Twelve

Page after page after page of contorted memories, sloshed drunkenly by a hand just like mine, legible to the keen reader, but hardly. Swapping from typed to hand-written makes no difference. Still the same pages are missing, the same words blended into one another, a cocktail of fiction. They shift in front of my weary eyes, impossible to tell if it’s really happening or just a trick of the light.

I take another sip of the drink I like to call calming fluid. It takes the edge off. Then the edge comes back seconds later, harder and sharper than before. I sit on a see-saw, sleep sitting on the other end, never pushing me higher, never letting me touch the ground. My eyes feel like lemons have been squeezed into them, but I don’t want to lose so I open them w...

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