Skie and Avery
01-26-07, 01:56 AM
((After a conversation I had with Matt/Cyrus, I tried working on some posts I owe people, but found that I couldn't. Instead, I started writing exactly what happened after said conversation and my thoughts, and this is how it turned out. Please don't be mad at me Matt, this isn't a snipe at you. Just thoughts, I guess. Thoughts that have been too long in my head.))
The air is filled with a sad song, dying in the last strains of music. The beat is soft and slow, but through it comes the angry clattering of keys. Backspace is pressed too many times. I hate this sound, where I get a good rhythm in the song, and then pause to see the monstrosity of spelling that I have committed to the page. I backpedal, going through and revising, revising, revising, always going through. My clumsy fingers make me angry because I usually don’t have this problem. I stop typing, and hold the hand that’s giving me problems. My right hand, my dominant hand, the extension of my mind. This is the hand that brings art onto paper, which pulls my soul out of my body and bares it down. This is the hand that I will one day lose.
I hold the limb, clenching my left fingers around the wrist. The fingers are almost numb, the wrist feels like rubber. I tell the blinking orange buttons to hold on a minute and shove the computer onto the seat next to mine. With the monitor faced away, it grows far darker; the only light is the white bulbs on the underside of the fuel lanes reflecting against my dashboard. Here and there, the reflection fades. Like a robot, I stand, balancing one foot on the edge of the driver’s seat so that I can reach into the cubby above the door and pull down the Armorall. I’ll find the paper towels later, I think as I use the chance that I’m standing to twist around, ducking my body around the driver’s seat. I push aside the curtain, angry that I’ve left the back light on again without realizing it. A Celtic knot glows faintly pink in its black background, and the light strikes me in the eyes when the pretty curtain is finally pushed away. Growling, I slip into the back and stab at the switch, but I miss. I try again with my left hand. It works.
Just tired… I tell myself. I reach into the bottom shelf of the netted cabinets and pull out two items. One is a small book, with a white cover. It is put to the side as I pull out a small blue pouch. I sit on my bed and unzip the pouch. My hands are shaking; they always are when this part of the day comes. I pull out the instruments. Small monitor, lancet, strip, alcohol pad. From the front seat, a cheerful song plays. I hiss, but don’t have the will to go turn it off. Maybe it will help. Even I have to laugh at myself. These are small hopes. A quiet sigh escapes as I load the lancet into a small pen-like object. It is a pen, I decide. It has the power to draw answers from me even faster than my writing.
I examine my left hand. Every finger is covered with tiny dots. Scars of my twice daily rituals. Unable to find the side of a finger untouched, I press the cleansing swab against the direct underside of my index finger. More pain than the side of the finger, less blood. I use my thumb to cut off the circulation to that finger, watching as it turns red and then purple. I let go as I press the strange pen to the area and hit a button on the side, gasping as the needle pierces through flesh. A drop of blood wells up, ruby and gleaming as it hits oxygen. I press it to a strip, hearing the machine beep with acceptance, and put everything aside, washing the skin with the other side of the already used pad. My finger throbs with pain, but I tell myself it’s just my imagination getting away with me, and it slowly subsides. The machine at my side beeps and I look over. 200. Fuck. I think back to the morning, twelve hours previous. What had I eaten when I woke up?
Yogurt, peach. Snarling, I pack away the testing kit and put it away, thumbing through the paperback book I had taken out earlier. My stomach growled, complaining of my neglect, even as I was looking for something in the book I could eat. I peeked around the curtain at the truck stop. Wendy’s. Thumbing to the back of the book, I find their menu, with nutrition facts aimed at diabetics. The chili would probably be okay, I think. The door opens reluctantly, and I slip out into the cold of the Oklahoma winter night and rush for the building. The guy in the Wendy’s gives me a strange look when I stalk up to the counter. What do you want, hillbilly? Is it because I’m fat or because I’m pierced? My thoughts sound angry, even though I smile and ask for chili and water. Can’t forget the life-giving water. When he hands me my bag, I rush back to the truck, ducking my head to avoid the looks from fueling drivers.
The front seat is welcoming, and as I set the computer back on the steering wheel and browse, I open the chili. Forgot a spoon, spork or fork, I tell myself and curse. One is easily found in a drawer in the back, and I return to my meal, reaching for the passenger seat where a few discarded napkins from yesterday’s supper are still laying. I grab, my eyes on the screen, and my numb hand falls on my sketchbook. The page is open to a tattoo design I wanted for my hand. My numb hand. The words ring in my head like the toll of a funeral bell. One of these days I’ll lose this hand. Every morning that I wake up with it numb, I can feel that day getting closer. My hand will go, and I won’t be able to draw. I won’t be able to shift. There is still a camera. There is still an automatic truck. sweet Hope tells me. And then, still fighting with a hook for a hand, or some plastic imitation of the fingers that once made such beautiful pictures, and such beautiful music, my eyes will go. I look up, at a glowing sign across the street. The smaller words are blurry. Just need a new prescription, that’s all. Your glasses are old. Hope tells me this, she does not give up easy. But with every new prescription, the vision will worsen until one day I cannot see at all. No more pictures, so more faces, no more horizons to see. No more driving. No more Hope.
I bring a fist up to my mouth, biting on my knuckles. The pain takes over, quells the thoughts, and I turn back to browsing the dark pages. I try and type words that mean something, but over and over my mind interjects. One day I will not be able to see my clumsy writing. I will not be able to see the mistakes, the thoughts that were projected in place of others that may or may not have been more appropriate. I lean back, closing my eyes and listening to the music, wondering what it will be like to no longer have freedom. The music is angry now, sarcastic. Before I can reach up to turn the song to something happy, something that I hadn’t wanted to listen to before but now needed, the chorus fills my ears.
