I Know You Wanted Me Instead

Many days have passed now,

spent inside my tiny tiny room. 

All my bottles are empty. 

My plants have died.

I have one bag of rice remaining.

I changed my sheets yesterday. and I want to know why these sheets are-

Why are these sheets making me so-

Why are these sheets-

Why are these pink sheets- uplifting me so?

Or is it the rain?

The rain that pelts violently onto the air conditioner vent- 

But looking outside. I see that it sounds heavier than it looks.

Yet it patters so loudly and so I am thinking, that maybe it will make holes through the metal- I am wondering what will happen, if that happens, will the rain be funnelled into my room?

Will it be sucked in and begin to fall, like a mist, over my bed?

Yes, I decide, the rain makes me happy too-

just as these pink sheets do. 

I smile. 

 Yesterday the weather was humid and muggy and my sheets were charcoal grey and I was feeling grey. And now I’ve changed my sheets, and the rain has washed everything away- it’s symbolic, is it not? Symbolic of change, I am happy to be happy again.

But if only I could step out- into that rush- beneath that cleansing shower-

Just how I dream- fine, I do dream, I’ll admit it, I do dream of doing that. And I do dream of breathing in fresh air. 

fresh air as it was. As it used to be.

I dream of breathing normally, not through a ventilator, through a filter, a mask.

Can I open the window? Can I? The thought of fresh air- oh the thought- it fills me with relief- oh the thought- tension releases with the thought- anxiety releases with my hand that is creeping. That is reaching. 

To open it just a crack. Just-

“NO!” Comes a roar, and a slap, my hand is slapped,

I rip it away, it is stinging and red, “why did you hit me like that?” I hiss.

“Don’t open the window!” 

I huff, and I fall backwards on to my bed, bouncing off the pillows.

I’m so bored. I’m so bored. Bored. Bored. Bored.

“Do some work then.” I am told.

I am too bored.

“Do some work.” I am told again.

I roll over and cover my ears. “You know I don’t like being bossed around like that!” my voice rises in anger.

“It’s your job,” I’m reminded, “Or do you not need the money?”

I get up and move to my desk. I sit down.

Resting my chin on my hand, I watch the rain streak across the glass.

“Get started then!” 

“I’m starting!” I hurriedly open my laptop, and after a pause I mutter, “What terrible company I have.” I flinch. I wince. Wincing, wincing, waiting, a blow does not come. The blow does not come a moment later either.

So I focus on the screen, I read my emails, I work for a while,

But an hour later, I miss my family. I missed them yesterday too, but today I miss them more.

I keep working.

He pulls up a chair and sits beside me. Too close. His presence is heavy, it’s crushing.

I find myself leaning the other way, when he coughs. He coughs and hacks loudly and spits onto my desk. 

“Hey!” I cry. 

I reach for a tissue and wipe it up. 

He folds his arms behind his head and laughs, then snorts, “I have a question for you, girl.”

He wipes his nose with the back of his hand.

“What question?” I shuffle sideways,  

“Well, you were running low, right?”

I don’t speak.

“Weren’t you?” 

“What do you mean?” I mumble.

“What do you mean?” He mocks me.

I start typing.

“You were running low on medication.” he presses my laptop closed, he presses the screen over my hands.

“Weren’t you?”

I don’t move.

“So?” he laughs, “why did you not see a doctor? Why didn’t you get more?”

I might fall off the chair if I shuffle away any further.

“Why did you not see a doctor, before all this happened?” His tone is unfriendly and he says this into my ear, so that his breath tickles me.

I shove him away in disgust.

He laughs and shoves me back, “I guess you wanted me instead!” He's smug.

No.

“Then why didn’t you see a doctor?”

I tried.

“Why didn’t you see a doctor?”

I was going to.

“Why didn’t you see a doctor?”

I wanted to.

“Why didn’t you see a doctor?

I was about to.

“Why didn’t you see a doctor?”

“I should have!” my voice cracks.

“Why didn’t you see a doctor?”

I sob into my hands. But I can see his teeth even in the dark, between my fingers, and he continues,

“I know, it’s because you wanted me instead!” he cosies up to me in a pretend warmth, but his touch burns like ice.

I raise my head and scream in his face, “I don’t want you! I don’t want you!” I stand up and shout louder and in rage, I hit him over and over as hard as I can until he disappears completely.

“Am I not your friend?” the shower head asks me, forlornly, as I shower later that evening.

“Yes..” I hesitate. “you are.”

It splutters and cries harder- it doesn’t seem to believe me, and now I feel I am a terrible person. 

Shrouded by guilt I turn off the water and dry myself. 

The towel feels nice, it is soft, I think it is friendly. I wonder if it thinks I am friendly too? 

When I hang it on the back of the door, I can swear that it’s smiling at me.

And I am being eyed in suspicion as I blow-dry my hair. 

“What?” I mumble, distractedly. 

“What’s wrong?” he growls.

I shake my head, “nothing.”

“what’s wrong?” His voice is guttural, it churns in high volume. He knows I am not okay.

“I miss my friends,” I choke, “and I miss my family.”

The heat strengthens as I cry. And the lights soften until they are golden. When I pull the plug and place it back on the shelf, I find I have been enveloped in a warmth that reminds me of my mum.

My bed beckons me over, the blankets unfurl, revealing my lovely pink sheets. They are welcoming me.

I snuggle in deeply, and I am covered, I am cared for. The blankets tell me not to worry. They tell me I will be okay. The rain tells me this too. The rain that continues to pelt onto the air conditioner vent outside.