Ink & Interruptions

I am sitting at the edge of my twin-sized, blue mattress staring at the four walls surrounding me.

This is what I see.

There is an etching of a penis below the small, silver sink to my right, and beside that are several small lines. They are paired off into fives, and I know (because I have counted them more times than I can count) that there are seventy-two sets of five lines. Seventy-two. Three hundred and sixty. I think about keeping my own count.

I see other things, underneath the wires of my squeaky bedframe is the start of a poorly written poem, another depiction of genitalia behind an invisible headboard, a brown smear near the door, and a black spot in the center of the cement floor. There is a noise just beyond the metal door. I count to fifteen in “Mississippis” before I go over.

            What’s on the menu today? I ask. 

There is no answer. There never is. I hear the metal scrape across the lock as the two-inch flap on the door falls open with a clang. There is a blue tray being shoved into my waiting hands, and moments later the door is closed and latched again.

            The silence has a way of speaking. It hisses into my ears. I look down at the sections in my tray. Meatloaf, carrots, bread, and a brown pool of dessert.

            I think I will start with this brick. I say picking up the bread from the tray. I take my small cup of water. I dunk the roll into the liquid and the light, brown crust darkens. I count to five Mississippis and then remove the bread from the cup and greedily suck off the now softened section. It’s been twenty Mississippis.  I poke the remaining food into my mouth. I count fifteen Mississippis and take the tray back to the metal door.

Every meal the same. Every meal. Every second. Every day.

…

I am sitting at the edge of my twin-sized, blue mattress staring at the four walls surrounding me.

This is what I hear.

            There is a constant scratching coming from behind the walls, or beneath the floor. A room over, or maybe the room is at the end of the hall, there is a man whimpering. He makes these noises every third meal. They are dreadful. Every third meal. Loud wails with intermittent sobs fill the hallway and bounce around in the space between my ears.

            I hear other things. They sound real, but they are too close. They filter in through the door and from underneath my bed. They try to keep track of time. I think that they drew the marks under the sink, because new ones used to appear. I guess they don’t care anymore either. There is a noise beyond the metal door. I count to fifteen Mississippis before I go.

            Thanks, Joe. I say as the blue tray scrapes across the metal into my hands. His hands look like they belong to a Joe. They are a brown like the crust of bread I receive every day. His fingernails are a blinding, white. He probably gets them bleached.

            I pick up the lump of meat in the largest section, and whatever liquid it was bathed in seeps through the cracks in my fingers. I place my hand over my mouth and jerk my head back, letting the gelatinous meat slip over my tongue and down my throat. A piece gets lodged in my throat causing me to gag, and spit back up part of the meat. I repeat the process until all the meat is gone.

            The dessert today is some type of cookie that has been broken into six small pieces. I think they are afraid I will try to kill myself. The first time was an accident, but they don’t listen. I pick up one of the smaller pieces and place it underneath my mattress. I now have twelve pieces of different cookies. I always run low when they come to visit.

            My bread had been soaking long enough now, so I take it out of the small, blue paper cup that sits on the floor and mash it into the peas that are never cooked long enough. I pop a piece of cookie in my mouth. It takes a while to chew. It’s hard and the little brown specks don’t taste like chocolate. I can’t remember what chocolate tastes like.

            I count ten Mississippis and take the tray back to the metal door. Five more Mississippis. The door fell down, and Joe’s hand reached back through the slit. I place my empty tray back in his hands and whimper as my skin touches his. I hear a growl and what sounds like a gag from the other side.

This was the third meal.

…

I am sitting at the edge of my twin-sized, blue mattress staring at the four walls surrounding me.

This is what I feel.

The mattress beneath me is firm. When I shift my weight, it squeaks. The metal is cool as my hand wraps around the bed post. With my fingers, I can trace the etchings. They say a blind man was here before me. I rub my thumb over six small dots that form some small pattern. Maybe, he says hello, or help.