“You’re better off dead. A smile on the lips and a hole in the head.”
I can’t bring myself to turn the song.
The air is filled with a sad song, dying in the last strains of music. The beat is soft and slow, but through it comes the angry clattering of keys. Backspace is pressed too many times. I hate this sound, where I get a good rhythm in the song, and then pause to see the monstrosity of spelling that I have committed to the page. I backpedal, going through and revising, revising, revising, always going through. My clumsy fingers make me angry because I usually don’t have this problem. I stop typing, and hold the hand that’s giving me problems. My right hand, my dominant hand, the extension of my mind. This is the hand that brings art onto paper, which pulls my soul out of my body and bares it down. This is the hand that I will one day lose.
I hold the limb, clenching my left fingers around the wrist. The fingers are almost numb, the wrist feels like rubber. I tell the blinking orange buttons to hold on a minute and shove the computer onto the seat next to mine. With the monitor faced away, it grows far darker; the only light is the white bulbs on the underside of the fuel lanes reflecting against my dashboard. Here and there, the reflection fades. Like a robot, I stand, balancing one foot on the edge of the driver’s seat so that I can reach into the cubby above the door and pull down the Armorall. I’ll find the paper towels later, I think as I use the chance that I’m standing to twist around, ducking my body around the driver’s seat. I push aside the curtain, angry that I’ve left the back light on again without realizing it. A Celtic knot glows faintly pink in its black background, and the light strikes me in the eyes when the pretty curtain is finally pushed away. Growling, I slip into the back and stab at the switch, but I miss. I try again with my left hand. It works.
Just tired… I tell myself. I reach into the bottom shelf of the netted cabinets and pull out two items. One is a small book, with a white cover. It is put to the side as I pull out a small blue pouch. I sit on my bed and unzip the pouch. My hands are shaking; they always are when this part of the day comes. I pull out the instruments. Small monitor, lancet, strip, alcohol pad. From the front seat, a cheerful song plays. I hiss, but don’t have the will to go turn it off. Maybe it will help. Even I have to laugh at myself. These are small hopes. A quiet sigh escapes as I load the lancet into a small pen-like object. It is a pen, I decide. It has the power to draw answers from me even faster than my writing.
I examine my left hand. Every finger is covered with tiny dots. Scars of my twice daily rituals. Unable to find the side of a finger untouched, I press the cleansing swab against the direct underside of my index finger. More pain than the side of the finger, less blood. I use my thumb to cut off the circulation to that finger, watching as it turns red and then purple. I let go as I press the strange pen to the area and hit a button on the side, gasping as the needle pierces through flesh. A drop of blood wells up, ruby and gleaming as it hits oxygen. I press it to a strip, hearing the machine beep with acceptance, and put everything aside, washing the skin with the other side of the already used pad. My finger throbs with pain, but I tell myself it’s just my imagination getting away with me, and it slowly subsides. The machine at my side beeps and I look over. 200. Fuck. I think back to the morning, twelve hours previous. What had I eaten when I woke up?
Yogurt, peach. Snarling, I pack away the testing kit and put it away, thumbing through the paperback book I had taken out earlier. My stomach growled, complaining of my neglect, even as I was looking for something in the book I could eat. I peeked around the curtain at the truck stop. Wendy’s. Thumbing to the back of the book, I find their menu, with nutrition facts aimed at diabetics. The chili would probably be okay, I think. The door opens reluctantly, and I slip out into the cold of the Oklahoma winter night and rush for the building. The guy in the Wendy’s gives me a strange look when I stalk up to the counter. What do you want, hillbilly? Is it because I’m fat or because I’m pierced? My thoughts sound angry, even though I smile and ask for chili and water. Can’t forget the life-giving water. When he hands me my bag, I rush back to the truck, ducking my head to avoid the looks from fueling drivers.
The front seat is welcoming, and as I set the computer back on the steering wheel and browse, I open the chili. Forgot a spoon, spork or fork, I tell myself and curse. One is easily found in a drawer in the back, and I return to my meal, reaching for the passenger seat where a few discarded napkins from yesterday’s supper are still laying. I grab, my eyes on the screen, and my numb hand falls on my sketchbook. The page is open to a tattoo design I wanted for my hand. My numb hand. The words ring in my head like the toll of a funeral bell. One of these days I’ll lose this hand. Every morning that I wake up with it numb, I can feel that day getting closer. My hand will go, and I won’t be able to draw. I won’t be able to shift. There is still a camera. There is still an automatic truck. sweet Hope tells me. And then, still fighting with a hook for a hand, or some plastic imitation of the fingers that once made such beautiful pictures, and such beautiful music, my eyes will go. I look up, at a glowing sign across the street. The smaller words are blurry. Just need a new prescription, that’s all. Your glasses are old. Hope tells me this, she does not give up easy. But with every new prescription, the vision will worsen until one day I cannot see at all. No more pictures, so more faces, no more horizons to see. No more driving. No more Hope.
I bring a fist up to my mouth, biting on my knuckles. The pain takes over, quells the thoughts, and I turn back to browsing the dark pages. I try and type words that mean something, but over and over my mind interjects. One day I will not be able to see my clumsy writing. I will not be able to see the mistakes, the thoughts that were projected in place of others that may or may not have been more appropriate. I lean back, closing my eyes and listening to the music, wondering what it will be like to no longer have freedom. The music is angry now, sarcastic. Before I can reach up to turn the song to something happy, something that I hadn’t wanted to listen to before but now needed, the chorus fills my ears.
“You’re better off dead. A smile on the lips and a hole in the head.”
I can’t bring myself to turn the song.