4.2.13

muse 2

 
Reaching up for the light chain, I choked on a blood clot and sneezed spewing a thick spray of blood on my chest and a fine spray everywhere else.  The blood was intense carmine, the rest grayed in comparison. 

I checked again, as I always do before going to sleep, to insure my entire super suit is folded and stowed under the pillow in case of an emergency in the middle of the night. The situation didn’t seem important so I headed out of the bunk-room into the kitchen. I rubbed my fuzzy head trying to remember why my hair was cut so short, walked into the kitchen as the scene was intensifying into vivid color.

A help crew was tugging at a plastic bag full of stink.
“Hey, you got your happy ass out of bed to help me with garbage!” She always knows what I want to do…. I looked at her with what was probably a sheepish grin; I  knew she was kidding, sort of. I took the bag and set it aside.

I reached for the box of DIY breakfast and squinted at the ingredient panel.
“I need glasses.”
“Here, then add this.” She handed me a piece of chipped glassware. I passed it over the trash bag and set the wine glass down in the small sink thinking it could be used a few more times without anyone noticing.

A feeling of dread dizziness swept over me, I must have lost more blood than imagined, and I sat. And went into that Jr. Spaceman type of funk that happens when you stare and create a microcosm within your limited proximity. The intense morning sunshine was braking through the window as ants ran around the sill searching for the remains of their last expedition, their chief recognizant worker having gone missing only minutes ago.  The world is not flat when you can walk on walls. I blink over and over, my eye as the manual strobe, deflecting the radiant beam. It all turned into an old-tyme movie with the ants stuttering along their business. With every blink a blinding white room was moving closer. White, clean, disinfectant. Pine-sol will not be the smell of rapture as they nail him on a plus sign.  I was paralyzed in the light, not being able to look away and lot being able to look into. I felt the weight of my head hit my forearm and my eyes pulled closed as if attached to weights. Contemplating on the meaningful will take much longer. I crash, wondering if I’ve done all I can do.
How do we save him?
Take a photo?

5 comments:

  1. "Contemplating on the meaningful will take much longer." That's how I feel these days, but I blame it on the pain meds.

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  2. Cine-manic,clearly chaotic. Brilliant, as usual.

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  3. Cine-manic,clearly chaotic. Brilliant, as usual.

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  4. Definitely chaotic but reserving judgement. Intriguing even...where are you going with this my sweet?

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