"Oh it's just you," I put a hand on my chest, relived that it was only the caretaker, Wylan, "I thought you were my..., " it hurts for me to say it, "my dad. He used to do that..."
"It's alright," he waved it off.
I imagined it, my father, his puppet arms dangling under strings, then look at my own. They've gotten chubbier, but still stick out like stick, like a girl who loves junky food but hates pizza. I giggle to myself; Wylan probably thinks it's just a laughing spurt from another crazy he has to clean up after.
"What's so funny?" The boy asks, sincere, "It's not everyday that someone smiles in this mental asylum dump truck."
That sentence cuts my laughter to halt, sending a sudden jolt of electric current through my nerves. I'm shaking, quivering as Wylan gazes at me with wide, long lashed eyes. Dump truck. I grope at the word, playing with it in my hands, letting it stain the undersides of my fingernails. I hear echoes of the troubled housekeeper's voice, but then it's gone. Dump truck...
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I throw a large black trash bag over my shoulder looking out at the blue sea. White sand shifts under my toes into tiny visible scars. Carefully, I put the trash bag onto a pile of it's brothers, kissing it with love. Scents of decay and salt compliment the wind, only getting stronger and stronger. Fwooo... a particularly big gust of wind blows the trash bag away. It tumbles up shore when it catches onto a stick and rips open.
Peter sits nakedly on the stick, his trash bag leaving him behind. Concerned for his well being, I run up to my brother, looking into his blank eyes and shyly draping my jacket over his shoulders, making sure to clean up the dark red indelicacies on chest. I stroke his shiny black hair and he forgets to scold me. Noticing this, I figure he is cold so I string my arms around him, protecting him from the harsh wind. At some point I start singing songs to him like twinkle twinkle little star, but he forgets again. My brothers draped in trash bags forgot everything and this one, even with his bag floating in wind doesn't say a whisper. I wonder why.
Will I forget too? I ponder the question, staring at the stars when I hear gruff footsteps. Stomp, stomp, stomp. "The dump truck!" the boys told stories of him, "He snorts smoke like a dragon possessed him!" Sure enough, I see my reflection in the figure's wine bottle, and I wonder if that is what is "possessing" him. His smell of liquor ruins the haze of salt from the sea.
"It will get me soon," I smile at Peter.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
"Piper?" Wylan yells in my face, spritzing spit on my cheeks, "Are you okay?"
"Yes, I'm fine," I say instinctively, finding myself on my bed again, my hair unforgivingly messy. My hazel eyes center on his as if asking the obvious question all crazies ask once if not twice every single day: What happened?
"You started hugging me and sang nursery rhymes..." Wylan blushes as he says the last part, pointing to his neck, imprinted with pink lipstick, "You kissed me."
I wipe the cosmetic off with my sleeve, and exhale like a gust of wind, "You just remind me of my brother, Peter, is all. Don't fret about it. The only thing you should be worried about are these random outbursts of mine. I'm crazy, Wylan. This is why I'm here in this..." I swallow hard, "dump truck."
"I'm aware," he brushes himself off before leaving, "Goodbye. Dan will be in here shortly."
"Wait!" I grab his shirt as a last minute resort, "Don't tell Dan. Please. He thinks I'm on my way to recovery. I want to be with—-"
"Okay, okay," he groaned, eyebrows furrowed, "I won't tell."
"Thank you."
I fold my hands together, staring at dizzying blue sky outside the window. It's been so long since I've been out there that the clouds seem like just an illusion rather than real thing.
"Hey!" A girl in a torn orange hoodie grins through the window, disrupting the view, "Can I have some vanilla yogurt? Or maybe some bread?"
"Nope," I push the delusion off the building.
