Sara Angela Rodriguez
A415-002/Chambers
Fiction Piece #1
1/17/2013
I wrote this to sort of
kind of resemble the stream of consciousness writing done in Robert Walser’s
short writing, “New Year Page.” I also wrote this so that I could experiment a
little with voice, time movement, and indirect address of topics. I hope it
works.
Concussion
I wake up in the middle of
the afternoon; vision blurred mouth dry, head pained, stomach emptied. I
stumble out of bed and open the door into the hall.
I walk in and they’re all
there. They stare at me with those eyes of contempt, those eyes that blame,
those eyes that sting. I told them sorry in advance for all the stupid things I
would do that night but apparently my ‘sorries’ were only taken as jokes. Now
I’m being held accountable for all the things they know they would have done if
they would have gotten the chance.
They look away now. They
ignore my presence and continue to watch their stupid little show on their
ridiculous 50’ H.D.T.V. Who needs that
big of a screen? Who needs to see cartoons in 3 fuckin’ D? Not I. I walk towards the bathroom. It’s locked. I
want to ask them why but now they’re laughing at the poor coyote getting fucked
over by that bitch of a bird. An anvil lands on his head as he runs to check
what’s wrong with the trap. It didn’t go
off when the bird pecked at the seed. It was supposed to go off. It was
supposed to land on that god damn bird and finish him, but it didn’t. It’s his anvil, it’s his trap, it’s not
supposed to hurt him, but he falls victim to it anyway. They’re laughing at
the poor sap. Poor coyote. What kind of
sick minds came up with this show? They’re obviously masochists. They like
pain. Otherwise why would they put up with it so much? I might be a
vegetarian but I want that bird finished. I want that coyote to trap him, chop
off his neck, hang him by his ridiculously long legs, let the blood drain from
his limp-lifeless body, then I want to see him skinned, roasted, devoured: meat
ravished, bones licked, sucked dry,
and the remains left there; ironically eaten by his brethren fuckin’ cannibals. Hell, I want to help the coyote eat that bird.
I want to take part in his victory—his triumph. I want to sit next to that
coyote while we’re eating that bird and talk about how his speed and his
‘smarts’ amount to nothing: he’s dead now and nothing can help him. I want to
sit next to that coyote as he rises from his seat with a drumstick in his hand,
points it as the heavens, and laughs this
laugh that echoes.
Their laughs, they echo.
They’re laughing at me aren’t they? Bastards.
They’re laughing at the fact that I passed out pissed drunk last night. They’re
laughing because I can’t hold my liquor. They’re laughing because I tried to have
sex with that stripper failing only
because I hadn’t paid my thirty bucks to get into the club. They’re
laughing because no one would serve me a drink until I sang my ABC’s backwards which I can’t even do sober. They hate me. I can see it in their eyes—those
laughs are proof. But guess what? I ain’t no fuckin’ road runner. If anything
I’m more like …now they’re silent. They’ve noticed me. They’ve stopped
laughing. But their laughter echoes. Even if they stop laughing now it will
keep playing in my mind only getting distant with time.
***********************
It’s been three days since
they’ve talked to me. Well, at least I
think it’s been three days. Let’s see: Friday is one (or does it count?),
Saturday two (or one), Sunday three (or two), Monday four (or three), and now
Tuesday five (or four). No, it’s been four to five days since we last
talked. They’ve spent their time cooking, cleaning, watching those damn
cartoons, and…shit. Five days? Has it really been five days? I don’t remember.
The last thing I remember is being downstairs. Then I was trying to buy a
drink. Then I was staring at my ceiling. Then I was in the living room, then
bathroom, now here. Where is here? Does
it really matter? All that matters is that here is not there. I don’t want to
be there with those twats. They think that they’re all high and FUCKIN’ mighty
because they remember what happened. Well, let me tell you my philosophy on
life: the less you care about something, the happier you are. And how can I
care about something that I don’t remember? If I don’t remember and no one will
tell me what happened then I can only say: I don’t give a shit! I don’t give a
shit about what I did, about what I said, or about anything. I-DO-NOT-GIVE-A-SHIT!
***********************
I swear they’re idiots. If
they would have told me I hit my head that night I would have come in sooner.
Now look at me: confined to this excuse of a bed in this germ producing factory
they call a hospital. Hospital my ass.
We’re supposed to come out feeling better when we go to the hospital but we
only come out feeling worse. Or maybe we
do come out better. Maybe we’re supposed to have bad experiences at hospitals
to make us appreciate our good experiences in life. Or, maybe hospitals operate
under a sort of Epicurean doctrine: they’re set up so that we can experience
the most physical pleasure in the long run only after suffering through a short
period of agonizing and unbearable pain. But, that’s unlikely. These mothers don’t
know shit about philosophy. I came out feeling worse alright. I feel worse
and I have a shit load of pills to pop. I
guess the pills aren’t so bad. They’re more that I can add to my collection.
I can only think that this could have all been avoided if they had cared more
about me instead of the clubs that
they couldn’t get into because of
me. They say that they want me to remember them when everything is said and
done, when we move on, when we move out, when we ‘grow up’, and God will I! I
could have died and all they were worried about is getting a drink, getting
laid, and getting high. But then again…I set my own trap.
***********************
That damn coyote. He set
his own trap. He didn’t do it on purpose.
He was trying to kill that bird. That bird. He takes advantage of that
coyote and then runs away. He runs because he’s afraid to feel anything. He’s
afraid that he will see what he’s done to the coyote. He’s afraid that he’ll
feel sorry, that he’ll feel bad, for what he’s done and then be forced to make
things right. He’s afraid that he’ll see the coyote all wrapped up in bandages,
lying on a stretcher, with a metal plate in his head and be forced to...by his conscious...to give himself up.
word count: 1,149
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