Madhowx

    Weekends.  I miss weekends.  I miss the late nights and coming home to lay on this floor and no one would say a word.  I miss knowing all too well what I was going to do tonight.  And that it wasn't ever what I wanted.  How many times can I pretend that I didn't see you call so I wouldn't have to tell you what I was doing.  Now, we're just lying here hours and hours before I would normally sleep and you feel like a stranger to me.  A damned stranger. 
The walls to this room have a certain latex porcelain after-dinner look to them.  I don't have the eyes anymore to tell you what they are actually made of but if the wallpaper didn't cover it up with red flowers then I guess anyone could.  I feel like I could eat off of the ceiling and not get sick.    Carefully sliding your arm off of me, I take the 6 inch step off of our bed onto the floor which at this point, might as well be an ashtray.  My throat hurts, my head hurts and my bowels hurt.  I take the stairs like I usually do and wind up in the hall next to kitchen.  And there's another stranger in this house.  Walking past my two foot kitchen I step down the half step onto what I think is a couch.  This is no couch, but a coffee table.  The couch? Where the TV is.  The TV? Against the backdoor and the dog is still asleep on the couch.  This isn't right.  What I think is a dog growling makes me turn around and behind me is a tall, slender man.  He's probably seven feet tall.  His frame is paper thin against the hall lights and with no color to his face but a slight tint of blue that peeks out of his all black ensemble.  And those fingers are a nightmare.  Three inches too long for any man to have.  They sit out in front of him and just hang there.  Limp.  You would never believe me.  His chin is long and thin and never moves for him to speak, only grows longer with the rest of his face as if he's about to let out a scream.  I stare into his eyes and he looks just past me to the wall behind me.  His chin is to his chest now and with my focus wavered he loses his appetite and whispers something to me. 

"The dead can't grow"

I fall back onto a couch, where the coffee table should be now, but was then, now it’s by the TV which is by where the coffee table was and couch should be.  I can't lose track of my furniture, it’s all I've got left at this point.  He gives my face a wave and takes his long fingers and sets them on the arm of the couch.  Sitting on the table by the TV where the couch should still be but is now where the coffee table was and TV should be. 

I try to talk but his long finger covers my lips. 

"The dead can't hear either" he says.  And without moving his feet, his legs barely visible under his long coat, he walks over the side of the couch where the wall is now and the pictures should be, I've since lost track of the coffee table and the walls are moving like I'm in a train car looking out at the scenery.  I have nothing to say.  And as I'm waking up in the morning with the couch back where I put it upon moving here, I realize that the dead can’t decorate either