For This Meal We Give Thanks

You never do get used to waking up in the dark. Bleary-eyed, you shower, dress, poke listlessly at a piece of toast slowly going soggy and limp on your plate. The butter is rancid: you gag at the smell when you lift the lid on the plate but can’t muster the energy to throw it out.

It’s a windowless hole you live in, with a flight of narrow stairs leading from the peeling door down to the concrete floor. The whole room floods when the rain comes from the east; you clean and clean but there’s always the faint smell of mildew coming from somewhere.

The rest of the line is mostly all zombies, haggard and colorless in the bleach of the halogen lights, muffled out and alien with face masks and ear guards. You approach soundlessly from behind, exert steady slow pressure to gain attention; nothing fast, nothing startling. Cartoon gravestones posted on the break room walls memorialize fallen workers like HASTE MAKES WASTE and SHOULDA GONE SLOW. You can’t remember the last time you saw the sun, can’t remember what an unfiltered human voice sounds like. Everything is concrete, aluminum, moving lines, sparks.

It’s a nothing night in the middle of November when you find the body. You’re shocked, at first, more by the offensive red of the blood than by anything else. You don’t know the man, though his name tag says he was S. Patrick: it doesn’t mean anything to you. You recognize the marks on his throat, though, and on his wrists and elbows. Sloppy work. You cluck to yourself, and bend down to finish what’s left, shuddering with rare pleasure, before feeding S. Patrick back to the machine.

The next day they’ve reset the accident counter and there’s a mandatory staff meeting. You scan the crowd, looking for a brighter eye, rosier cheeks, a knowing twist to the cheek. It’s been ages since you’ve had a trainee, but everyone is safer when each person follows the rules. This, at least, you’ve taken to heart.

Rossum’s Universal Romance

You have fallen in love, as much as you can, and spend your endless nights hanging outside his apartment, looking down at his dark windows. He stands motionless behind the glass until morning throws the stone that puts the night to flight. He could see you, invisible though you are, if he but turned his head, but he doesn’t. You are two statues, together, and you incline toward him, like a magnet toward the poles.

He is perfectly built for mediocrity. He might be from any of a dozen races, might be an old 25 or a young 60, might, in this light or that, be male or female. He blends perfectly into any crowd, a half-familiar face in a hundred neighborhoods. You have never seen such impossible perfection, and sawdust leaks from your every empty pore for him.

You edge closer and closer until you are his shadow, stretched two steps behind as he moves through the city, one seat back on the train, one breath away in the bars, if you breathed, or he did. Neither of you drink, or eat, but sit pallidly apart in restaurants, picking at your waters and your steaks.

You urge promises through his windows, blandishments through his walls. One night he opens the window for you and you ooze inside, curl like fog around his unheated flesh as he stands, recharging, staring unblinking at the red glow of the city. He could see you if he but turned his head, but he doesn’t.

Eating Disorders

Normally enemies, they are united in their concern for you.

“You’ve been so depressed lately,” says your better nature.

“It’s not good for you,” says your worse.

“You haven’t bathed in a week.”

“You haven’t eaten anything but peanut butter.”

“With a spoon,” adds your better nature, and shudders.

“Not to shame you or anything.”

“Oh! No, no, nothing like that. It’s just…”

“…It can’t be good for you.”

“Come out from under the bed.”

“Just for a second.”

“That can’t be comfortable.” You hiss and curl more tightly around the half-empty jar of peanut butter. “Come on, now. Come out and eat something. There’s some pig’s blood in the fridge.”

“Or maybe we can find someone easy. Park benches, alleyways… country roads.”

“Just be safe.”

“We’re worried about you, aren’t we?”

“Yes, yes, of course.”

You buried an article of faith in the bottom of the jar years ago. Each bite burns through your stomach like battery acid. If you can’t control the hunger — and you can’t, you’re weak, aren’t you? — you can at least make it hurt. Let that be a lesson to all the many parts of you.

Every Liter Saves Three Lives

You look down through your office windows, dry of all passions but a clear cold acquisitiveness. They have taken everything from you, at one time or another, but there is always more, more land, more money, to accumulate, to store away, seven years of plenty against seven years of ruin.

Your workers toil; none meet your eyes through reflective glass.

Once you raged; once you were a whisper of blood through streets without lights, violence crouched like a beast among the piss and the filth of the alleys. Once you were sharp at the throats of the proud, the mighty, those sat in judgment. Once you were a cause unto yourself, a bleak shudder of fatality.

You have resisted mechanizing. Machines mean nothing to you; what is a machine but freedom for the worker? You keep them chained to their tables. They call you generous and loyal; you would laugh, if that were something you still did. Every three months the windowless van, the gentle urging of the signs, the long sharp rows of the phlebotomist’s teeth.

You feed them, and they, in their turn, feed you.

Gods of Olympia

Time was you could walk the whole twenty miles into town without seeing another person.

You and the wolves, whistling through the dark.

Time was you might catch a glimpse through underbrush, just a flash of tapetum, gold tease or red, and know you weren’t alone. Jingle of coin in your pocket warmth against the night, more company than company.

Time was you’d shiver your teeth loose when winter fought its hard way through the cracks in the walls, cough yourself bloody from the drip drip drip of nine months of rain. Mold on every solid surface, green fuzz and grey, bloomed up where your hand fell.

Time was.

Time was you’d be high in the hills, alone and free. Time was you could swallow your tongue in peace, hoard dreams of gold and riches, miser your way into some kind of heaven. Time was you could stalk in peace unknown feet ranging through your woods. Your woods.

Time was you called yourself real.