NINE TIME MACHINES: Do you want to undo your entire life on planet earth?

CHAPTER 49

Wednesday morning is no better than yesterday. Not only does the post office not want me, but I have to sit and read a rejection letter from the library, of all places. This time Hazel knows not to say what she's dying to say; that at least I'm getting responses instead of her 'unsuitable applications will not be acknowledged' status. I try to wonder what that feels like. Probably like kites that go off on their own, never to be seen again. Or maybe the prayers many send out on the winds' wings but they sail to others' shores instead. Perhaps I do know how Hazel feels. My candle flames die out. Its smoke invades my lungs. The wax strikes its final pose. Yet the seeds of success spring up in the elite's beds. Oh, my! Have I really been working to build my enemies all along?

I rise up undeterred and leave the oval room in silence; this time with no box of food in tow. For some reason, Hazel's angels don't pass by every day. Thank goodness for my dwindling supplies, then. I continue on at a slow pace but don't feel the walk upstairs this time. Nor do I hear the girls gossiping in the corridors when I pass. Everything is numbing around me. All I know is that my feet are moving me away from the disappointment of two people, not places; the two people who rejected me this week alone. I yank the cupboard open on autopilot and rummage through it. All that's left is a large pack of crackers and some sugar in a bottle.

A last ditch effort reveals nothing more. Didn't I have emergency milk stashed away somewhere? Oh, that's right. It was two emergencies ago. I push the chair to the centre of the room and stand on it, attachment in hand. Then I make the exchange and stare at the hanging extension for a moment. What makes a person want to swing into oblivion? Should I kick the chair and find out? I mindlessly wrap the cord around my neck. But one of my many selves sticks an arm out and removes it. No, not yet. Inhale. Exhale. There's still a lot more at the bottom of my barrel. I climb down carefully, plug my coil in and stick it into the empty cup. Dammit! There's no water left in the plastic bottle. Should I? Why not? Who really draws the line between clean and dirty, that we should discriminate about what we put into our mouths? I yank the door open and head for the bathroom area. But as I'm about to open the tap something jumps out at me from a bowl of water. I struggle to shake it off. Its black, slimy body falls into the face basin to offer me a bird's eye view. What the hell! It's a fish.