            I feel other things. There is a wad of old gum stuck on the hanging pipe underneath the sink. If I lift the toilet seat up, I can feel the sections of mold growing near the hinges. Much of the time, I feel the blind man’s memories. On the back wall, there is a large crack. During the time between the first and second meal, I pace before it and rub my index finger in-between the crevice. There is a noise beyond the metal door. I count fifteen Mississippis before I go.

            How’s your boy? I ask as I take the tray from the slot. I know he has a child. His hands are too steady. They say that he used to throw the tray through the slot. Children soften people.

            I look down at the tray. No cookies today. There is another puddle of the brown, clumpy mass. No meat today. Two servings of vegetables. Green beans and potatoes. This is the easiest meal to eat. I take the plastic fork with two prongs. They cut off the middle so that it is harder to slit my wrists. I can still poke it into my neck. They would stop me.  I smash the potatoes with my fork and scrape six of the green beans over the small divider.

            I didn’t get bread either. Too many carbs they say. I shovel the green bean potatoes into my mouth. I pick up the small orange cup. It’s lighter than usual. Joe must have spilt my water. I’m lucky I didn’t get bread today. It would have been impossible to eat with only this amount of water.

            My time’s up. I scoop the last large bite into my mouth and shuffle towards the door. No time for dessert. They say it’s better to skip all that sugar. Better for my health. I reach the door just as Joe sticks his hands through. He’s wearing gloves today. I can’t touch his skin. The door slams shut.

I think this was breakfast.

…

I am sitting at the edge of my twin-sized, blue mattress staring at the four walls surrounding me.

This is what I smell.

            I shift my weight, stirring up the lingering stench of urine. When I first got here, it was stronger. They said the blind man before me had night terrors. I smell like sweat. I shower once every six meals. I don’t get to leave. Joe brings me extra water, a sponge, and some form of non-toxic soap. They’re afraid I might drink it.

            I smell other things. I used to smell lemons and oranges, but that stopped with the marks. I can smell Joe. He smells like an ashtray and chlorine. I don’t get smokes anymore. I love the smell of a lit cigarette. Joe’s nails are too white for a smoker. Mine used to be yellow. There is a noise beyond the metal door. I count fifteen Mississippis.

            Are you and the wife still fighting? I ask as another blue tray slides through the door. Joe and his wife have been arguing ever since the accident. She yells more now. Joe pushes the tray harder. They say he won’t get better.

            The meal today is a repeat. Every seventh meal is the same as the second. The bread isn’t as hard today. I drink some of my water, then place the roll in the cup. It tastes like the baby food I ate when I was a toddler. Joe feeds his kid in the morning. Well he used to. His kid isn’t at home anymore.

            I stir the brown goop in a circular pattern with my small, white spoon. I don’t want to eat today. It happens sometimes. They say it’s normal. I place my tray beside me, and take a deep breath as the tray stirs the smell out of the pores of the mattress. My hand finds its way to the bedpost and my fingers swirl around the old man’s unknown thoughts. I can see the tiny lines counting days from where I sit. Joe counts the days too. They say it’s been a month now. Ninety-three meals. No luck.

            I get up from the mattress and wander over to the door with the tray in my hands. I still have time, they whisper. I know. Twenty Mississippis left. Joe counts too. I know, because his fingers twitch when he gives me my tray. Sometimes the middle finger. He’s on eight or three. Most of the times his thumb twitches. Ten, five, or one. My fingers don’t twitch.

            I press my ear to the cool metal of the door. I can hear him. Five more Mississippis. The door hatch opens and I hand my tray to him. I’m sorry about your kid. I say as I press my tray into his hand. Joe hesitates for one Mississippi and then quickly pulls his hand back.

The hatch closes.

…

I am sitting at the edge of my twin-sized, blue mattress staring at the four walls surrounding me.

This is what I taste.

            When I wake up, my mouth is glued together by the salvia that I don’t swallow when I sleep. It tastes like the white cookie. I am down to four pieces. They were hungry last night. The white one isn’t my favorite, but I ate it so they could have the better ones.

