by Scott Simpson
Waking to that large crack and the tufts that adorn it, the smell of garbage clouding my sinuses and the tickling of something like ants across the back of my neck…
Cold cement pressing sharply flat against my temple like a brick on my face.
The crack seems real and I pull on what grows near it.
I have fallen far, it seems.
The crack is large from this angle- I see that now. The crack isn’t right, and I need to do something to fix it.
Several parts of me hurt- a lot.
I may have broke an ankle and a wrist.
There are too many now to ignore. The one hand I can use can reach them if I take my finger from the crack. Wiping ants from my neck brings a brief relief from that driving-me-crazy feeling. The tickling is now a gritty, soothing skin on skin.
If I had water, I could surely pee right here.
What is it that she said? “You need to stop trying to “fix” everything. The world is full of broken people. When you try and fix me, you make me feel broken.”
The crack is big enough for my smallest finger. I pick at it. My ankle throbs. My wrist throbs. The world seems sharply cold and is pressed against my temple like a brick on my face.
“Get drunk. I don’t care. I’ll catch a cab home where I don’t expect to see you anymore.”
Is that what happened?