Delirium
My eyes were bleary by now, when even was now? The room was dark but my tiredness must have been an illusion because all I did today was sleep. I blinked. I laid in my bed– only it wasn’t really my bed. I didn’t consider my dorm room home– it was just a temporary space I filled with my belongings. It wasn’t a bad place; I just refused to let myself get comfortable, but I was tired now and the bed was comfortable enough to tempt me to sleep. I closed my eyes. Swirling colors blotted my vision. The back of my eyelids expanded into an abyss before me. The green and pink morphed into a red blob. The blob grew feathers and a beak as though I had adjusted the focus of a camera to reveal a magnificent parrot. Spindly spider figures came crawling from the corners, chasing each other across my field of view. More animals and colors merged from one another, overrunning my mind. I flung my eyes open to see the light blue paint of the room, the string lights twinkling, and my cluttered desk. The walls felt closer together now. I took a deep breath; the air felt warm in my lungs, which didn't ease my shakiness. Thoughts raced through my head. Maybe I was crazy. I wondered if there was an escape. Soon enough my worries dissipated into the trenches of sleep.
Another Day, Another Dog Walk
“Well at least I know the alarm still works,” I think as I silence my phone.
I savor a few extra minutes under the covers, but I know I can’t dally too long. The reason for that is now waking up next to me and the first item on her to-do list is always to give me a wet kiss and promptly plop the whole of her body weight onto my chest.
"Oof, good morning, River," I say as I try to push her off my face. "How did you sleep?"
She doesn't usually say much, so I have to make up responses on her behalf.
"You had a dream that you had unlimited access to a cheese, bacon, and peanut butter distribution center? And there was an emergency that required all of the inventory to be eaten as fast as possible? Wow that is a good dream."
My day officially starts when I brave the chilly world outside of my bed. I'll believe winter's over when I don't have put on sweats and a hoody as soon as I wake up every morning. Once I get myself dressed and go to the bathroom, the next order of business is getting the dog out for the first time. It's especially during the colder months that I wish I had a yard so I didn't also have to go outside every time she needed to pee and poop. No point in complaining, though.
"All right, River. Let's go," I say for the fifth time as she stares at me from the warmth of the bed.
Finally, she gets up and I put her harness, collar, and jacket on her, and out we go. When it's below 40 degrees out she usually finds a spot just off the porch to pee and then wants to go back in. No arguments here.
I'm working from home today, so the rest of the day consists of me sitting at my desk and River lying on the couch only to get up every now and then to check if that one patch of sunlight that crawls across my bedroom floor is in a good spot yet.
At lunch, I take her out for another walk. This time we go a little farther, venturing into the adjacent neighborhoods. River gets wound up pretty easily, especially when she sees another dog, so I've been working on taking time-outs during the walk to find a calming moment.
"River, sit."
Saying this makes her look around nervously to check her surroundings. Because why would I tell her to sit if there was nothing around to bark at? Eventually she sits, but is still looking around. According to the trainer we go to, I should reward her when she gives her attention to me instead of whatever else is going on in the world. When she looks at me I praise her, give her a treat from the pouch clipped to my waistband, and we resume our walk. I try to do this every block or so. Sometimes it seems like it's working, other times not so much.
I finish out the work day, which has been the same as almost every work day before it and probably all the ones to come. The only thing that kind of gets me through it is talking shit with one of my coworkers in a Teams chat about someone else in our office.
At the end of the workday it is time for our evening walk. This can be a somewhat stressful walk for River because of what I refer to as the post-work pre-dinner dog-walk rush. She manages decently well--only a few outbursts and lunges--and we are back home for dinner.
I settle onto the couch for what I would call some well-deserved TV time. When I finish my food and no longer have a plate to defend, I let River curl up on my lap and we watch another episode.
I get her out for one last walk before bed, and then get ready to go to sleep. Without fail, River jumps in bed before me and lies exactly where I sleep.
