Subject of the Pain

It was only a matter of time before your mantle cracked, the seething insides bursting forth and scorching all in your path. It was a drab little office and a drab little job, you were inconsequential and you knew it. Whether or not you woke up, got to that office, did your work correctly, made it home in one piece, was cordial the whole way through, it mattered not. The world would keep spinning, faster and faster. You would be replaced, or maybe not. Yes, you could disappear forever and no one, nothing, would be thrown. It was the last thought you had before slipping into a blank sleep, and it was there waiting for you every dawn.

But tonight you couldn't sleep. You were much too excited, or anxious, nervous, that burning core was thrashing wildly inside you. It was strange, but the closest you had ever been to this feeling was Christmas Eve. As a child, still believing, nothing matched the anticipation of that night, the wondering and the hoping and the straining for rooftop hooves. The only thing missing was an innocent smile. Though you were smiling still; was merely the innocence that was gone. And the only thing that finally got you to rest was trying to pinpoint the moment when you lost it.

The morning was like any other morning, it was never the morning that was in question. A glass of ice water to shock the body. Oatmeal, toast, banana, orange juice, coffee for the car. The brown paper lunch bag was usually packed the night before, but today you needed the bag for other things. You washed your hair, cleaned your skin. You clipped your nails and left early. You never left early. Were you eager? You were never eager. Were you smiling? It would seem so.

One traffic jam later you were at your drab little desk. You watered your cactus. No reason why that should suffer, it had done nothing wrong. Pricked you once, before you knew how to take care of it, before you knew what you were doing. But that's what a cactus does when you're not careful. It draws blood.

There was necessary paperwork. There were ringing phones. There were red pens, upset clients, there was a birthday. You stood amidst your coworkers, the vile word, mouthing the atrocious song. You even had a piece of cake. You stared at it, white frosting, green leaf, a center piece with a cutting of cursive speaking "DAY" to you. In many ways you were still that child, taking a bite, breaking the rest up with your fork and spreading it around the plate. You couldn't bear the thought of anyone asking you why you didn't eat the piece. You couldn't bear the questions.

It was cake before lunch, eating desert first because life is uncertain. The crowd dispersed, some to the break room, others to the corner, others back to work. You opened the refrigerator and saw your bag with your careful black name. But the bag, it was on a different shelf. Someone had moved it. Someone had felt its weight. Had this someone looked inside? Did this someone know? Were they looking at you more? Did they always look at you this much? Was it all in your head?

You quickly took the bag and went back to your desk, setting it next to your keyboard. You stared at your name, and as you did the world around you changed. It grew fainter, fuzzier. You were transported inside that name, could feel it getting closer, opening up, eating you alive. Things grew dark. And that which was already dark, grew darker.

You unfolded the top, reached in, felt the icy facade. It is a gale rushing through you, knocking things in and out of place. You remember everything. Your brain beats hard. You are the subject of the pain, my friend. But now you could be the author.

And you know. And that is enough.