Undo This Mistake - Part 2
He found the near-darkness adding to his growing dementia. The available light coming from the hallway into the room through the four-inch door slot did not reach every corner. Even the wedge of light projected directly against the back wall did little to light the room. With so little light, his eyes could not resist making some disturbing reports of the space he was trapped in. It seemed at times that the wedge of light split off into small streams, and those streams became glowing shapes. The shapes moved in waves of color, sweeping at him over and over. At other times, when his attention drifted, the shapes broke the steady pattern of wave after wave and became more sinister, like ghosts made of light. This usually happened at the edge of his vision. When he began to see something with smoky, outstretched arms drifting towards him and he turned to focus on it, the illusion disappeared. It was best to think of these visions as optical tricks and not hallucinations. Actually, it would be better to not think of them at all, but that was impossible.
Daytime offered some relief. His room seemed to be at the end of a hallway near a window. The light was much brighter during the day and turned the black edges of his room a light grey. He could not see the window, but he imagined that it was frosted glass and several feet from the floor. He had to imagine it, because the day he entered this room had already left his memory. It comforted him slightly to believe that it was an old memory, that he had been in this room for a long time, as if old memories of insignificant things had less value than memories of the important events he had also lost. During the day he could think clearer, of strategies to get out of the room, of ways to avoid starving to death.
It had been dark for a long time now. He slept in small, ultimately restless shifts. He shivered awake at short intervals, thinking that someone was yelling to him from somewhere on the floor. When he sat up quickly on his bare cot and pivoted his ear towards the door, he heard nothing, not even the low hum that exists in total silence. It took a long time to relax again, his mind racing through a hundred different explanations for the sounds that shook him awake.
Suddenly his stomach began to groan. He realized, at the same moment, that a beetle was skittering across the floor towards his foot. Had his stomach started rolling because of the beetle, processing the presence of the insect before his conscious mind registered it? Hunger was not a natural human response to a bug crawling on the floor. There was no taste reference associated with a beetle. It was black, so he thought about the flavor of black things, like olives and raisins. It probably tasted like something halfway between an olive and a raisin, a mixture of bitter and sweet, but with an exoskeleton that would feel like a teaspoon of fingernail clippings in his mouth. His stomach growled again. He would eat the bug even though it would end up making him more hungry.
His hand began to shake as he reached down for it. He had not been thinking about food for at least a day, but now he was consumed by hunger. The beetle was a rare steak and baked potato with extra butter. It was a mountain of steaming rice with chunks of tangy chicken and vegetables mounded at its peak. It was a thick slice of chocolate cake with real vanilla ice cream pooling around it. It was sustenance, and survival. He closed his fingers over the alarmed beetle and brought it to up to his lips. In the second before his opening palm met his mouth, he realized that the creature in his hand was not a beetle.
It was a scorpion. His hand jerked within an inch of his face as the scorpion flipped its stinger into his palm, sending a knot of pain up his arm. His feet kicked sharply in the air, causing the cot's iron legs to screech on the floor as it slammed against the wall. As he flung his hand out to get rid of the scorpion, he saw nothing flying from it. He heard no click against the opposite wall. The pain, as quickly as it had slammed into him, drifted away to a steady throb that followed his pounding heart.
There had been no scorpion, and no beetle. There was only the ascending hunger consuming him from the inside out. His stomach suddenly cramped and doubled him over. He lay on his cot with his knees drawn to his chest, rocking away the pain in his belly. The yellow light smouldering through the steel door was slowly being drained by the grey relief of morning.
Daytime offered some relief. His room seemed to be at the end of a hallway near a window. The light was much brighter during the day and turned the black edges of his room a light grey. He could not see the window, but he imagined that it was frosted glass and several feet from the floor. He had to imagine it, because the day he entered this room had already left his memory. It comforted him slightly to believe that it was an old memory, that he had been in this room for a long time, as if old memories of insignificant things had less value than memories of the important events he had also lost. During the day he could think clearer, of strategies to get out of the room, of ways to avoid starving to death.
It had been dark for a long time now. He slept in small, ultimately restless shifts. He shivered awake at short intervals, thinking that someone was yelling to him from somewhere on the floor. When he sat up quickly on his bare cot and pivoted his ear towards the door, he heard nothing, not even the low hum that exists in total silence. It took a long time to relax again, his mind racing through a hundred different explanations for the sounds that shook him awake.
Suddenly his stomach began to groan. He realized, at the same moment, that a beetle was skittering across the floor towards his foot. Had his stomach started rolling because of the beetle, processing the presence of the insect before his conscious mind registered it? Hunger was not a natural human response to a bug crawling on the floor. There was no taste reference associated with a beetle. It was black, so he thought about the flavor of black things, like olives and raisins. It probably tasted like something halfway between an olive and a raisin, a mixture of bitter and sweet, but with an exoskeleton that would feel like a teaspoon of fingernail clippings in his mouth. His stomach growled again. He would eat the bug even though it would end up making him more hungry.
His hand began to shake as he reached down for it. He had not been thinking about food for at least a day, but now he was consumed by hunger. The beetle was a rare steak and baked potato with extra butter. It was a mountain of steaming rice with chunks of tangy chicken and vegetables mounded at its peak. It was a thick slice of chocolate cake with real vanilla ice cream pooling around it. It was sustenance, and survival. He closed his fingers over the alarmed beetle and brought it to up to his lips. In the second before his opening palm met his mouth, he realized that the creature in his hand was not a beetle.
It was a scorpion. His hand jerked within an inch of his face as the scorpion flipped its stinger into his palm, sending a knot of pain up his arm. His feet kicked sharply in the air, causing the cot's iron legs to screech on the floor as it slammed against the wall. As he flung his hand out to get rid of the scorpion, he saw nothing flying from it. He heard no click against the opposite wall. The pain, as quickly as it had slammed into him, drifted away to a steady throb that followed his pounding heart.
There had been no scorpion, and no beetle. There was only the ascending hunger consuming him from the inside out. His stomach suddenly cramped and doubled him over. He lay on his cot with his knees drawn to his chest, rocking away the pain in his belly. The yellow light smouldering through the steel door was slowly being drained by the grey relief of morning.
posted by Bill Nolen at 03:44
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