Feel Any Better Now

She leaned over the yellowing sink and turned the cold water on high, taking a deep breath. She tried to clear her head and splashed the icy water onto her face hoping to rinse it off. Hoping to wash away the feeling of being dragged through life, of being pushed and pulled through the motions of each day, each hour, each minute, each second, one by one. It’s tiring her out. It’s towing her down. Heaving hard on the end of whatever rope has got her bound, weakening her defenses with every tug.

She simply isn’t strong enough.

Letting the water drip from her face, she looks up at herself in the cracked, lopsided mirror. Her face barely visible, her hair hangs down like a stringy, dirty mop. Her eyes are red. From crying? From lack of sleep? She doesn’t remember enough to even give a decent guess. Did she drink any last night? The night before? The night before that? Has she been taking her medication? Has she been crying?

It hurts to try and remember. It hurts real bad. Hurts like hell.

She quits trying.

She squints her eyes and with spindly fingers, moves her dark hair to get a better look at her face in the mirror, examining the gray circles around her eyes.

Suddenly it’s hot. She knows it’s not hot. She knows there’s no heat in this building. She is aware that it’s raining outside, that there hasn’t been sun in a week. The window is open, and she stands there half naked. Yet despite this, and the cold water on her face, suddenly, it is hot.

She turns off the sink and turns on the shower head. There’s not much of a shower in the bathroom. Just a sink, a toilet and a shower head. The floor slants, encouraging the water to drain away. Stepping underneath the water in her shorts she lets the water run over her, watching it turn a brownish rust color as it runs over her left arm. Over her blood stained and scarred arm. She doesn’t want to remember where the blood came from. She knows she must have betrayed herself. She stops watching.

It is still hot.

She strips off her shorts and drops them on the floor, sitting down upon them, the shorts the only thing between her bare skin and the moldy, Zoloft colored tile, and let the water bang upon her head, forcing its way through her hair. A shiver runs from the tip of her head, through her chest, to the tips of her fingers. A terrible shiver that leaves her freezing cold, sitting on a cold filthy floor, in a cold filthy bathroom, in a cold filthy apartment, where the window is open and letting in a cold filthy wind. With the wind comes a shitty smell, a smell like the one that emanates from the lithium bottles strewn about the floor of her room, a shitty, sickening smell.

Slowly moving to her hands and knees, she makes an effort to stand up. She closes her eyes, kneels back down and tries again. It’s not gunna work kid, it’s just not gunna work. She tries once more, and it seems she’s succeeded. Until she falters and stumbles towards the wall, knocking her forehead hard upon the shower head.

Fuck.

She leans against the shower wall and closes her eyes. It hurts. It hurts nearly like hell. Now she’ll never remember, not for while at least. She blindly feels along the wall until she feels the coarse fabric of her towel, sightlessly drying her body and hair. Her mind clouded by pain she makes her way to the only clean thing in her room, the bed. She sits on the bed, its black, blood stained sheets welcome her with open arms. There’s ice in the freezer, but she doesn’t want to get up and get it. She closes her eyes and counts to three. She’ll get up when she counts to three. One. Two. Three. Nothing happens, she doesn’t get up. She doesn’t even twitch. Her mind stops and tries to go back to one. Try, try, try again. One. Two. Three. She sits up. Something numbered two fights to keep her from lying back down. Desperately, something numbered two pulls her into the kitchen and puts ice to her head.

She doesn’t quite make it back to the bed. Naked, she collapses in the middle of the room, among the lithium and vodka bottles, lighters, and cat hair.


