The rat squeaks. “Oh!” you let out a squeak of your own. You forgot about the rat. If your mother were here—excluding the fact that she would have defied gravity to jump on your table—she would have tisked, waving her finger in that judging sort of way she mastered way back when people were hugging trees and smoking pot in the forest; well, when those ideas were new and popular.
The rat squeaks again. Shit, you think, what am I supposed to do with this?
You put the can of Dr Pepper on the counter near the line of black ants. You bend down to look the rat in the face. Black, glassy eyes, wide with fright, look back at you. The hair on his back is raised; you associate this to your dog when he hears children walking along the sidewalk out front. Sometimes your dog barks at you—when you come home late. Your eyes kind of fog over with the thought while walking to the kitchen table. You think¸ where is my dog?
You hear the mail slot open, scaring a “Shit” out of you. Mail falls to the floor in front of the door. It looks at you disappointingly, waiting for you to greet it, open it. Waiting, at least, for you to pick it up, and put it on the table.
The rat squeaks again. Fuck. You forgot about the rat. So you stand from the table and walk back over to the little guy. He looks at you, wondering why you pace the room and don’t just smash him here and now. His guts would squirt out onto the browned tile. His eyes would pop out from his head, and maybe, if you stomp hard enough and in the right place, you’d see his brains. His hair would matt itself with blood and you wouldn’t be able to tell where blood begins and stained-Dr Pepper-tile ends. His little legs would snap like a turkey’s rib at thanksgiving; the little bones would jab out of the thin skin. You’ve seen rat bones before. Sixth grade. Mrs. Gibson’s class. You got to take apart an owl pellet. It was fun.
The rat squeaks again. This time, without thinking too much more in depth, you stomp. But really, all that happens is suffering, on the rat’s behalf. You like that word: behalf. It reminds you of something you read: On behalf of everyone here at Saint Jude’s Mental Offices we grant you your sanity. It’s funny that someone can give you your sanity. It’s a laugh really.
The rat mutters a cry of pain; it’s much different from the one of just being stuck. Half his body is broken and now he can’t move much. Once, a while ago, your brother was shot in the head; he couldn’t move much either. Though, you must realize, that’s because he was dead. But you don’t.
This is year 39, month 7, day 5. Year 4, month 2 of being alone.
—
Year 4, month 4 of being alone.
You don’t have friends. You work instead. Every day you swing your legs over the edge of the bed. Another day, you think, fuck. It’s six o’clock. Early. But you have to go. Your father pulled too many strings to get you this job for you not to go. So, you stand, and walk past the pile of dirty laundry, the smashed television, and into the bathroom. After your shower, you dry your skin with a scratchy towel; they work best when they’re like that. Standing in front of your mirror, you look at yourself.
Your skin is pale and starting to show age and poor eating habits, but the remnants of that distant period of time when you worked out regularly at The Home lingers. Put your hand over your chest. Close your eyes. Don’t think about it.
You walk to work in your navy blue jumpsuit—the uniform provided for you. You are a janitor. A damn good one. So sufficient in wiping up children’s regurgitated food, mopping the tiles, washing windows. You work at an elementary school. The Home suggested working with younger children. They keep you happy and motivated. They’re not as harsh as the older kids.
On your breaks you sit on the swings and watch the clouds skim the surface of the sky. Some days they are fluffy, and it’s easy to find dogs and elephants hiding behind trees and giant flowers. Other days it’s raining sharks and men with hammers and fire stream down from above. On the day with no clouds you met a woman who smells of nail polish.
“Hi,” she said.
“Hi back at you,” you said.
That’s how you met her. Now, every other Wednesday, she comes to visit you. Finally, she got comfortable enough to sit on the swing beside you. “Do you want to come to a party with me?”
“Yes but my brother won’t be able to make it.”
“I know. My dog, Petunia, won’t be coming either.”
“Did they ever let you have her at Home?”
“No.”
“No.”
“But I snuck her in from time to time.”
“I would have liked to pet her.”
“Me too.”
—
Month 1, day 13 since meeting her.
You’re at the party, but these aren’t your friends. They laugh and stumble through the house spilling beer on themselves. There’s a scent coming from a back bedroom that one of the guys leads you to. You open the door and see four or five people smoking. The woman you met on the swings grabs you so you’ll sit next to her. She is sweet like nail polish. Your mom used to paint your nails when you were young.
She hands you this pretty little glass thing, tells you how to hold it, takes your beer away from you, laughs at how full it still is, then lights the end of the pretty little glass thing with her lighter. “Breathe it in,” she says smiling. Her eyes are not so much glazed over as dim, and this layer of dim, not shiny, grey covers both lenses. You breathe and breathe and breathe and and and. The room goes away and your head spins and you you you. “You guys,” you start to speak. “You guys.” They look at you in anticipation. “So you guys know how there’s, like, California and then Oregon on top of it? Yeah, like on a map, the outline of it and.”
“What are you talking about, Kevin?” the woman who smells like nail polish asks.
