Wake up. Wake up. Wake up.
I blink my eyes awake, still faintly delirious from the drowsiness of sleep. For a moment, my room feels foreign. Panic shocks me out of bed, but it slowly becomes familiar again. The queen-size daybed fitted with cream linen sheets, the pale blue Turkish rug, the ivory thrifted armchair I had reupholstered myself, my grandmother’s cherry oak dresser—it was all just as I had remembered.
Light streamed through the chiffon curtains, reminding me of the time: it was the morning, and I had to get to school. I shuffled my way into the kitchen, wandering aimlessly until I realized I needed coffee. My Keurig was on its last leg; each pod of coffee it brewed tasted less of coffee than the previous, but I could not justify purchasing a new one. She had whipped me on her back and carried me through my first three years of college, and I would not just abandon her for a newer, ‘better’ model.
I stared at my technicolor carousel of coffee pods. Nespresso is too rich…the Donut Shop too bland. Starbucks…what does Starbucks taste like? Starbucks. I like Starbucks, I think. But what does Starbucks taste like? I like it because it tastes like ⍰ . I like ⍰ . Is Starbucks even a word?
The memories won’t stay together. I feel the task flash in and out of my head and vanish completely, and I feel as if I’ve lost something important. Why am I standing in this room? What am I doing? I need to go home. I need to get to school. It’s morning. I’m going to be late.
I snatch my keys from its chain and bolt to the door. Before I leave, my eyes dart back to the kitchen and fall on the coffee carousel.
Wait—I was supposed to make myself coffee. God, what an oaf. I haven’t even brushed my teeth.
I stroll back to the machine and pop open its hatch, only to find a fresh pod of Starbucks coffee in its housing. Odd. Perhaps I left it there yesterday morning. No time to think—I need to leave. I left the coffee to brew and cool while I raced to my bathroom, desperate to leave.
I open the door and turn on the light, and the soft shrill of the fluorescent lights ring in my ears. I walk to the mirror, but my body feels as though it’s been tossed into a vat of molasses. Everything is wrong. There’s towels on the floor, toothpaste smeared on the wall, bottles scattered everywhere. But I need to leave.
I look at the sink, fumbling around for a toothbrush that isn’t frayed and stained, and slowly draw my gaze to the mirror.
My face is melting into loose pockets of skin, my eyes sinking and yellowing and withering instantaneously. Wrinkles cut across my face, slicing deep into my temples. My skin thins into a translucent film desperately clinging to my body, carving out each vein, each pore, each scar. Clumps of hair fall from my scalp and dissolve into the floor, and only a gray mass remains. Teeth begin to loosen and fall, and my gums recede in on itself, leaving nothing but rot in its wake. Every bone weighs heavy in my body, each movement aching and straining stiff, shriveled muscles. My heart sputters wildly in my chest, each beat more taxing than before, and the blood rushes from my body.
This was you all along. You had simply forgotten.
I can feel my throat collapse in on itself. Breathe. Breathe. Breathe. But my body won’t listen. I double over and feel the acid run up my chest, clawing and digging in deep to try and remind myself how it works. I can feel my neck bend and contort as my mind flails desperately for oxygen, but the edge of my vision is blurring red. My mind and body are ablaze, each finger and limb frozen, consumed with a carnal desire for oxygen. Darkness creeps in out of my peripheral. I cannot move. It will not stop. I cannot breathe. How do you breathe?
The pressure in my chest is slowly leaving, and I am being dragged along with it. I cannot fight it, but I do not want to.
I can’t remember why.
