The Writer’s Corner features poetry, essays, short stories, satire and various fiction and nonfiction from SCAD Atlanta students. To submit your own work for the Writer’s Corner, email features@scadconnector.com.
“Bad Morning” by Cashmere Chillious
I open my eyes and let my dream wash away. The ceiling is blurry, and I can’t bring myself to wipe my eyes. My skin feels like slick rubber, and my bonnet is down above my eyes. I rip it off, and the light it was protecting me from shines into my face. What was that? They say dreams are omens or glimpses into your past, the gateway to your subconscious. I think it’s a way for my brain to process daily life in the form of dramatic cinema.
Even when I’m sleeping, I’m thinking. After my nighttime routine of showering, washing my face, and brushing my teeth, my mind keeps running with thoughts of today and how tomorrow needs to be better. I’m tossing and turning while making a list of groceries in my mind. Bugs Bunny is running around in my mind while Batman chases him, yet I’m in the corner of the scene, hunched over a legal pad, writing every criticism anyone said before 5 p.m. So when I woke up this morning feeling sluggish, I knew why. I think too much.
Stretch. Yawn. Rub eyes. Feel loose.
I turn towards the window next to my bed and watch people running in the morning air. Jevvie saunters in with his calico swag and hops at my legs in hopes of a hug. I might as well make breakfast for myself and feed him. I bring us into the kitchen, put food into his bowl, and begin my omelet bacon surprise. The surprise is if the omelet doesn’t turn scrambled. I pour the eggs into the pan and sprinkle in the bacon.
I fold over the eggs and shake the pan while turning to Jevvie. His big green eyes peer up at me.
“Watch me do the best omelet flip in existence.” I flick my wrist hard and watch the omelet turn in the air.
The omelet flips high enough that the angle is just right, in a way where the sunlight from the bay window — the view I paid extra for — blinds me. I hold the pan where the eggs are supposed to land, but sunspots cloud my vision, and the egg falls left of the pan and onto the floor. Jevvie and I both look at the mess. This avoidable mess.
“Don’t worry. I got it.” I put the pan back on the stove and bend to pick up the sludge.
My hand hits the panhandle, and the weight in my hand brings it down onto my back that my halter top doesn’t cover. Who cooks in a halter top? I do. And I am cursing every god, person, and vegetable in my mind’s vicinity.
My back sizzles, and I hobble over to the bathroom to look at the damage. I slowly straighten myself out, feeling my vertebrae crack and slither down my spine. I can’t see anything. Putting my back to the mirror, I take a deep breath. Carefully, I twist slightly, and my skin’s tightness warns me that I won’t like what I see. Toothpaste is splattered on the lower half of the mirror, and I can still almost see the transition happening. I definitely can feel it.
The cracks and pops get louder as elongated extensions disjoint themselves from my ribcage and squirm to the burn, curving around. A slight shine in the form of a ring, the size of a cereal bowl, sits in the middle of my back. The ciliated tentacle circle writhes as they emit a cool sensation to soothe the pain. The pan missed my spine and only went around the area. It’ll look worse before it gets better. A knot swells in my throat, and hot tears prick my eyes. The ring will get darker and look worse before it looks better. They can only do so much for the excess skin that’ll still be crisp without raw shea butter. Just sitting here staring at it makes it look worse.
I blow out a chuckle, willing the tears away, and try to find the humor in this situation. I pull my shirt down over my cilia and over the sheer tiredness of these first two hours. The shirt on my skin irritates my wound, which only adds fuel to my crying, but there’s an egg on the floor, a burner on, and a cat trying to eat turkey bacon. The cilia continue their job massaging the area, almost to say, “I’m sorry it’s been the shittiest morning ever.” The slight tickle and itch under my skin continue to comfort me as I go into the kitchen and start cleaning the floor. Paper towels, bleach, dishes, and a strawberry Pop-Tart as my replacement breakfast. My eyes burn from the fumes. I forgot to blink. Tears are still coming down, and I feel my back pulsating as a tendril plops out onto my shoulder, covered in blood and mucus. It feels warm.
Blink. Breathe. Center yourself.
I breathe in a long breath of Clorox and dish soap. The tentacle wipes my tear away, smearing mucus to replace it. At least it’s trying. We’re trying.