* *
She arrives to work at 9:59pm. It was always this way. Get off late from a five-turned-six-hour shift at the one place, change uniforms in the car, push ninety on the freeway, park at the room, and walk to the next place, or run. Most times they didn’t let her off early enough to park and walk. She’d have to drive to the next place, and drive home after, at six in the morning. Why won’t the manager just schedule her for ten thirty? It’d make things so much easier.
When she walks into the kitchen her co-workers glance up. Juan shouts, “Hola, Celia Cruz!” and everyone else’s greetings follow their accents thick as croc skin, “Hola, como estas?” “Azucar!” “What’s up?” And she responds to each one in turn, “Hola.” “Muy cansada, I want to sleep.” A grin. “The ceiling.” She doesn’t quite remember why they call her Celia Cruz, but there’s no getting out of it. Sure as hell isn’t an insult. She sets to verifying her cash drawer, bloody stinking drive-thru, she thinks, as she sets the drawer in the register and punches in her number, 235.
Felipe, the manager, walks up to her, as she’s putting on the head set, “You know your duties, right? I don’t have to tell you anything, right?”
She gives him two thumbs up.
“No! Speak up girl! Are you mute?”
“No,” she says grinning. “Yeah, I know what to do. Get off my ass I just got here.”
His eyes are alight, joking with her. “Yeah, but everyday I have to tell you.”
“Fuck you. Everyday you fuss at me, but I am doing it the whole time you are fussing.”
“Whatever,” he says, grinning and walking away, talking to the other employees in Spanish.
She presses the button on her headset, her first of what’s bound to be hundreds of orders tonight, “Hi, can I take you order?”
“Yeah, can I get a number eight.”
She rolls her eyes, dumb-asses they are. Everyone knows a combo comes with choices. What, do they think the workers are psychic? We know what size you want, and what drink you want, and whether you want seasoned fries or plain? Try to verify the items and they give you long “uuuuhhhhhs”. Jesus Christ, and these are supposed to be smart people, college people. Tonight, this morning, will be a long one.
Between two and three in the morning is the busiest time of the night, or morning, Thursday through Sunday the people come back from their nights out, back to the apartments and dorms on-campus. The line inside will reach nearly to the door, the drive thru will be non-stop.
“Flashing for what?!!” Felipe shouts at her.
She hears the beeping and looks up, goddamn timer.
“It’s flashing for you, it loves you!” She shouts back over the clamor of drunken and high and rolling students.
“Get the orders out!” He teases, as she adds napkins and asks the guest at the window if he wants ketchup.
“I am damnit!”
* *
Daddy always said don't drive when you're tired. It's dangerous, he said. He said he's done it in his day and it's dangerous. Don't bring any good, he said. But she had to. How else would she get to and from work? He did it in his day and now it was hers. It was her day, and, dangerous or not, she'd drive.

And mother always said don't drive if you know your head isn’t trustworthy, when you know that you are inadequate. Mother said don't drive if you're on medication, even if it is "just" for a mild emotional disorder. She said it was dangerous when a person couldn't trust themselves to be stable. Don't make for any kind of safe environment, she said. But she had to. How else would she get to and from work? Dangerous or not, she'd drive.

And when she moved away and picked up a second job she continued to drive. And when she quit her medication, she kept driving. And that's when she noticed the way something numbered two took the wheel. The way her mind wandered. The way a picture of her car afire on the side of the road floated into her head like a bubble, then popped. The way images of bodies, crushed between glove compartments and seats, arms protruding from between steering wheels and doors, of necks snapped into jutting positions, of blood and bone among steel and fire, took over the blurred visual of the road. And the images of cars slowing and looking, but continuing on, going and going and going.

Then, there were the late nights that were actually mornings, when she was so tired that she couldn't focus her eyes. When the world was of no specific color and was made of indistinct shapes, when everything was a blurry picture of nothing at all. Those were the nights that she could barely recall the drive home. Those were the nights that something numbered two would take the wheel alone, and she'd swerve between lanes and make dangerous turns, that her grip would loosen on the steering wheel, her foot heavy on the gas.