“Like, I just feel like, I feel like the outline of California. Like the whole state,” you say. “You know? Do you know what I’m talking about?”
They laugh.
“Seriously,” you say getting to your feet, “I am the outline of California.”
“Sit down, man. Salvia doesn’t want you to stand,” the woman slurs her words at you.
“No, check this out,” you say holding your arms above your head narrowing your body. “Don’t you see?”
The woman pulls at your pant leg, and you retake your place next to her. “Seriously Kevin, who are you?”
The words form in your mind but your lips are too preoccupied with themselves to know to move. After all, without the help of your vocal cords, there’s not much your lips can do on their own, even if they are paying attention. Everything is connected, you begin to think. They don’t understand. We’re all connected and we need to break free!
“God,” a woman from across the way says. “Who am I? Don’t you see? This place is an illusion! It’s the fucking crezoids.” She puts her hands on her head bunching her hair together, and rocks back and forth.
“What’s a creziod?” someone asks.
“Are you fucking kidding me? I’ve told you this before! Crezoids keep us here. Crezoids are all around us and in everything. They are the allusion.”
Someone else hits the pretty little glass thing and starts laughing immediately. Another person, who took a hit before you, can’t look away from your face. “You’re a fucking lion,” he says calmly. Then arching his head slightly and widening his jaw, he rawrs like a cub.
You look into his grey eyes and you know how connected you are to him. He’s so right. Everyone is this room is right! They’re geniuses. That woman knows about the illusion of our world and this man found out that you are a lion. “I shot my brother in the head one time. We wanted to see what his brains looked like,” you say to everyone.
—
Month 3, day 15 since meeting her.
“I see a ball,” you say looking up to the clouds one Wednesday. The sun is playing peek-a-boo and the clouds are rolling over her fast. The shapes are changing rapidly. Makes for a better view.
“That’s not very creative.”
“But it is what I see,” you say looking down at your shoes.
“I see a smiley face.”
“Is that all?”
“Maybe a sailboat. Do you see it?”
“No, point to it. Which one?”
“That one, right there. Don’t you see a sailboat?”
“That one?” you ask.
"Yes.”
“No, that cloud looks like a Panda bear holding a banana.”
—
Month 7, day 3 since meeting her.
You’re sitting on the swings when she comes up to you. She is wearing maroon today. It looks good over her chest and you appreciate her attempts to dress up. It shows effort, on her part. You would have liked to dress nicer but seeing as you must wear the navy blue jumpsuit, you cannot.
“So, I was thinking I see where you live.”
“Okay.”
—
Month 7, day 7 since meeting her.
She’s in your house. You feel weird because nothing is clean. You don’t clean your own home. There are certain places your things go and neatly placed on shelves or in organized bins is not one of them. She walks from room to room and finally stops in the kitchen. She examines the tile. “What used to be here?”
“A rat.”
“Oh.” She bends down, head tilted slightly to the left. “I see. And was he a friend?”
“Yes. He lived there for a few months before moving on.”
“Where did he go?”
“He said he wanted to visit lands of trash. Something about an endless supply of rotting food.”
“We should go see him sometime.”
“Yes.”
“We should go see your brother in the park as well.”
“And your dog.”
“And Petunia.” She paused. “Okay, I want to move in.”
—
Month 11, day 29 since meeting her.
Now you have a roommate. Now you have a friend. She has lived with you for three months. Time has passed slowly for you and your relationship with her has changed. She talks a lot about Petunia. She takes you to parties, but you are not allowed to smoke anymore. She said her friends are not ready for you yet. But she still brings you along.
At home, in your apartment, she cleans. You begged her not to but she cleans anyway. She is always cleaning. She wants to talk about Petunia and your brother. There is nothing to talk about, you think.
So, you stay in your room and she does not come and see you on your breaks every other Wednesday.
—
Month 1. Still no sign of your relationship—with her—returning.
“Hi,” you say to her when she walks through the front door.
Silence.
“Hello,” you repeat yourself.
“Where is Petunia?”
“I don’t know where you put her.”
“And your brother?”
“Still at the park.”
“Will you never take me there?”
“No. They split us up. He must come to me.”
“But he won’t.”
“And Petunia is gone!”
She leaves you in the kitchen. You stand and walk over to the fridge. Inside it is white and shining. Everything is always clean now. Nothing is put away correctly. Why does she never visit me? you wonder. Why does she clean? Why is she even here? Where does she go during the day? The questions block clear thoughts. She drives you crazy.
You walk out of the kitchen and down the hall to your bedroom. It is across from her room. You never go in her room. Your room is better anyway, you are sure of it.
—
Month 3. Still no sign of your relationship—with her—returning.
Curiosity has gotten the better of you; you haven’t decided if that is fortunate or not. She’s so pretty, sleeping. Her eyes flick and flail within their sockets. Her thighs are big, but she is not fat. You’re standing in her doorway watching. Her room is unlike yours. There are colors, and it is kept neat. On the bookshelf she has things other than books: Germ-x, body spray, a ballroom mask, a fish bowl without a fish, nail polish. Why does she have a bookshelf with no books, you wonder. But not having books is okay with you. You don’t read either. You eat food and wander aimlessly about the apartment until it is time to go to work.
