An. I mean I don’t know. I’ll try. I can’t move. And God, my head. My head. Please, I’m trying. I mean I hardly slept. I had that dream again. You know the one where I’m on West 48th Street and they start moving the buildings around, and I get lost. Nothing as it seems. Plus, I don’t have a Metrocard. Just a subway token. You know, they don’t use those anymore. The trains are all changed, and there’s no more West End or Sea Beach. I’ll take the RR if I have to.
I get on one that comes into the station, but I have to crawl into the car because the ceilings are so low. Everyone is lying on the floor. I can’t breathe. I have to get out. There are these metal cages at every stop. I wiggle through, but then the stairways are blocked. People are brushing up against me. I’m afraid someone will steal the jewelry in my bag.
My heart was pounding. I couldn’t find my way home. Now I can’t find my slippers. An, help me. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. Ok. It’s my head. Remember the Count of Monte Cristo ? That poor guy? He had to live with that thing screwed onto his skull for years. Ok. I made it, An. I just need coffee. What if that tin is empty. Oh, Jesus. Then what?
You gotta’ help me. Please. I’m really scared. (Grips the bannister. Gets downstairs. Starts opening and closing cabinets. Grabs the coffee.) Just espresso.
I can’t take meds today. I just can’t. I’m sorry. An, I’m sorry. I can’t find the vitamins either. If I did, I’d have to drink water to wash them down. I tell you I can’t. Water makes me gag. I can’t swallow. I can’t, An. I can’t. If I could just sit down for a minute. My head is leaking Garamond. I can’t stand up much longer. So good to sit, An. Thank you. So sorry for the bother. I can’t keep going. Please, An. Please.
Oh, God. God. Look. Here comes Esmeralda. I think she’s walking around the house again. Why doesn’t she stay in the attic where she belongs. I thought I triple-locked the door going up there. I can hear the latch rattling. I can’t let her see me. No makeup, and my hair needs a touch-up. (Runs into bathroom. Turns on shower.) I can’t hear you, Esmeralda. (Starts screeching.) I can’t hear you, Ez. STOP BANGING ON THE DOOR. You can’t find me.
I don’t want any more of her bad days. I can’t listen to her, An. Sometimes she flashes buildings collapsing onto each another. The ones on Sixth Avenue, across from Rockefeller Center. Then she tries to bring the dead people into the elevators with her. They always stop at my floor. I don’t want to see them anymore.
I want to call my sister. My cell phone doesn't work. I can’t find my car, and when I do, the front-end is smashed. There’s a blizzard outside. I don’t have boots. The snow is above my knees. I’m so cold. When I get to the car, I have no choice. She’s watching from a distance. I have to drive up an icy hill so I can cross the Brooklyn Bridge. She’s there waiting. I try to grip the steering wheel. I can’t stop my hands from trembling. A lot of cars are sliding into each other and blocking my lane. I can’t get away. I never can. She always wins.
You have to save me, An. Don’t let her get me. I can’t deal with her. She’s bat-shit crazy.
I’m sorry. I’m sorry for everything. Never mind.
I’m dead anyway.
By Barbara Shields
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