He can hear the clicking sound of metal against her teeth like a broken machine,
Her heavy feet sliding across the floor,
Her grunts and muffled cries from the pain of her bindings and presumably, her loneliness,
and then he thought he could hear the splash of a liquid.
Somewhere under his bare feet…
He looks down.
The floor lay thousands of miles below, the boards of the wood floor look like pinstripes from so far away.
His mind travels down and down
and for minutes he is falling,
his stomach is in his throat and his face feels full with blood,
the torturous feeling of chaos and helplessness subdues his heart
and he is at the mercy of the air and the darkness.
He feels separate from himself, like he could turn back above him and see his hunched mass of flesh,
dazed and zombie-like, staring down at the floor on hands and knees,
without any consciousness of his falling self at all.
“Only to bring you peace…” says a voice.
His brain plunges down toward the ground
and he wants to shrug off any feeling from the despondency of the monotony of moving in one direction
but finds it difficult to move any part of his body, especially his shoulders, while falling down so fast
And slowly he is becoming comfortable in this state of gravity
Falling is so secure because he always knows where he is going.
He is falling down, it is only logical.
SMACK!! goes his mind against the surface of cold concrete.
He thinks “Where’s the wood floor?, Didn’t I just hear water? Where am I?”
He tries to pick himself up, feeling only tinges of numbness and hollow pain.
He is not sad or mad or confused or frustrated.
He is only thinking of the best possible angle and way to push himself up from the ground.
He hears his spine snap multiple times like a machine gun.
He feels his ankle crackle and roll to the side in its inability to be attached to his body and hold his weight.
He sees a slow trickle of blood continuously flow and stretch out in a pool before his eyes from underneath him.
He smells rain through car upholstery, tar from a freshly pressed street,
and a cello waning back and forth from a careful bow in a warm, messy room with clothes strewn on the floor.
He exhales a pathetic whimper trying to push his mind back to its feet.
“First there was this numbness and pain” he thinks “and now I am suffering from the complexity of this situation.”
“This was uninvited and completely illogical.”
And he dies.
Suddenly he is back in his body, staring at the wood,
a bare clean floor, he is nauseous…
A plethora of emotions and sensations touch, stroke and overwhelm his body.
“Did I die?”, he asks himself but cannot speak.
His stomach slides down to its resting place.
He is sad, and angry, and aroused, and ecstatic, all at the same time.
He sighs, feeling depressed by all this emotional overwork.
He drops to his knees and rubs his hands over the grain of each plank,
feeling this wood like it was a woman’s body.
He bends down, touches his face to the wood and he feels nothing
but being uncomfortable, lost, scared and the unpleasantness of the friction of his unshaven face to the planks.
He realizes he can’t touch the wood, only feel the way it makes him feel when he touches wood.
He sits up quickly in shock and disgust.
He hits the dry, bare floor with his fist and hears a splash.
Somewhere, in the distance, he hears a clicking noise, and footsteps
He pays no attention. He couldn’t even care if he wanted to, if he knew how.
He can’t remember anything, Who he is, Where he is, When he is…
He can’t even remember why he doesn’t care about why he doesn’t remember anything.
He slams the floor a second time, in pure hatred and frustration, he feels like a blind person,
that is, if he could deduce what that meant.
He just feels.
And it is exhausting.
To be continued…