Multiple Mornings

MORNING ONE

My bowels feel heavy. I need to defecate.

The bathroom is a sty. I have no idea why there’s so much shit smeared on the wall, ceiling, floor, even caked in the bathtub. Is this mine?

No matter. I take my seat and concentrate on empting my bowels. Nothing exits.

MORNING TWO

Something’s stabbing my eyes. Didn’t realize night ever happened, and I don’t remember going to sleep. I try to stand, but cannot. It’s as though whatever I’m lying on (linoleum; I’m on the kitchen floor) has bonded with my skin.

I take a seat in the closet chair and watch the blank TV. Seems like the less taxing thing to do, apart from maybe curling up in a fetal ball for a few days. I try to choose that option—just as an intellectual curiosity—but my body won’t contort. It’s too much hassle, so I sit on the chair and look at the floor, then the walls, then the ceiling.

MORNING THREE

In lieu of anything better, I stand in the center of the living room. I could spin left. I could spin right. I could take a step forward or a step back. Or I could do none of these things, which, for the moment, seems like the one true option. Everything’s nice and calm when I remain motionless. Nothing confusing happens. Thoughts don’t spin.

Time just passes me by.

MORNING FOUR

Perhaps I should eat something. Can’t say I’m hungry, but I don’t remember the last time I ate.

I open the freezer door. Inside: a bunch of denuded skulls in baggies. A few still have flesh remaining. They must be…leftovers.

Maybe it’s best to just think about eating.

I think very hard, and recall a dense, hard-to-swallow cereal foisted upon me in my youth. I imagine I’m eating that. It fails to satisfy. Dinner, I’m sure, will be just as dire. The mind-steak, overcooked, the dream-potatoes, lumpy.

MORNING FIVE

I stand in front of the mirror, naked, and can’t stop staring at my body, so scrawny and disgusting, like something that might blow away with the wind or come up from the earth. And my eyes, like dim lights submerged in dirt. I look like I should be in pain, or at least in a state of profound malaise. But I’m numb. I touch my fingers together. There is no sensation.

I look past myself, at the room reflected behind me:

The window. I could dive out of it for a quick yet rewarding descent. The closet. I could hang myself with a belt. I leave the bedroom, en route to the kitchen. The stove. After putting my head in, I could luxuriate for as long as it takes. The freezer. It would take longer, but would give me time to crystallize my thoughts.

MORNING SIX

Today, I’m going to eat something real. Scrambled eggs. Can’t remember the last time I ate them, or even if I had the same name and face then.

Maybe this’ll be the start of a grand new day.

When I crack the shells, whites are cloudy and the yolks are almost green. I put them on the stove and shake the skillet for hours. Half the eggs are burnt to a crisp, the other half, barely cooked.

There’s no use eating. There’s no real food. Closing my eyes, I imagine myself entombed in a sepulcher. People stare down at me. The lid closes. Darkness. I can’t see the outside of the sarcophagus, but now it’s covered head-to-toe with bats.

Kevin L. Donihe