The bathroom cabinet is a golden ticket of Wonka-like proportions. The warning labels attempt to ward off those tinkering with danger. He always hears, but never heeds. He’d hate for his good time to be hindered by an autocratical nuisance, so he ignores it. Just another thing to escape from, for awhile anyway.
The fluorescent border of the mirror adds a particularly theatrical aspect. Disappointingly, the light doesn’t flicker as it often does in motion pictures. The light shines as if nothing is wrong, correlating to his attitude. This is not the culmination of his depression, or any sort of last resort. This, in contrast, isn’t anything outside the status quo. Just like going to work, or to the bathroom, this is a staple of his routine. Dramatics are absent. He doesn’t stand in front of the mirror looking into his own eyes while pills rattle from a shaking hand. He doesn’t slump over on the toilet, head in hands. His hands aren’t latched around the counter’s edge like bear traps while the veins in his arms pulsate. This isn’t any different from where he stood the night prior to this one.
He gingerly fingers his way along the shelves. His fingers stop as if they were playing a selecting game. Eeny- meeny… He selects his poison for the night and throws back his head in nonchalance.
The hallway outside is loud. A murmur diffuses into his apartment through the paper-thin walls. He fills the peephole with his eye. The traffic in the halls is far too backed up, he decides to take the carpool lane on his way out. It is going to be a solitary night that he isn’t willing to jeopardize. Throwing the window up as if it were blinds, he shudders as the cold air rushes through the pane and the threads of his clothing. He runs over to the bedroom and grabs a thick sweatshirt and sighs in relief as he pulls the plush fabric down his torso. Properly garnered for the weather conditions, he slips through the open window and onto the fire escape.
Once on his feet, he peers out from the twelfth story landing. Though buildings obstruct a potentially panoramic view, he peaks through the cracks in the skyline. He has yet to decide where he’ll head, he’s got twelve stories of descent before that decision will cause any affliction. He steps down, beginning one of many night’s descents on the same path. With his first step, the iron fire escape shakes off some rust, as if embarrassingly cleaning itself off for his arrival.
As he works his way down the iron, the pills work their way further down into his system. They slither like snakes through his digestive tract, shedding off layers that seep through the intestinal walls. He’d forgotten to eat a substantial meal before entering the solitary state of mind, he already knew how hard it would hit him tonight. He isn’t worried, he’d made the mistake before. He regards it as a mistake that leads to better results, sort of an intentional mistake on his part. He hadn’t forgotten to eat at all.
He has a window of opportunity to reach somewhere, as the staggered effects grant some time until they are full fledged. They remain stagnant for the time being, promoting his travel. When he reaches the bottom of the fire escape, he has a destination in mind. He has had this idea before, but always gets sidetracked when he makes plans to implement it. Tonight he will go through Hell if it warrants him reaching this destination.
He heads toward the Art District of the city, of which a sculpture park forms the southern border. He walks the quick twelve blocks as the snakes burrow deeper into his stomach. He feels good now, lofty and numb. Mind still intact, he moves with couth throughout the district. He loves the vibe in this area. White christmas lights line the streets and colors spew out from every doorway. The lights trail and disintegrate slower the longer he walks, as if they’re trying to hold on to him when he passes through.
The lights have held onto him the longest at this point. His legs are being held back by the christmas lights. He is succumb, in a separate realm. His eyelids open and close at molasses paced speed, his mouth moves like a camel’s would. His mood is transformed now. He is quickly losing sight of his destination. He can see the sculptures ahead, mocking his pace. He wishes it would start to rain, conveniently giving him an excuse to enter the bistro adjacent. He has no money, he remains outside where it doesn’t rain.
He sits still outside of the eatery, his head cocked awkwardly downward and to the left. He looks inside, though doesn’t see much. The front of the edifice is composed of windows, but he can only vaguely see through them. The visible warmth from inside confuses his senses. He sees it but it evaporates into the cold outside before it reaches him. He sees people, but not their faces. His visage is confused looking. He grunts with the discomforting realization that he can’t control his take on the environment. None of the puzzle pieces fit correctly into the arrangement.
A couple leaves the bistro, $12 drinks in hand. They stumble, he thinks. He knows he did, anyway. He used their departure as a cue, he untangled himself from the christmas lights and gained composure. He finds his bearings, and as his surroundings come into focus he walks in a daze toward the park where he plans to climb to the top of the tallest sculpture and observe.
His surroundings get louder, like the hallway outside of his apartment. Most of the bars are closing, the drunken masses are set free.
He shakes his eyelids open. He’s tangled again, though the christmas lights aren’t the culprit. His feet and untied laces are tangled in bicycle spokes. The chain tore apart his jeans, from the knees down his clothing is mangled. He remains numb. While walking through a crowd, he’d neglected to heed warning of an oncoming bicyclist. They collided, forming Hiroshima in his mind. He looks around, shoes and feet still tangled. He looks to his right where a raw iron fence bordered a garden. Twelve spikes emerged from her flesh, she lays draped over the fence. He knows she won’t rise to scold him or confront him. She won’t rise at all. They’ll think this was intentional, they’ll deem him a murderer. He doesn’t fully recognize all of this. His departure isn’t because of this, he leaves because of the crowd that has accumulated. He always makes an effort to avoid confrontation, this is hell.
He untangles himself as people loom over the bicyclist. His shoes are impossible to extract, so he slips his feet from them. He stumbles into a shoeless run, dizzy and numb. His head hurts now, his heart was racing before he was. He doesn’t worry about leaving anything behind, he never carries anything with him. His shoes being the only casualty, he runs through the direction he thinks is home. He hears them yell after him. He thinks in his head, sorry. The twelve blocks sped by this time, as if he was on a moving walkway. He scales the fire escape faster than he has before. On the eleventh story he takes a deep breath as sirens culminate twelve blocks away. He climbs through his twelfth story window. He looks out before closing it. Sorry.
He wakes up in pain the next evening, and heads to the bathroom. Dramatics are absent. He gingerly fingers his way along the shelves. His fingers stop as if they were playing a selecting game. Eeny- meeny… He selects his poison for the night and throws back his head in nonchalance.
PROSE: THOMAS DORWALDT