"River, we go over this every single night. That's my spot. You can't sleep there because that's where I sleep. Move over to your side of the bed. I'm giving you like a third of my bed. I think that's plenty generous."
If I try to move her by hand she growls and she can move her head really fast, so I started luring her off with a piece of kibble, which I know is setting a dangerous precedent, but one behavioral issue at a time.
I read for a bit before turning the light out. When I'm lying in bed trying to fall asleep is usually when the sadness, emptiness, and loneliness take hold. Since I got River, I can't remember the last time I felt that way.
Giddy With Time
A gentle buzzing and then the ringing begins, however, it's stopped almost simultaneously. At this point I can turn my alarm off I my sleep - my fingers don't fumble - they slip up to the ledge, swiftly tugging the chord and muting the alarm for another five minutes. I repeat this seven times, sometimes more. I force my eyes open, luring myself out of the quilt; leaving only with the promise of coffee. I lope heavily, dragging my limbs to the kitchen. I fill the kettle, flick it to boil and stand, impatiently waiting. Some would use this time to urinate, or shower-or-something. I don't. I cannot function until my cup is brimmed with milky-brown liquid. I slowly ready myself, alarms periodicaly chiming to let me know how fast I need to move. I slip out, cigarette bent between two fingers, lit before the door has even closed behind me. Gingerly pacing, I chug along to the train station, where I stand in line, in my place; the same place; and I continue chugging, until I reach the glassy, revolving doors. I'll take a deep breath, like I'm preparing to dive deep - and I guess I am, because I'll stay here for 9 hours of my day. Squashed behind three screens, knees bent akwardly, squirming in my seat. At five-fifty-nine, I type goodbye and eagerly wait to hit enter, smashing my laptop closed. In one swift motion, my arms are draped through my coat sleeves and my bag has mounted my back - and I'm gone. No looking back, the glass doors are already revolving behind me. I'm practically running, giddy with time, over-flowing with the countless prospects of how to use my diminishing minutes. I clamber up six flights of stairs, too impatient to wait for the elevator to touch down. I colapse for an hour or so. Drained, the day running through my brain. I wash clothes. I clean tupperware. I cook food. I eat. I shower. I cry. I laugh. I cry again. I crawl into bed, and somehow, I repeat. There's some small variations but more or less I do this day-in-day-out. Over and over and over, again and again and again. A gentle buzzing and then the ringing begins, however, it's stopped almost simultaneously. At this point I can turn my alarm off I my sleep - I swing my legs out of bed, and plant both feet on the ground. I feel purpose. I feel good. I skip coffee. I urinate. I shower-or-something. I slip out. My skin is tingling. I'm giddy with time. I'm actually running. Heels padding to the ground, rhythmically gaining speed. I can see the the sun peaking over the horizon. It's getting closer, warm rays spilling into the sky. I'm crying, still running. I see the waters edge. I'm crying, still running. Treading water until I'm forced to bow down. I swim. I'm angry. I swim. I can't. I swim. I've had enough. I swim. I cry. I swim. I scream. I swim... I swim, until I can't feel anymore. I feel so much nothing, that suddenly, I feel everything. The whole world comes pouring in. I can feel it all, every single drop of liquid sunshine in my veins. Every morsel consumed and released back into open air, drifting -
And then, there's nothing. Not even me.
In a Rut
Clyde crossed to the bar, kicking various body parts out of his way. Popping a beer, he sighed. What's it all mean? This morning an abduction (I did lock the cage, didn't I?), this afternoon a run of the mill decapitation and torso prune. And tomorrow looked to be a lot like today. What's wrong with me? Can't I even change my MO occasionally?
Nibbling an errant eyeball, Clyde looked down at the bloody jigsaw pieces and wondered about dinner. He had some homemade chili that should still be good. The meat was definitely still fresh. But after that? Yet another evening of social media and internet trolling for new prospects. His filleting hand slapped his forehead. He had to go to the hardware store. Again. He needed more rope, zip ties, ice picks, butcher knives, etc. The list never ends. But does he get to claim his tools of the trade as business expenses like plumbers and business men? Most professions get a tax deduction for this. Him?? Nooooooooooo.
