He sat in thick air and caught what breeze he could. An old t-shirt, sleeping shorts, yesterday's briefs. He could feel the barrier of grease on his forehead, resting against his hairline. He'd eaten little that day and still hadn't cleaned his teeth. He could taste lunch. Eggs.
His scratched at his hair and drew back shiny palms. He picked at bumps and discovered dried blood under his fingernails. Bugs in the night, some sort of invader. Nobody just bleeds in small random spots.
Blinks were slow and breaths were shallow, nothing seemed to do its job completely. So why should he? His vision twisted and focused in and out until seemingly nothing would bring him back into the room. The water was not being drunk as it should. Condensation formed. The coaster dropped to the table with every sip. The water never stayed cold. Nothing was doing its job.
It had been two days since he bathed. His fingers felt smooth in their uncleanliness. You rarely ever sense your odor but when he did he inhaled deeply. Out of his skin seeped smell, oil, the natural things. His privates stuck together. He sat and sweat. He was covered in himself.
People clean too often. We're not meant to clean like we do. Our skin faces the world every day and we coddle it. The largest organ of the body, our shield, our first line of defense. Lotioned and massaged and protected within an inch of its life.
His skin felt used. It was made for using. A thin thing, but tough, strong. The only thing keeping him together.
No comments:
Post a Comment