Each night she'd drive the twenty minutes home. She'd gather her uniforms from the passenger seat. She'd drag herself into the house, into her room, and try to neatly pile her things on the table. Taking her time getting undressed, she'd spend a lot of time standing with her eyes closed, never trying to sleep, resting. Taking her time getting into the shower, she'd wrap the towel around her body, three, four times, before getting it secure. She’d choose a drum CD to put in and she'd turn it up, pretending that there never was, or will be, a roommate in the house, and take a long shower, a fifteen minute shower. If there really would be no roommate for the night, she would neglect to dress until morning. The cold sheets against her skin, her blankets pulled all the way to her chin, a stuffed puppy in her arms, she'd lie with her eyes open, fighting sleep. Exhaustion always kicked her ass. Wrestling with the thought, she unwillingly gave into shutting her eyes and suffered herself unto the dreams.

These were the same nights that kept her awake in her bed, a bottle in her hand, music loud. Eyes closed, but mind churning, clockwise, then counter clockwise, then back again. Then, abruptly, it would all end and there'd be a dream there to replace it. Dreams of all the things she ever feared would come and take her into their arms, rocking, swaying, and singing distorted lullabies. Sharks and dinosaurs and oceans would take turns hypnotizing and waking her, swinging their watches in front of her eyes. The command always the same, when I snap my fingers you will sleep and be afraid. When I snap my fingers again, you will wake up and be afraid. Always afraid. There was no visual for the fear, just the feeling of eyes taking over for her senses. Eyes that could only process the bad that they saw, making no use of any other aspects of a thing. Eyes that put her on the beach, with sharks swimming in the sky. Eyes that put her in the future, with dinosaurs living next door. Eyes that put wolves asleep at the foot of her bed. She'd wake up, hoping not to go back to sleep for fear of moving and waking the creatures up. Inside the dreams she'd pack up and move to a new place, a new planet, continent, city, only to find that there is only one bed, only one house, only one beach, only one sky.

She watched as a young child stood at the edge of a roof atop of no building. The street so far below that the rows of lights seemed to be one long flowing line. And the sounds were inaudible. A dirty man sat beside the child, puffing on a cigar, his hair wild, unkempt. His bare feet, dirty and made rough by years of walking, dangled over the edge, swinging, hitting only empty space. The air was chilly, but still, and though they could not be seen, the dinosaurs could be heard, miles away, in the next town over. The grumbling of the creatures’ stomachs and the roar of their angst echoed loudly, causing the clouds to tremble and break. The girl stood in a white nightgown, her pale, curled toes bare, grey eyes staring emptily into space, hearing.

When the dinosaurs stepped into town, the lines down below ceased to move, and the clouds disappeared. When it appeared beside her, its teeth bared, its right eye glowing, the girl did not move. When it let a tear fall for her, she did not move. Nor did she move when it opened its mouth to speak, its voice a dull hum. Beside her, the man let out a cloud of smoke like a thick fog.

The horizon was almost invisible as she swam. In each direction, only waves made the ocean distinguishable against the night sky. The water threatened to swallow her up into its bosom with every passing moment. She saw triangles floating in the water and wished herself ashore.

The sand grainy and rough between her toes, the seaweed cold and locked around her ankles, she watched the stars twinkle. From behind the full moon came a great hammerhead shark, its tail propelling it through the air as it circled above her. She stood motionless, trying not to blink against the wind, tears rolling down her cheeks, as she watched shark after shark proceed from behind the moon. They circled lower and lower, as she stood gazing at their bodies, sleek and graceful in the moonlight. Her eyes avoided the endless rows of teeth.

She would wake up sweating, her heart pulsing like the beat of the djembe and the dundun. She’d set the drums playing on her computer, looking for comfort in the rigma. And she’d start the process over again, cold sheets against her skin, blankets pulled up to her chin.

For every minute of a nightmare there was the equivalent loss of rest. For all the hours worth of fear, she may as well have been up and working. She would wake up just as exhausted as she had been before she lay down.

During the day the dream would haunt her. She’d look up at a clear blue sky and see sharks waiting and watching, their tails going back and forth, back and forth. She’d walk along the sidewalk, aware of the wolves trailing beside and behind her, tongues falling from their mouths. And when she’d sit in bed doing work, she’d find the large, yellow, sympathetic eye of the reptile watching her.

