A thousand and one stories #30 French Fries

There’s a bed I share with only me. The pillows that stay pay rent by soaking my tears and inhaling the curses and sobs I exhale onto it.
The quilt pays taxes to my body, hiding it from the world, it’s a good place to escape in. This bedsheet and mattress hold me together.. each piece of me that breaks, they take care of it proper till I’m ready to pick it back up and glue the stuff back to my skin again.
What I wouldn’t do to be thin again!
But the food I eat, delivered to me on this bed got spilt and scattered but that never mattered to me.

My hair that stays all tangled and spread across doesn’t mind the slight touch of the tomato sauce. I chew while still lying down, the french fries and chips and oh, I’m still hungry but I don’t wanna move. This bed that I’m so in love with has got me in a chokehold. I don’t even get up to sit, not even as the food chokes my windpipe. I’m coughing now.
Hey, universe? Are you bluffing now? You never did try getting rid of me this easy. Please rid me. Rid me of this misery

But I survive like I always do but I don’t get up, the french fries are spilled now too. My mouth stays open dripping drool all over the pillow. I guess some rent was still due, though, can’t say anything for my hair now. Guess red and greasy is just going to be my way somehow. My eyes keep feeling heavy, why do I even want to see this blank white ceiling when it just reminds me how I used to be, ecstatic when I last looked at it.
How I did smile while getting up in the morning.. looking up at the same blank old ceiling and seeing the colour of possibility.
But one day, I did fall on the bed too tired to get up and I never got up again. I did close my eyes when there was hope in them but when I opened them all the dreams were gone and now I don’t want to keep my eyelids peeled. There is sadness in them I want to keep sealed and a few words I don’t want reflecting on the same blank old ceiling
My arms though, still reach out to the pair of earphones spread all across the table, half in knots, half dangling. But it’s too far away and I’m too tired to make the effort. So I play the loudest song I know but my lips don’t want to sing along. So I hum the tune. It is so mismatched, like my hands. One is totally numb from being beneath my head, the other has scratches, it is just a distraction, not an itch. Why’d I have to be such a bitch?
But it’s all in the past now, my leg is dangling too, the trousers have climbed up to my knee. I don’t care enough to cover it up now. There’s a mosquito bite on it, or maybe two. But I don’t scratch it, I scratch my wrist instead. The sound my chipped nails make take my mind off the bee buzzing near my ear. All this while I sing, yes I sing now.
But there’s no voice. My lips don’t open, don’t make the shape of the words, my vocal cords don’t vibrate. But something does. It’s the phone, with a cracked screen that I never repaired. It’s broken like me but it still buzzes. I feel relieved. Perhaps someone does remember me.
But as I unlock the screen, I see.

‘There’s no point to any of this’ flashing on it.
So much for the quote of the day. But I guess it’s already midnight now. All the lights are still on, I can’t handle the darkness anymore when I’m alone.
But the music is trying to scream something out at me and the phone keeps buzzing now. There’s a name of a person I forgot, and a voice of my thought saying, it’s a waste of time, existing like this. Well, time made me wasted, drunk and untasted by the pleasures of life. Might as well give something back to it. So it’s mine to waste. It’s mine to take a break and break myself in the meanwhile.
But the name just keeps flashing and flashing as the phone vibrates.
Hello Darlin, he says.
It’s not too late.
And I push my hair back beneath my hair as the sauce sticks to my fingers, I wipe it off with the pillow and throw the quilt away. The dangling feet are back on the bed because I don’t step down. No, I leap. I leap out of bed on a landmine. And as I feel everything explode, I carry the pieces of me in my arms and leap again.
And it keeps falling apart until I’m a collage of scars and cracks and fallen shards.
But I wash my hair and my skin and I kiss the scratches on my wrist. There’s no point to any of this so might as well love me.
I change into a new pair of ripped jeans and plug my earphones in. My bed stinks but now I smell like me. It’s a good fragrance to breathe in.


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