Plagued by Visions

The sharp edge of a bedside table, just enough to crack a skull; the awkward space between the bed and the wall just wide enough to shatter a collarbone. How long before someone noticed? You could snap your spine falling wrong, not enough to kill you but enough to stop you from making enough noise. There’s a pen there, maybe your hands will grab one while you sleep and pop your eyes, plouf, I don’t know.

Stairs at work, and the building empty on a Friday before a long weekend. What if you slip, taking the last corner and crash through the wall? It’s happened before, and he took months to mend. It could be days before they found you, if they did; folks don’t always come down here since they stopped letting people come in through the parking lot door. Would you have time to realize what was happening?

Every time you swallow hair, maybe this is it; maybe this is the one that wraps around some bit of intestine and spills bile and acid into your torso. I wish I were dead, they say who are no longer young; better that I had died before I was born. But to go out struggling to breathe around a mouthful of dog hair lacks a certain dignity, even if you can’t stop yourself from thinking.