            I taste other things too. Sixteen meals ago, I tripped over the black spot on the floor. My lip bled. It tasted like iron. That’s what they said it should taste like. My fingers always taste like the brown dessert, or the non-toxic soap I use to scrub my skin. Sometimes I suck on my thumb to stop my stomach from growling. There is a noise beyond the metal door. I count fifteen Mississippis.

            What did the doctors say? I ask as my fingers wrap around the left edge of the tray. Joe coughs. Not good. Is he okay? I ask. The tray slams into my hands. The door rattles as the hatch makes contact. Really not good.

            I look down at my tray. Carrots, peas, and two crackers. They say the food truck was late. Six meals late. Joe probably ate my food. His wife doesn’t cook anymore. She stays in bed and holds the telephone. Still no news. I nibble on one of the crackers. Someone rubbed off all of the salt. It isn’t as hard to eat as the bread, but I still dunk it in my water before I place it in my mouth. I find myself tracing the blind man’s message again. Help. Hello. Help. Help me.

            Twenty-five Mississippis. Joe’s late. I notice the man at the end of the hall isn’t crying. It’s the third meal. They told me that my last neighbor died suddenly and Joe had to take care of it. That’s why he’s late. I stand with my tray outstretched towards the door for ten Mississippis, before I sit down on the cold, cement floor. My blue tray is resting on top of my knees. I shouldn’t have eaten fast. I had time today. They didn’t tell me, so I ate fast.

            Five more Mississippis. The hatch opens. I push myself off the floor. Is everything okay? I ask as I push my tray through the door. The hand is white with three very dark, brown freckles near the thumb. It’s not Joe. Where’s Joe? I ask. The hand jerks the tray through the door and slams the hatch closed. No, come back. Where is Joe? I yell after the strange hand. I follow along the wall until I reach the corner.

…

I am sitting at the edge of my twin-sized, blue mattress staring at the four walls surrounding me.

I can’t hear anything.

            I don’t know if Joe is coming back. My eyes are closed. I lean back against the wall. My neck is at an uncomfortable angle. He must be dead. That’s why Joe is gone. I hear the shuffle of feet. Joe. I roll off the bed. I don’t know how many Mississippis to count. The lock on the hatch scratches as it is pulled open. I sigh with relief as the familiar stale-crust, brown hand juts through the hatch clasping my blue lunch tray.

            Joe, where did you go? I ask. I touch the tray, but hesitate before grabbing it. Did that man die, the one who screams? Joe pushes the tray further inside the room and shakes it slightly. I take hold of the tray. Two Mississippis. Joe lets go and the hatch closes.

            I don’t move. I can still hear his footsteps. I look down at my tray. There is meat. They say the truck came late last night. I look for my spoon as I walk back to my bed. I look under the bread and meat. No spoon. Joe probably took it. He always forgets to bring one for his clam chowder. They say it is cold out now. My peas are still frozen.

            The rest of my food is the same. The meat oozes. The bread needs moisture. The brown dessert shakes slightly as I move the tray. Joe’s hand shook today. Joe’s wife doesn’t hold the phone anymore. They say it won’t be much longer. I need more cookies.

            I set the tray by the door. The crack on the wall is easy to find. They said that the woman before the blind man tried to break this wall. Joe had to remove her too. Joe removed the woman before the blind man, the blind man, the man down the hall, and his kid. Joe will remove me too. My finger has found its familiar place among the crack. My feet ache. Six Mississippis. I walk over to my bed and lift up the mattress.

            Ten Mississippis and Joe is back. I wait three more before I walk back to the door. They say the hand with the three freckles will come back. I think they are trying to scare me. I stoop to the floor and pick up my tray. It feels heavy. All the food besides the brown, jiggling mass is gone. They say Joe’s wife is gone. I think it is a different kind of gone. The metal door squeals as the latch is pushed back. The hatch falls open and Joe’s hand reaches in. Joe, are you leaving? I ask. No movement. Is everything okay? I move closer to the door with my tray. Two Mississippis. Nothing. Joe? I place the tray in his still waiting hand. Three Mississippis.

Then he cleared his throat and spoke.

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Published in the 2021 issue of the Kaleidoscope: A Journal of Arts and Letters