INK

I wake up and make tea. I have breakfast, as balanced as I can manage. It’s a nice smooth routine, trying to just stay mobile and moving on to the next goal, one at a time. I also always take a shower while the tea seeps. Multitask.

I put clothes on, and deodorant. Underwear, socks, shirt, whatever. Pants and sweatshirt. Tying my laces, putting my jacket on. I pin the monster against the wall with my boot, and I hack once to the right at its thick throat, a great ecstatic rivulet of blood mashes horizontally to the side across the white pattern of my narrow entryway. I finish zipping my jacket, I put on my mask, and I head out the door.

My car has snow on it. I start the engine to help with the defrost, and start the seat warmers. I am a fancy baby. The snow clearing is always fun. It’s like a little walk. A meander at my own pace, before I’m stuck in my car all day on other people’s time. It feels productive. You can always see the difference that you made. I poke both his eyes out like the three stooges, then I knee him in the stomach and knock his wind out, I put his head behind my front driver’s-side wheel, jump in the seat, kick reverse and lump my car over his black cranium, like smashing a rotted-out goth pumpkin under my wheels.

While I’m driving it’s usually not too bad. I have to concentrate on not hitting people – I certainly couldn’t afford that – and listening to music or comedy almost feels like company. At the very least, it’s distracting enough to keep me from ruminating. Therapist’s orders. Which is good, cause he’s a smart guy.

Some nights when I get home, standing in my kitchen, I can hear someone playing a flute, or a clarinet, somewhere on my floor. Sometimes I want to stroll the hall and find out which unit it’s coming from, but I almost like not knowing. Like it’s just part of the property, like the building is learning how to sing. I try to listen with the door open, leaning against the door frame, but then I can hear sounds coming from other units, and no one needs that shit [“What are you going to do? Wake up from a nightmare and want me to cuddle you until you feel better?” – actual quote overheard in the hallway from one of my neighbors], so I keep the door closed, which blocks out all the other background noise except for the clarinet. I don’t know how it works so perfect, but I certainly feel lucky to have my own personal ambient background track.

Fights happen usually only when I’m thinking of leaving my house. Most of the time I’m pretty safe while I’m here. Most of the time.

Once, though, I woke up at 4:30 am, straight out of sleep. Nothing but a full-body frontal attack. I wasn’t quite on the floor, but that wasn’t for lack of trying, let’s say. I didn’t have anything else to do but wait and punch my way out of it. 2 full hours. Watching the sun come up. A very long night. Sitting on my couch, hunched over with my whole body into one large S shape. Each own individual packet of muscles all over my body was its own C-shaped cramp – writing hand, arms and back, all forward in one direction, legs reared back gripped in the other direction. Like a standing cobra fighting very hard to not bite itself. Almost-stabbing a lot of paper. Ink cuts. Very hard to flow. Very messy. Very painful. Very scary.

Made it through until all muscles were exhausted and dead, including anxious ones. Passed out at 6:30. Woke up at 11:30.