Clyde snapped his fingers. Where was that campus bulletin board posting he grabbed before torching that sorority last week? Seemed interesting. Something about accounting. He thought of the endless string of nubile young coeds waiting in his future. Facts and figures seem a welcome change from boobs, blood and guts. But could he really do it? Be stuck in an office alone slaving over tax forms all day? He really was such a people person, in so many ways. Animals, too, that's how he started out. Clyde respected life, and death, in all its forms.
Before he ate her, maybe he should have listened to Mother and become a doctor.
Sixteen
Madeline woke up and broke down. There would be other breakups, her mother had told her. Other opportunities for makeup work, her chemistry teacher had said. More chances to fail the driving test even though the other kids her age had received their licenses six months ago.
Madeline bobbed in and out of the cold stream of the shower that always took too long to heat up, so she just jumped in. She told herself it was better for her pores anyway, which might just be myth. With her eyes closed, she pretended she was scaling a waterfall on her way to a long-forgotten treasure in the deep of the jungle. But when she opened her eyes again, there was the Costco brand shampoo-and-conditioner-in-one bottle and the loofah that had seen better days.
Then she was riding the bus to school at age sixteen. It felt cruel, being denied the freedom of driving all because she couldn't master parallel parking. And because she'd clipped a food truck on the last driving test. Why does a corn dog vendor need a sideview mirror anyway?
"Maddie, how are you? I heard about you and Anthony," said Angel at their lockers. This made Madeline well up again, and she pretended to root around at the back of her locker for her textbook, when really, she just needed a moment. On her way back up, she did the quick math of the dimensions of the locker. Yes, if needed, she could hide out in here for the majority of the day.
Angel and their other friends had a different lunch period. That meant Madeline had to eat at the school cafeteria with the underclassmen, while the students with licenses had the forty-five minutes to go wherever they wanted.
"Sixteen and still eating school lasagna," muttered Madeline.
The lasagna made her feel a little bloated. The bloating showed up in gym class, where she tugged on her gray uniform shirt, but she felt like every eye was on her stomach. She felt bad about smiling when the new girl, Neeri, showed up a few minutes late to class. She knew that she would be picked on as soon as the teacher had his back turned. Watching someone else feel gutted gave Madeline some awful satisfaction.
"Uh, sorry guys. Gotta take this," said the gym teacher when he got a call. "Connor, start them stretching and when I get back we're going for a mile run."
Connor did not lead them in stretching. Instead, the jocks circled Neeri and flicked her ponytails and pointed out her shoes. The dam didn't burst until Connor jabbed a finger towards Neeri's forehead. "Add a tally! New zit! NEW ZIT! NEW ZIT!"
The cheer got louder until Neeri ran crying from the gym. When the teacher heard about it, they all ran an extra mile that day. It almost killed Madeline, but at least her skin was mostly clear.
Madeline rushed inside after school, kicking off her shoes and heading upstairs before her mom could bombard her with how-was-your-day. Her room felt even more constricting now, her futon less comfortable. She thought of Anthony, which didn't help. She pulled her pillow over her head and drowned out the quiet around her.
Abandoned In A Deserted Town
Sunlight filters through white fluffy clouds, beams reaching for dew-kissed blades of grass between an abandoned swing set and a faded jungle gym, sparking from chain links as swings sway, chased by a fugitive breeze. A carousel spins, the mournful whine of dry bearings singing a song of loneliness and neglect. The echoes of delighted screams and childish laughter swells and fades with the leaves scattered on the arms of the wind.