She stirs in her sleep and her snores get louder. She pushes the covers off the bed revealing her body to you. You can’t quite place the feeling, but there’s definitely something there. You walk over to her bedside and sniff the air around her. Nail polish. Always nail polish. You bend down so your eyes are level with her body.
Her skin is white. Of course you knew this, but looking at it now, it seems whiter than before, like a tan man’s ass. She is only wearing a bra and boxer shorts, probably from an ex boyfriend, maybe a current one. You don’t know. Her left breast has fallen out of the bra’s cup; you look at it. You study it like you would anything worth studying: food, various objects she leaves throughout the house, your thoughts, her actions, your actions, clouds. The area around her nipple is darker than you would have thought—brown—but it is a nice contrast to her tan-man’s-ass skin. It is almost pretty—almost. You turned up the air a while ago because you were hot; now, her nipple crinkles together. It is short—Good, you think. There is a little bit of peach fuzz all over her body, but only someone like you would notice. Only someone like you.
She takes in a deep breath and her chest rises. Her ribs protrude above her stomach as she exhales the breath. Your hand moves up to her body, and you get the idea to touch her. But your hand won’t move any closer than that of two magnets with negative charges.
She takes another breath and that destroys the negative air hovering over her body; so you put your hand slightly above her belly button. It is an outie. You’ve only seen and outie belly button one other time. She was your friend. You have an inie, and you often find lint and hair and wax in it. The smell is displeasing but you smell it anyway.
Your hand starts to slide south of her outie belly button. Your pinkie is the first of your fingers to reach her boxer shorts: the ones from a past or current boyfriend. It’s a good thing your nail is long. The nail slips under the boxer shorts, creating an opening for the rest of your hand. They glide over the lace of her underwear, and you can feel hair. That’s when you stop. They have hair down there too, you think. It was not so much a question as a plain fact, which it is. Maybe she should shave it, you think further. But you would never dare ask her to. It isn’t your place to ask. No, no. It is the place of the past or current boyfriend who gave her the boxer shorts. You could give her boxer shorts. You could become one of those past or present boyfriends. Then you could ask her to shave. Then it would be your place. Then you could stick your hand under her lace underwear, too, and feel her shaved skin. You’d imagine it being smooth and soft. Would it be whiter than her outer skin? you ask. But no one answers your thought.
She breathes again and that knocks you out of your trance. It has been decided, however, that you will become one her past or current boyfriends. It has been decided that you will give her boxer shorts and have the right to ask her to shave so you can feel her soft, smooth skin. You drag your hand back up to her stomach.
She opens her eyes and feels your hand on her. “Go shave!” you yell. “I am your boyfriend and I gave you boxer shorts. I can demand this of you!”
She looks at you, dumbfounded; wondering why you are screaming at her to shave. She would stand up and scream forgetting to tuck her left breast back into her bra. She would call her mother—even though she is 37, her mother is all she has. She would leave you, and this night would forever be remembered as the night you became her past and current boyfriend and demanded her to shave or leave. Ultimately, this would be the break-up scene. This would be the room that always reminded you of that night when you felt her skin, first covered in peach fuzz, and then in thick man hair.
But she doesn’t scream, or run out forgetting to tuck her left breast in, or call her mother. She looks into your eyes. Then down to your lips. And you know what to do when that happens. You know to move in and push your lips on hers. You know this because of the movies you’ve seen—the ones your mother told you to close your eyes through. But before you finish running through those movies, and remember just how to kiss a girl, she kisses you first.
At first it is just lips smashed against lips. Neither of you really grasp what is happening. You get the thought to brush your tongue over her lip. Then something happens. You grab at the scissors sticking from your liver. She looks at you almost as if looking through you, at the evil bouncing from within.
There is blood in your mouth: thick, chalky, salty. Whose blood is in my mouth? you wonder. You continue to back away until your body mats against the wall splatting blood in the raised and depressed grooves.
You watch her now: She tilts her head to the left while you suffer from the twitching shocks of pain you now feel running up and down the veins of your arms. She smiles. Then she stands next to her bedside table and opens the drawer. What she has in there you expect: a gun.
“At Home we’re not allowed to have those,” you say.
“We’re not at Home. For a while I thought I liked you.” She pauses. “And, I would have even been able to overlook what you did with Petunia.”
“I didn’t do anything with Petunia.”
“Well,” she pauses again, getting a better grip on the gun. “Either way, you can’t kiss for shit.”
There are a few things you’ll regret most: that you realize you killed your brother; he is in a graveyard, ten feet under; and that you won’t be able to see your brain explode onto the wall behind you, to see your brain matter craft a pattern that you would point out like you would a rabbit in a cloud.
“But,” you say.
—
Day 5 in the hospital.
“What do you see?” she asks.
“It’s hard to make out the shapes from this bed.”
“Try,” she says.
“A boy with . . .”
“I see a dog.”
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