he thought there were other people in the room. he heard voices. he heard chuckling. he was sure of it. he checked the window but it was closed. it was bright outside. even the blinds could not keep the bright white at bay. he turned.
across the hotel room above the dresser there was a mirror. blinking, he thought he saw people in the mirror. closed his eyes for eight seconds, he counted to be sure. lifted tired lids and there were indeed three people in the mirror. three people in different moments in time. wait, how could he know? how could he tell they were in different moments? he stepped closer, then closer to the mirror until the bed got in the way.
the cushy firmness of the mattress pushed back at him. he felt light headed, woozy but fought to stand. it was him in the mirror, but three times. he moved and tilted his head. it felt like looking through the eyes of an insect yet there were only three eyes. one stacked upon the other. the faces looking back at him remained stacked even if he tilted his head at an angle. it made the lunch and bad coffee in his stomach want to leave his body. still, find stillness he thought. closes eyes again, momentary darkness, the light seeping though his lids aren't the normal pink but green.
how strange.
opens again, focuses on the middle him. the one that seems as sickly in the reflection as he feels. the face is full of hesitation, just like he feels. that must be the real him. confusion, yes, that is there too. lost, sure, that is the real him. without moving his head, he turns his focus up. the upper him is staring down at him. lips look a little pursed. maybe the upper him is not so happy for some reason. he looks as if he is about to get chastised or something. not good. the real him that he thinks he is really wants to bolt, to run out of there, to make the flight or fight reflex kick in.
but he can't yet, not without seeing the lower him. that other face. the lower him is more focused. head tilted. lower him seems like he is looking up a little, just a little perhaps. but he wouldn't call it happy either, impatient. that is what it is. maybe he is impatient enough to get over this, this staring, observation, whatever this is. yes, that is what it is. maybe if he just stands still, lower him will get bored and then just go away.
he stands. still. deep breath. attempts a smile but nothing happens. middle him just looks confused still. moments pass, long moments measured by the death of spiders in the recesses of his mind. time is no longer.
there are only him's.
then a bell, then a bright light and a touch but a strange touch. he shivers and then jolts. he feels himself folding over at the waist as if he was going to get sick. the muscles of his abdomen pull and snaps him forward like trap clasping his body. the bell is closer, louder and the touch shakes him, vibrates in his chest. eyes pop open, darkness then a gap then a shaft of light from an open door.
a female voice, "sweetheart are you gonna answer that phone?"
– sd, 2007
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