Waves curled with foam climb higher and higher on deserted beaches, wetting and drying, wetting and drying, bubbles popping up from buried clams. A broken umbrella tumbles along, scattering sand into the gusts. The edge of an abandoned towel flips up and down, up and down before it disappears into the grains it once rested upon. The ghosts of the uncounted drift over evaporating footprints.
Merchandise gathers dust inside stores closed tight, windows papered over with cobwebs as deserted mannequins stare, fading slowly into expressionless shapes, frozen in the act of meaningless gestures. Long lines of useless carts sink into once shining tiles now crumbling to powder. Sidewalks outside with weeds leisurely filling the seams once avoided in an effort to not break backs. Rows of tables with overturned chairs gathering the blowing dirt from planters of long-dead flowers and trees, penned inside railings on disintegrating decks and patios. Windows reflecting sun stars outside bars, stools stacked neatly, grills and countertops left clean, dishes and silverware ready for meals never made. Rows of bottles still shiny, still full, waiting to be poured into glasses filling with drifting motes and the bodies of insects trapped inside.
Streets and buildings are cracking, the gaps filling with soil seeded with wildflowers blown from fields high with standing grass, fading into them as time creeps, turning days into months, into years. Gas pumps sink into crumbled concrete, rusty nozzles propped in a useless parody of readiness. Signs proclaiming goods no longer offered, sit in windows unseen, letters vanishing into illegibility.
Shuttered Houses appear blinded, their eyes blank and staring, waist-high lawns and tangled flowerbeds are strewn with the abandoned debris of everyday life. Desiccated hoses coiled or stretched to dehydrated sprinklers, overturned chairs dripping threads and stuffing. Bicycles and skateboards rusting into immobility, kiddy pools choked with weeds, plastic toys unrecognizable chunks of suggested color.
Is this a vision of a world waiting to be reclaimed? Will it be us or will nature erase the mark we once stamped into the earth? Will future generations emerge and dig into the dirt in search of what once was? Will they know or only guess how we buried ourselves and waited to be told when we would be allowed to live again?
Chip Efficiency
The morning goes really well. From the moment I open my eyes, one task seems to melt smoothly into the next. I roll out of bed, brush my teeth, spit, comb my hair, and change into the perfect outfit without second-guessing myself. I about-turn into the kitchen, where waffles and coffee practically materialize into my hands as I skim the newspaper. Then I step into my shoes and am out the door.
At 7:55 exactly, I arrive at the train station. I accidentally make eye contact with a man in a suit as I scoot past him in the aisle. I nod at him, he ignores me, and I continue on.
I walk up the street and into the lobby as if my joints are oiled. As I pass the front desk, Jenny smiles and waves at me. I turn up the corners of my mouth, make eye contact, and lift my hand in greeting, never breaking stride. The elevator doors ding open as soon as I touch the button. Even my luck is better. The faint buzz of irritation that always passed through me at the tinny elevator music never appears. I smile to myself as I watch the numbers tick up to my floor.
The day floats by as if I’m not even really there. My body moves, and my mind floats a little ways behind as if in a little balloon on a string. It is glorious. At the break room, I stop and chat with Lola and Jason from Marketing as I wait for my lunch to heat in the microwave. Lola makes a joke about something-or-other and I chuckle in unison with Jason.
Before I know it, I glance up and notice it’s 4:57. I pack up my things and power down my computer. I walk out without a backward glance, pleased with my day’s work.
The doctor is gentle as she checks my stitches and peers at my brain scan. “Any headaches, double vision, or confusion?” She asks.
“Nope,” I say. And smile.
She smiles back. “I can see the regulation feature at work already. You like it?”
“It’s great,” I say cheerfully, “Fantastic, actually. No complaints at all.”
“Excellent,” she says, capping her pen. “Everything looks good here. We’ll see you in six months for your next follow up. Meantime, our office is always open for any questions you might have.”
Bathtime
“Dèng Kāngtài,” my mother-in-law suddenly says into the comfortable silence that was previously only broken by the gentle splashes of water.
