Again

Again, the dim light met his face, a face whose eyes were zipped together and whose wrinkles doubled and redoubled from the down-stuffed pillow pressing close. The air was hollow, of course, in a room stretched 2 metres by 2 metres. The years old twin bed, a mattress, unsheeted, with dark yellow splotches, swallowed most of the space. The remainder of floorplan was consumed by workdesk, chair, and closet – nothing more. The workdesk, as it always was, stood bare ‘cept for pen, inkwell, and towers of white letter paper. The chair, hard aged pine, had its bottoms of legs grated away from epochs of being pulled in, out, and in once more. It only knew its service under one regime, one commander, and thus did not aspire higher, did not beckon unto greatness, and did not resent its lot. It served honourably, ignorantly. It anticipated being scratched at, chipped away, and sought for it. For these markings, permanent and irreversible scars, were proof that it was of use, evidence that it existed. It tallied its wounds, as it did when no one awake was near, and reminisced of every episode, each period of torture, with a lover’s fondness. The closet nearby, of particle board, lazily painted metallic gray, was shut and menacingly tall. It lurked over the sleeping man, mattress, desk, and chair. One dares not look too long at it, for thoughts about the insignificance of human life, its smallness and shortness, assuredly emerge. If there is one thing certain about that closet, it haunts the bodies and minds with an inarticulable weariness. No one knows why, no one.

So that dull brightness, let in from an unopenable pane of glass embedded in the wall, shone on the man’s scrunched face. He moved, repositioned rather, from his hibernating in the boundlessness of pillowcases to his eyelids and torso facing the ceiling above. His hands, fists, were clenched and colourless as his arms remained crossed tightly on his chest. His breaths were quick yet silent. He breathed from his mouth, never the nose, as if forever panting, as if always running from some horrible thing behind. His lips were thin, pale, and cracking. Stubble was uneven between the span from cheek to cheek, and the surrounding skin was unnourished, ashen, and old. The scalp which bore deep brown hair was dry and neglected, and surely perpetuated the failure of follicle growth – his mane, untrimmed, remained short. The same was true of the eyebrows; skin barren of natural oil, and the hairs, if plucked or rubbed away, did not grow back. Growth was difficult, a privilege, and the body should not ask to be so lucky. The eyelids, squeezed shut, held days old gunk around the lashes. The round skins were reddened and baggy underneath. This was always so, no matter the amount of sleep sustained.

The ears were nothing notable, despite that it was they who heard the lone birdsong outside, a stellar jay. A small call at first, so slight in the beginning, but gradually, eventually, its voice built up to a confident, beautiful melody; one that was tried and true. It reverberated in the cool breeze, and glossed the atmosphere with a rhythm hitherto undreamt. The harmony became incorporated, naturally, in the flora and fauna of the day, in between the squirrels cracking nutshells and deer grazing by. All had a place, all belonged in whatever this day might be and become. It was overcast, cloudy, and thus the grass and worms turned excited, the long-billed birds as well, and the day was as it could and ought to be. The bird’s song remained, unwavering, in the brisky wind from high on a treetop branch. It moved a bit, from twig to twig, pausing the song along the way, and soon found itself on a hard angled piece: a shingle. Not minding the difference, actually preferring the variation, it took some breaths and prepared to sing its song again. The same song, the same tone, the same heavenly call coming forth. With a large breath of cool air, its song rang throughout the land, and radiated majestically – the man woke up, in a cold sweat, a very cold, shocking sweat, an electric shock, a frightening sound that yanked him up from laying down, had demanded he sit up, attentive, alert, having to react to the fright, having to respond, having to fight and live, and face death, and become aware, and never end, and never cease, and always respond, and always react, and never rest, and never rest.