She told herself again and again that the creatures weren’t there, that she was imagining things. Despite the knowledge, she still saw them. Though she lacked belief, the visions would continue for days before dissipating. She’d be mumbling to herself and dodging the fleeting looks of people on the street.

After a while the drive home with something numbered two would change. She thought she noticed the swerve of the car was deliberate, the dangerous turn, intentional, the loosening of her grip, planned. She found herself in the outside lanes on bridges where she once would be found in the inside lanes. She found herself considering traffic signals and street dividers. She took note of street lamps and gates and fences. She paid attention to brick walls and large vehicles. Potentials. When the pictures became urges she made mental notes to counter them. She stayed in the slow lane, she consciously gripped the steering wheel, and she walked to work when she could.
* *
She’d choke down the medication to suppress something numbered two, keep it calm, keep it tied up in the yard. But it passed the misery of being tied down on to her.

Gordon’s, it made her feel better. She’d stop at the grocery store, walk down the aisles until she found it. It’d be open before she got in the house good, and gone by the end of the next day. She’d drink into oblivion, passing out and waking up with no recollection of previous events. You’re the only person I know that gets piss ass drunk in the middle of the damn day. I’m sorry, is this a problem? It wasn’t a problem. She got to and from both her jobs. She paid her bills. Functioning. That’s what they called her, a functioning alcoholic. But there was no addiction in her, just pain, just churning.

Something about the drink would flip the tables, turn things around. She’d find a corner in her mind, safe and empty, to sleep in. Curled up she’d abruptly be removed from existence, something numbered two carrying on in her absence.

Something numbered two had an obsession with moving. Sometimes it would drive to nowhere, leaving her to wake up, parked on the side of a road. Sometimes it would walk to nowhere, leaving her to wake up in a park, on a bench, or at a bus station. Sometimes there’d be people to witness it in action and tell her about herself later.

“Do you remember last night? You were fucking wasted.”
But aren’t I always. “No, I don’t remember. What’d I do?”
“You went to the burger joint down the street, and made a fuss because you dropped your food. You sat on the floor and ate it there because you couldn’t stand up.”
Interesting. “Really?”
Or, “Are you sober now? Last night you were crazy.”
“Really?” As usual.
“Yeah, I saw you passed out on the pavement in front of the complex. I couldn’t wake you up.”
“That’s funny.” Hilarious actually.
“Don’t you ever feel stupid?”
“No. No, I don’t. It was fun.” Are you judging me bitch? Fucker? Cock sucker?

* *
She could barely walk to the car, falling twice. She lay sprawled on the ground, fighting the black that threatened to come over her eyes. Trying to get the key in the ignition was hell, and backing out without hitting anything was hell too, but then in came something numbered two. They drove, and this time she knew they were driving. The pictures came up and blocked her view of the road. A body lay in the middle of the road, torn apart and mashed by the weight of car after car speeding over it. A child’s car seat in the front seat of a car, the baby thrown from the belts, its wail cut short by the dull sound of its body hitting the pavement. The car seat left in the car, melted and charred. A man trapped behind the steering wheel, a fire growing over the hood of his car. His body on a stretcher, smoldering. The wide open and bloody gash in the arm of a boy, the smell of raw flesh emanating from his body, sprawled across the scattered glass and metal pieces of a destroyed car.

They were losing moments as fast as they came, all details lost. She watched from the warm, soundproof, corner of her mind. The pole that split the hood down the middle was colorless, invisible. The windshield shattered without a sound as her body flew through it. Something numbered two panicked and retreated, leaving her to feel the pain of the pavement and glass that cushioned her fall. It left her to hear the crack of her skull against the pavement, and feel the snap of her right arm as her body slammed down upon it.

They sat together in the warm corner of her mind as everything crashed down around them. The flesh of her brain came falling and falling, caving in on them. They heard her lungs stop filling with air, her heart stop beating.

This one isn’t a dream. She said to it, to something numbered two.
It looked at her, No, it isn’t.
This one isn’t a picture. She said into the darkness.
No, it isn’t. This one is real. It whispered.
Yes, it is. It’s real.