I felt weightless at night, untethered from my white bed. I would jerk upright from a half-sleep dream of stepping off a curb, foot feeling for the ground and finding nothing but space beneath my shoe. Id wake up just before i fell, feeling around on the nightstand for the glass of luke-warm water, drinking. Pressing myself into the bed, clutching the pillow, a soild thing, reminding myself, just a dream. Thats the nice thing about dreams, the way you wake up before you fall.
I was tired of life by the time i was sixteen. I was tired of being too much, too intense, too manic. I was tired of people, and i was incredibly tired of myself. I wanted to do whatever Amazing Thing i was expected to do-it might be pointed out that these were my expectations, mine alone-and be done with it. Go to sleep. Go to heaven where there was nothing but bathtubs and books. |
My body is there, too, chilled by the hoarse air-conditioning, unable to dispose its bones comfortably on the metal-frame chair; the seat's padding, like mine, is meager and connects nowhere with my spine. My body is there, but I am not; this is something that you learn, early on.
Across the table, in the dark glass, I catch sight of a face, haggard in the harsh fluorescence, its dull, wispy hair like that of a cheap doll (rows of little holes in the plastic skull where it comes out in chunks). With shadowy, sunken cheeks and dark grooves around the mouth, it's the face of an old woman. After a while, I realize it's me. Automatically, I adjust the tilt of my head, so the light catches the chin and cheekbones differently; now it's a face of exquisite delicacy, ethereal, haunting.
My body is here, crucified on this cold metal chair -- even the arms, all edges, cut into my bones -- but I am not.
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