| Scratching at the Coffin An unexpected, dense fog rolls in from the hills and encloses me, coming in so quickly that it knocks me off my feet. The thick air weighs on my lungs and crushes my soul. I try to scream out but am choked by the soupy air. At first I try to maneuver my way out of the fog, stumbling over everything, but what is visible is blurred. What is audible is muffled. What is touchable is touched by hands wearing thick leather gloves. I see nothing, hear nothing, feel nothing but this world of gray. I remain there. Helpless. Alone. I wonder why the people around me don�t see this encasement. But eventually I give up, give into its presence. I stop scratching and tearing, my fingers not yet bloody, at the lining of the coffin and just live in it. One day, for no apparent reason, the fog rolls back and the sun shines on my face. Those days spent in the light are treasured ones, for the threat of the ever-present fog lurking, waiting in those hills is always-always-hanging over my head. |
| An Afternoon with the Depressed I lay flat on my back on the ketchup stained carpet. Staring at the red, gold, blue, silver, and red glitter covered balls hanging from the ceiling by different colored strings, I wondered how I had come to be this way. All my hair was gone; I cut it off the week before. My head missed the cushioning the long hair used to give. I put my hands beneath it to give myself some comfort. Any comfort made me happy. I thought about the day. I rolled on my side facing my desk. I fell asleep. When I awoke, I brushed my teeth and looked into the mirror. Crying for two hours straight isn�t good for a person�s appearance. My eyes were glossy and pink. The skin under them was puffy and sunken in at the same time with shadows from rubbed mascara. My lips were pouty and dry. �It sounds like you�ve been stripped to the core.� �Have you been having death thoughts?� My head nodded and my hair bobbed as the tears started flowing again. �How does that make you feel?� I couldn�t even get the word out. �Scared,� I tried to say. Around midnight, after another day of doing nothing, I went into my suitemates� room with my orange Tylon covered stuffed lamb. �He still doesn�t have a name� �How about Lily?� �No silly. That�s a girl�s name. This guy is a boy.� �He kind of looks like�orange sherbet. Why don�t you just name him sherbet?� �Oh yeah!� �And then his nickname could be Bert. Amanda, you�re so good at naming things.� Amanda and her friend named the school television show. �This is totally not even me talking,� she said with tears in her eyes. |
| Unfinished Stuff |
| Spring '01 |
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