Caroline Rose [discontinued]

1

My head hurts. My whole body hurts. It's noisy. It's much too, too noisy. The little girl upstairs is screaming, yelling, talking at the top of her lungs. Stomp. Stomp. Stomp from her little feet. How can a two year old make so much noise? Why won't they make her stop?

In the hallway, a door slams shut, a man and a woman chat as they walk to the laundry room. Their voices sound like nails on a chalkboard. It sends goosepimples across my skin.

Clink. Clang. Rumble. Rumble. Rumble of the washing machines. Sleep. Please give me sleep. A few more hours. Just a few more hours.
Sleep for me is not on God's agenda.

I open an eye, and then the other. Light pours in from the window. Jenkins, the white Persian cat is curled on top of my dresser. He's looking at me with a sleepy expression that only felines can master.

I roll onto my back. The ceiling is stained with dirt and nicotine. A result from the last tenants. There is a cob web hanging off of the light bulb. It's grey and ugly.

Stomp. Stomp. Stomp again from upstairs. Rumble, Rumble from the machines next door.

Pound. Pound. Pound between my temples.

I look to my right, the skyline of New York hangs in a picture frame on the wall. New York and me are the same. We both can never sleep.

Fried eggs, burnt butter, and sausages waft underneath the door and dances infront of my nose; teasing me like a seductress. She tempts me to saviour her beauty.

I sit up, slowly and carefully. My joints creak and crack. Rusty like an abandoned swing set.

The cold hardwood beneath my feet sends a chill across my body. Cling. Bang. Sizzle. Sizzle of a frying pan in the kitchen.

Jenkins appears between my legs. He weaves through them as I walk out the door. He purrs and meows. I focus on not stepping on his tail, and trip over his paws instead.

An old man hovers over the stove. He flips an egg with an old plastic spatula, and looks up at me. He smiles a friendly and familiar smile.

"Hungry?"

The scent swirls in my mouth, making it water. I am in fact very hungry.

"I made coffee." He points to the cheap coffee maker on the marble counter beside him.

"Thanks Dad."

I grab my favorite and only cup. It's hand made out of clay. Painted in my favorite shade of blue. The coffee pot is heavy in my hand. My wrists threaten to give way under the strain. I quickly pour the hot, dark liquid into the mug, and take a well deserved sip.

No cream. No sugar. Black.
It's the only way I drink coffee.

A plate is grabbed from the sink. Rough, large hands swipes a wet cloth across the porcelain. Light brown, aging eyes look at me as I'm given the empty plate.

I take it from him, and stare at the bubbling egg in the pan. Hard yolk. Very well done. He's learned after all these years how I like my eggs done.

"Are you going to eat?"

"After my cigarette." The "C" comes out as "th" due to the lack of front teeth. I study the porcelain. It has a discolored spot. Dirty. Blind as a bat. He can never wash dishes properly.

I bite my lip, and shovel the egg onto my plate, my stomach now twisting and turning with sour vices.

He poisened the food.
That's why he won't eat.
He poisened it!
Don't eat it!
Don't eat it!
Don't eat it!

I sit at the table and bring a fork full to my mouth just to spite my inner demons. They scream and squeal inside of me. So I take another and another bite. Chewing slowly and swallowing fast.

The man, my dad, drinks his coffee and watches me eat. His eyes smile as so does his lips. The demons scream again and again. I chew and chew and swallow and swallow.

Dad doesn't know. I don't tell him.
I tell no one of the demons in my brain.