a crossing, or an escape from Kharon

by kdillmanjones


I could die today.

My body would plunge off this toilet and no one would hear it. My face would slide onto the cheap bathroom floor tile. Right there. Where the green towel is hanging, where the ugliest green stares back at me in contempt.

It would be so much easier. Just to … not exist.

It takes so much effort to breath. And I can’t stop looking at my flesh and organs splattered on the floor I just mopped.

The thought of my ashes flying through a forest, of this wretched body not taking up space, and it’s all so freeing.

Freeing, but permanent all of the sudden.

Vacation. Sabbatical. A temporary break from this effort of living. Yes, yes.

For just a few weeks, days even, I could escape this drudgery, this work of being the animal that I am.

Breathing. Eating. Waking.

It’s far too much.

But you never see an owl or coyote unresponsive on the stained bathroom tiles.

I realize I’m hungry. Or thirsty. Or I need the light on.

The bathroom tiles look worse, the light more fluorescent. But it’s better that way. It’s better that the green in the towel is a foul shade of pistachio vomit.

I hear the storm, and it beckons. You have to let natural light spill in when you open the door. And it hurts. It hurts to be out of darkness; it’s the only place where I exist less.

Silence mingles with the offensive light, and it’s such a high price to pay. Still, I step out into the rain, drawn to it like the water that I am.  I realize it is a crossing, that I’ve stepped across some boundary.

The dark sky is a solace. The hard pellets of rain striking my skin like bullets are a blanket of consolation.

Where the small patch of grass slopes down into a puddle, I sit down right in it. I take up space there, and finally, finally, I don’t mind.


* 333 words on the 3rd definition of animal.