“Yes?” The hand that scrubs at her back slows in anticipation.
“Beautiful name. Quiet and exalted. It suits you.” She says this as she rubs at a patch of skin by her knee.
“Thank you,” my hand begins scrubbing once again.
“Who gave you that name?” She asks and ceases to rub at the spot by her knee.
I have answered this question before but she likes to make conversation during bathtime so I appease her, “My boss gave me my name when I was still working in China. He couldn’t easily pronounce my given name so he gave me a name that reflected my personality.”
Māma nods, “And your English name? I have forgotten it.”
I smile but realize that I cannot blame her. Sometimes I forget the name myself. The only time I see it is when a piece of mail is addressed to me.
“Latrice.”
“Latrice,” Māma’s tongue stumbles over the name as she echoes me. She nods, “Kāngtài is better.”
I mirror her smile and nod in agreement.
Even as a child, I was never called Latrice. Everyone from my grandmother to my peers had called me Latty. I don’t know why my mother named me Latrice. I used to get bullied because of my name. We lived on the North side of town and I was the only Latrice among Jessicas, Ambers, and Emmas. I asked why I wasn’t given a name that would have allowed me to fit in better, like Olivia or even Margaret, but my mother just shook her head.
Let those girls be Emma, Elizabeth, and Olivia. You are Latrice. You are noble. You will stand out. You are meant for things they are not.
I wore the name proudly after that, regardless of what those pretty white girls said. I forced myself to embody my mother’s words. Instead of trying to blend in, I embraced the fact that I stood out. I made myself stand out. I studied hard so that I could be at the top of my class and graduated high school as Valedictorian.
I had not grown up with an interest in East Asian culture but when I was offered a full scholarship to a university in China, I accepted it. I assumed the opportunity was what my mother meant when she said that I was meant for different things. It was only in Chengdu that I took the name Kāngtài.
I remember when my boss gave me the name. He had taken the entire weekend to think of it and came back on Monday and greeted me with a “Hello, Kāngtài”. I had smiled and my heart had soared. I had never felt such a connection to just two syllables before. My boss never knew, but in that moment, I shed the dry and broken skin of Latrice and became Kāngtài. My heart had ceased to ache and I felt as if I had been reborn.
I repeated my new name over and over in my head and drew every stroke carefully until it was second nature. Three years later I also shed Davis and gained Dèng when I married my husband. When I married my husband, it was not just us two who would forever be joined, but our kin as well. His māma was mine and my mother was his.
I grab the showerhead and bring it over to Māma. She tilts her head back as the lukewarm water cascades over her shoulders and back and chest. I place my hand at her hairline as I rinse out her hair. Despite Māma’s age and failing health, her hair was still long and healthy.
“All clean?” I ask.
She nods and smiles.
I return the showerhead to its hook and turn off the water. I grab the fluffy red towel and gently pat her face and then her hair. I wrap the towel around her shoulders and help her up from the shower seat.
As always, I inwardly wince as she stands, body trembling with the effort. Māma’s hand was so tight on my wrist that I knew that it would leave a mark, for all the strength had left her weak legs and traveled into her grip. I help her out of the tub with words of encouragement and mumbled apologies. I apologized for the pain that each movement caused her and for the clicking sound that emanated from her frozen shoulders.
“What do you have to be sorry for?” Māma asks with a bit of mirth to her weathered voice, “My condition is no fault of yours.”
I bow my head, “Yes, but I feel your pain as if it were my own. I wish I could take it from you.”
She shakes her head and chuckles as I squat down to dry her dripping legs, “I wouldn’t wish this pain on you, Xífù.”
She turns her death drip on the counter as she lifts each leg as I clothe her. In the beginning, this act had brought me embarrassment and her shame but I had been married to Fēnglì for twenty years now and we had done this ritual every other day for the past five years as her condition worsened.
