X and Y
Savannah N. Miller | Staff, College of Medicine
“When will you be back?”
Her hand on the knob of the front door, she doesn’t turn around. “I’m not sure. Do I need to tell you a time?”
“Well, I’d just like to know.”
“Of course you would.”
“Can you just give me an estimate?”
“I’ll be back when I’m back. Don’t worry about it.” The door slams in conclusion.
X sits down on the side of the couch, dips his head, and clamps his hands on the back of his neck. He cries out to no one.
X stands up suddenly, knocking over a lamp. The lamp falls and glass breaks on the floor. X doesn’t even notice. The glass belongs there. He bounds down the hallway to the bedroom: the gray box with the cold, metal, gray bed, with the musty gray blankets in his gray life. He lifts the mattress from the box spring and unfolds a dusty case. His mind stops, and his hands open it without assistance. The knowing hands place an offering directly into his mouth. In the center of his tongue. He swallows.
Headphones on, his feet walk down the street to the shit lot. His body lay itself down among the dirty fast food cups. Weeds irritating his ears. Cigarette butts in his hair. The hands that aren’t his anymore turn the music up. It’s so loud it hurts. So loud that nothing else exists.
Slowly, slowly, slowly and then all at once his soul is detached from his spine.
It floats up, up, up to the moon.
Over, over, over to the next galaxy.
Beside the other souls that are floating around, waiting for their next instruction. Curious.