them out and trashing them. i will wear them again almost never. they fill me with loathing.
“you are the one with no heart” i say to the girl, who is letting down her top to reveal skin so pale it might have just come out from under a bandage. “you are just here to borrow mine.” my voice sounds emotionless. do i have feelings?
“that’s true” she says, now fully unclothed. she lowers herself into my lap. “i am…” there is a breathless pause. “i am here to keep myself alive.”
me, too, i think as i run for the train. i cannot remember her face. she had red hair, i know that. at least i remember this much. how many days have been lost to my busy mind? how many faces have been washed away, like oily reflections on a window pane, wiped clean? entire cities have burned to powder in the aftermath of my nightmares.
“it doesn’t matter” says the boy on the train as i enter. i sit down opposite him.
“i know” i say, hurriedly. “the life you take is equal to the life you make.”
“such a great song” he says, smiling. his dark eyes glitter in the sky’s last light.
i look out the window, past him. the rooftops below slowly pass by. graffiti adorns the sides of buildings. the light from the sun is pink and gold. the moment feels perfect.
“it’s not my fault she lost control of her life.” i whisper, to the dying sun.