No longer did we avoid eye contact and maintain a tense silence as I washed and dried her body. Now, we joked, we smiled. Māma told me stories as I lathered soap on her age-spotted skin. There was no longer the distance of formality between us. I had seen all of her, physically, and she had seen all of me, emotionally. There was nothing to hide. There was no reason to. Not anymore.
I carefully pull her shirt over her head and then lead her out of the bathroom. I lower her down into a chair and take my spot behind her. I take my time rubbing oil into Māma’s scalp and hair and then begin to braid her slick black hair. My hands are gentle but my grip is tight so that her hair doesn’t slip out of my fingers. I’ve learned long ago that Asian hair has a different temperament than my own.
I finish the braid and then wrap it into a bun. Māma studies her gnarled hands as I study my handiwork.
“Are you hungry?” I ask, “It’s almost lunchtime.”
Daily Schedule
When you get sick and are told you’re unable to work for the foreseeable future you go through two different reactions.
The first being excited about never having to work again, filling your days with lunches with friends, shopping for unnecessary things you know you'd never really use. Finally getting around to all the projects you put on hold because you were too tired from …..work.
The second reaction is fear. How am I supposed to live off of a savings that resembles that of a child's piggy bank. You would think I would have saved for a rainy day but my pay is below minimum wage and so was my value as an employee but that's neither here nor there. I can't just not work, how am I supposed to….live?
My routine is as follows:
5-6 am I wake up because my body is set to wake up out of habit for work (work which I can't do anymore)
I brush my teeth and wash my face. I make sure to take my first dose of medications.
I'm wide awake so I can't go back to sleep so I watch tv, there’s nothing interesting on so i put Bob’s Burgers on for background noise.
I make a mental list of all things I want to do today, which in reality I might only do two things from the list.
I don't drink coffee or tea so I grab some water and read. What I read doesn't matter, my memory doesn't hold information like it used to.
It's too early to talk to friends ...friends…friend, the only friend I have is on her way to work.
7-8 am I rummage through the kitchen for something to eat but nothing really ever fills me up.
9-10 am I contemplate taking a nap just as the rest of the house is waking up, I'm exhausted and the day hasn't even started.
11-12 am/pm I take my second dose of medications, still nothing on so I turn to youtube to watch conspiracy theories…they’re as predictable as I am.
1-2 pm I take my third dose of medication and decide to paint and work with clay. I don't know how to paint but I try, I have all the time in the world….God willing.
3-4 pm I take my fourth dose of medication and scrounge for something that looks appetizing. My friend’s off work so she calls, there's no time to hang out because she has priorities with family that outweigh girl time. She apologizes and I tell her not to worry because I get it….I get it.
5-6 pm I take my fifth and final dose of medication and make dinner for the family, well my sister and hers anyways. I wash the dishes and clean up my mess. Serving myself a plate of what I chose for tonight's menu.
7-8 pm I write stories I keep hidden because the worlds inside my head aren't meant for the people outside my head. I write poetry that's dark and opposite of what they see when they see me.
9-10 pm I get ready for bed. Scrolling through the tv there's still nothing on so I settle on Bob’s Burgers again, it's become my white noise.
11-12 pm/am I lay in silence, in the dark of night waiting to fall asleep only to start all over again.
As the morning sun brightens the sky, I want to wake up with only positivity and gratitude, but instead the guilt of the previous night looms over. Why do I put myself through this everytime? I was so good for a whole week and then this! I stand on the weighing scale and of course I have done it. So much sacrifice just to lose that one hell of a pound and now it's back. It's like I ate one pound of chicken for dinner and now it's become a part of me, refuses to leave me, adding to my body weight! And now it's time for the next meal, breakfast of the day. I look outside as I hear a few birds chirping near my window. Suddenly i feel they are telling me, you don't need so much food. It's over-indulgence and you are not even hungry. My mind screams, but it's breakfast time! But I shut it out and put out my cereal for the birds to eat. I see them pecking on the food and my day brightens up just like that!