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Work over. Home again.
Once home I dropped immediately to bed. I
slithered under my comforter and, clutching the edge, drew its
deafening thickness over my head. I was alone, warm, congested,
and in the dark. There was nothing but my bed beneath, my cover
above, and my individual throbbing heart sandwiched in between. I
swallowed and snorted.
Even in the darkness I could see them. I
could see the blinking red eyes. They roamed around the invisible
creases, floating in and out of the hills and valleys of every
fold. They danced and observed me gleefully. A number of them ran
down in a stream along my throat. Then these luminescent spots
flew up into my nostrils and began swimming in the thick, viscous
core of my nasal passage. They spun and circled above me like
vultures, watching me, waiting for me to crumble, showing me that
they were alive in beats of light.
I could not survive. I would give myself
away. There were fifty-three treasonous muscles in my face alone,
twitching and squirming, ready to subvert me. They would see it;
they would study me; they would record the nostrils flares, brow
furrows, unusual eye movement, fits of blinking, reddening of
cheeks, twisting of lips, dilating of my thick black pupils,
sweating from every pour of my terrified quivering face in the
cool, well filtered air that surrounds my work station.
I tugged the blanket down a bit and peered
about. I carefully withdrew a tissue from the box on my bedside
table and blew hard. That was it; I could not live like this any
longer. I pulled the comforter aside and climbed out of bed. I
walked over to my closet, reached around on the shelf and found
my red toolbox. I went to my front door and set it down. I then
turned and returned to bed. I slipped under the covers, took
another tissue to my nose, and proceeded not to sleep.
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