When I opened my eyes, the goblin face had disappeared.
Lying on my dark green velvet bedspread, facing the ceiling, my eyelids flutter open and in an instant I am transported from whatever world I just visited back to real life.
My name is Maisie, and I’m going to die today.
As I lie here contemplating death and all that it means – what will it feel like? Where will I go? Should I write a note? Will my friends be ok? Will I still get hungry as a ghost? – I study the textured firework pattern in the ceiling. Silent celebrations, I used to call them, imagining that my bedroom was just so excited about bedtime that the ceiling was having a party. The fireworks are made with something called a slap brush. I remember watching one of these firework ceilings being made, when I visited a home under construction with my dad. Years ago, my dad built houses for a living, but he’s dead now.
Anyway… before I drifted off this afternoon, I found a goblin in the drywall. Kinda like how you see shapes in clouds? Each white firework-burst is the same, but also different. Like fingerprints. The slap brush touched my ceiling maybe 500 times and left 500 unique prints, and this one looked like a mean goblin. His face was menacing, rude. The way people look at you when they don’t know you but they already know they don’t like you. He would probably be happy when I died.
I can’t find him now – the goblin. He was there, a part of the ceiling, and I woke up and he was gone. All I see now are fireworks, and one puffy white dog with a nose shaped like a capital “G”. Maybe I made the whole thing up as I was losing consciousness. Or maybe the goblin was real, and when I fell asleep he went back to his goblin house to make a mold and cobweb sandwich. I shrug to myself. ”Oh well”, I sigh quietly to no one in particular.
My dad is dead, I know I mentioned before, but I still see him. Sometimes he shows up here, in my room, and talks to me. Mostly it’s pep talks or talks about what I’m wearing. Isn’t that just like a dad? He was here too, before I fell asleep, when the world was ending and I was uncharacteristically calm.
(dad convo here)
I must have stared at this ceiling for hours, thinking about my body and why it had decided to betray me. I’ve always been pretty nice to it. Ok not always, there were some months when I ate a LOT of fast food and candy and sat around playing video games where you have to chase cows and chickens and get them into the barn before the farmer gets home. (Resulting, I’m sure, in some percentage of brain deterioration.) But mostly I took care of myself. According to the doctor at my check-up last year, I was as healthy as they come. I ate right, drank water, and exercised. I tried to go to sleep at a reasonable hour, meditate, and avoid stress.
So why did my body decide to kill me? I probably have one of those bodies that LIKES fast food, I think. All that health food made it angry and now it’s growing tumors to get back at me. Stupid hedonistic body. Ugh. I feel so swollen. I am lying still in place with my feet on the comforter, knees up, one hand on my belly and the other at my side. I’m crying. I didn’t realize until just now that I was crying. I look around the room to see if anyone notices, even though no one is here but me. Still… I look around, wondering if the goblin can see me or if he’s moved on to some other ceiling by now.
My belly is full of tumors, full of fluid, just… full… and I feel like a hippopotamus who has just gone on a rampage and eaten an entire village of terrified – and probably very nice – rice farmers. My feet have fallen asleep, but I dare not move them, as lying in any other position would cause me immense pain.
When your body hurts for a long time – weeks and months – the pain is inescapable. It’s there when you wake up, when you shower, when you talk to your teachers about your missing assignments, when you sit in front of the fireplace on a cold Saturday morning twirling Fruit Loops between your index finger and thumb, too full from all the death to eat breakfast.
When your whole life is pain, finding a comfortable position to sit, or stand, or sleep, feels like finding treasure. You’d give anything not to lose it. I reposition my feet ever so slightly, take a deep breath, and close my eyes. If it’s true that sleep is the cousin of death, maybe this counts as practice.
Attitude Soup 