A Veritable Eyesore

I am ready to step off the subway when she falls on me. Perhaps I can avoid her, but concern for the bottle of champagne—which I hold out of harm's way, above my head, like a baby—forces me to absorb the blow. I am pinned down like a rider beneath his fallen horse. Get off, I shout, hitting her, dragging my legs out from under her. At the door to the apartment, my knee is wrapped in bandages, my ankle is swollen, my leg a dull club. I'm at once horrified by the dullness in my leg, by the lack of sensitivity, and yet, for some reason, I sense that this is simply the way it is, the way it must be. I lug my way up to Peter's penthouse apartment. It takes great effort, but I arrive, huffing and puffing. It seems I've undergone a miraculous transformation, even though, to me, it feels quite minor. Everyone ignores me, is repulsed by me, tries to look away. Nobody wants anything to do with me. Champagne, anyone? I ask. But there's no response. I'm a veritable eyesore. I enter into circles of conversation and everyone disbands. I try to talk; I conjure an unmatched eloquence; I quote Shakespeare plays I've never read; I discuss mathematical theorems unknown to me (Math has always been my worst subject); I display an outrageous intelligence, shocking even to myself; and yet, despite my efforts, it's as if every time I open my mouth, a terrible smell comes out. Something rotten, unbearable. It's not their fault: it's mine. Eventually, I accept that this is the case, and I go out on the streets. Old acquaintances walk by: my Kindergarten teacher, my Great aunt, my first ever crush. They all pass by, whispering. None of them stop. What is it? I wonder. What must I do to enter back into their good graces? I'm at a loss when suddenly, I get this wonderful idea: I must dance, I say. I must dance to prove to them that this leg of mine is of no hindrance to me. But when I look down all I see is a hardened, gnarled trunk. My legs have begun to take root, shooting into the ground, cracking the pavement. I try to move. I try to twist, jump, stomp—anything at all. But trees have no such abilities. Friends from the party walk by, and now I'm really thrashing, attempting to shout. But I do not move, I do not make a peep. They walk by without noticing my presence. They disappear. Resigned, I try to make peace with my new immobility, as if—if I can just accept this fate of mine—it will suddenly be reversed. I put faith in the virtue of good behavior. Good behavior is always rewarded. But as I'm thinking this, a warm liquid runs down my side. I turn, but can only see out of the corner of my eye: a barking dog that is at once barking (I can see his face, almost as if it were another dog, right in front of me), and yet peeing on my side at the same time. But none of this is as bad as the scampering, the constant scampering passing over my feet (these sensitive roots of mine). This sends an unbearable shiver down my spine. I feel their warm little feet, their bristling bellies. I hear their squeaking, so loud that I know (although I'm too afraid to look), that they must be feeding on something. I am exposed, utterly exposed. I fear they will eat out this heart of mine and I am crawling in my skin.