disappeared.
She passed my bed again, the woman. She moved toward the door. The door was still open, yet . . . There was a pile of men, before it. They had lain down, one on another, to stop her. To block her way. They lay completely still. They did not even seem to be breathe.
She moved closer, the woman. She approached the door and the men, not slowing. She moved through them. Then closed the door.
I lay back in the ocean.
I could hear the ocean.
Every Day
E very day is a somewhat new day.
Macey
O ur one neighbour Macey is super-Christian. She squeezes through keyholes. I donât think Mom even likes her, but you canât tell someone who wears a shawl to go away.
When Macey mentions Jesus, she canât stop. Like the kid in Grade 10 who says âfuckâ uncontrollably. If Mom tries to distract her by talking about dish detergent or her new moustache trimmer, Macey will say something like âJesus had a moustache,â with a dreaming look in her eyes like sheâs remembering her dead husband.
When Mom leaves the room to get coffee or use the bathroom, Iâm terrified. Macey usually ignores me but when weâre alone she talks to me in a strange quiet voice, like sheâs trying to hypnotize someone whoâs sleeping. She always says more or less the same thing: that Jesus loves us all or that no matter how badly off we think we are thereâs always millions of people who are worse off and if we could all just rejoice in that and love Jesus weâd be so happy.
I thought about this and tried doing it but picturing millions of suffering kids didnât boost my mood a bit. Neither did a dying guy pinned to a stick.
Only one thing did make me happier: imagining Macey on an adjacent cross with blood gushing out of her hands and feet.
Iâm not worried about going to hell. Iâve lived there a long time already.
Music
I used to feel emotion all the time. I wasnât quite happy, but I didnât realize how unhappy I was. Once you understand that, you just canât go back. You can try, but you canât go back.
When I hear music . . . I can listen to music for hours sometimes and nothing happens. But then Iâll wake up in the night, I sleep with my radio on, and Iâll hear a song that wakes me up again .
Itâs amazing. Like remembering my name. Everything is so clear and so real again. Itâs like I can breathe again. Itâs just the best feeling. I wonder, Do other people feel like that all the time?
When I wake up, itâs gone.
Red Hands
T he old man has red hands. The outsides of his hands are red from the sun but his palms are even redder and cooked-looking. At first I wondered why but then I realized heâs stopping a lot to pull out the weeds that keep choking up my wheels and itâs wrecking his hands. Thereâs streaks of green on them and brown dots that are probably blood. Thereâs a guy named Gerry who my dad says was an ordinary working guy until his brain came out. We saw him at the mall. He paced a lot and occasionally started laughing insanely and rubbing his face. His face and his hands were red and raw. My dad asked him how he was and he just laughed and rubbed his face off. Then his mom took him to the bathroom. Then my mom took me to the bathroom and I threw up.
Abilities Camp
A bilities Camp sounded fun. I was glad to get away. There were a few wheelers sitting outside, so I loosely associated with them until my parents drove away. Then we wheeled into the auditorium.
Iâd never seen so many sick kids. The girl next to me . . . She was just a head in a chair. I sat around until the lights went mostly out. Then the fat lady licked her microphone and said dramatically: âWe are not disabled. We are multitalented .â And everyone cheered, who was able.
When the lights came back on, I looked around. The head in the chair was staring at me. This other girl was struggling with her nebulizer.
I
She passed my bed again, the woman. She moved toward the door. The door was still open, yet . . . There was a pile of men, before it. They had lain down, one on another, to stop her. To block her way. They lay completely still. They did not even seem to be breathe.
She moved closer, the woman. She approached the door and the men, not slowing. She moved through them. Then closed the door.
I lay back in the ocean.
I could hear the ocean.
Every Day
E very day is a somewhat new day.
Macey
O ur one neighbour Macey is super-Christian. She squeezes through keyholes. I donât think Mom even likes her, but you canât tell someone who wears a shawl to go away.
When Macey mentions Jesus, she canât stop. Like the kid in Grade 10 who says âfuckâ uncontrollably. If Mom tries to distract her by talking about dish detergent or her new moustache trimmer, Macey will say something like âJesus had a moustache,â with a dreaming look in her eyes like sheâs remembering her dead husband.
When Mom leaves the room to get coffee or use the bathroom, Iâm terrified. Macey usually ignores me but when weâre alone she talks to me in a strange quiet voice, like sheâs trying to hypnotize someone whoâs sleeping. She always says more or less the same thing: that Jesus loves us all or that no matter how badly off we think we are thereâs always millions of people who are worse off and if we could all just rejoice in that and love Jesus weâd be so happy.
I thought about this and tried doing it but picturing millions of suffering kids didnât boost my mood a bit. Neither did a dying guy pinned to a stick.
Only one thing did make me happier: imagining Macey on an adjacent cross with blood gushing out of her hands and feet.
Iâm not worried about going to hell. Iâve lived there a long time already.
Music
I used to feel emotion all the time. I wasnât quite happy, but I didnât realize how unhappy I was. Once you understand that, you just canât go back. You can try, but you canât go back.
When I hear music . . . I can listen to music for hours sometimes and nothing happens. But then Iâll wake up in the night, I sleep with my radio on, and Iâll hear a song that wakes me up again .
Itâs amazing. Like remembering my name. Everything is so clear and so real again. Itâs like I can breathe again. Itâs just the best feeling. I wonder, Do other people feel like that all the time?
When I wake up, itâs gone.
Red Hands
T he old man has red hands. The outsides of his hands are red from the sun but his palms are even redder and cooked-looking. At first I wondered why but then I realized heâs stopping a lot to pull out the weeds that keep choking up my wheels and itâs wrecking his hands. Thereâs streaks of green on them and brown dots that are probably blood. Thereâs a guy named Gerry who my dad says was an ordinary working guy until his brain came out. We saw him at the mall. He paced a lot and occasionally started laughing insanely and rubbing his face. His face and his hands were red and raw. My dad asked him how he was and he just laughed and rubbed his face off. Then his mom took him to the bathroom. Then my mom took me to the bathroom and I threw up.
Abilities Camp
A bilities Camp sounded fun. I was glad to get away. There were a few wheelers sitting outside, so I loosely associated with them until my parents drove away. Then we wheeled into the auditorium.
Iâd never seen so many sick kids. The girl next to me . . . She was just a head in a chair. I sat around until the lights went mostly out. Then the fat lady licked her microphone and said dramatically: âWe are not disabled. We are multitalented .â And everyone cheered, who was able.
When the lights came back on, I looked around. The head in the chair was staring at me. This other girl was struggling with her nebulizer.
I
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