Daymares 4

In the darknesss I feel almost whole.  It is as if the black void gives weight to my life-depleted carcass, filling it with functional mass.  Without the light to confirm that I am strapped to this bed, my head hung on the rack that suspends it (cushioned though the rack may be), I am free to imagine a body less tortured. I find myself willing my hands to move, the arms to curve inward, to lift higher and am completely nonplussed when I realize that I am touching my belly.  Or at least I am imagining that I am doing so.  I cannot confirm this as the room is far too dark and I have gone far too long in my current state to be assured that I would know what this actually feels like.  I probe a bit with my fingers which seem to have gained tensile strength. 

It appears that my stomach muscles have gone weak.  They are rubbery and soft under the pressure of my touch.  My bellybutton is pushed in, farther than I remember.  Have I lost weight?  Of course I have, one would hardly gain weight in these circumstances despite the sugared drip that keeps me alive.  I smack my lips, I am thirsty.  This surprises me.  I can't remember the last time I thought about something as simple as the desire for feel of liquid running down my throat, bathing my mouth like silk.  I am almost frantic with the desire to drink something.  Almost, but not quite, as I still have not determined if this is just a game I am playing with my own mind.  I let my hand wander, trailing along the folds of fabric and the occasional breach where skin is revealed.  Up and over the ridges, down to the smooth plains, it is rather hypnotic.  The new-ness and yet the same-ness all at once, I wonder if a cat feels a bit like this chasing a favored toy.  My fingers rip over something not skin and not fabric and I stop.  My heart races and I feel my temperature drop.  It is a fragment not caught up by the wind from the blades overhead.  A fragment caught in the folds of my fabric. One held here for me to find, if only I imagined I had the strength.

I run it along the folds with a fingertip. It moves more easily than the one I lifted this afternoon.  It slides up the curl of the bedding and drops into my palm with what seems like little effort.  I am shocked into awe.  I hold another scrap of myself in the palm of my hand.  Of course, I cannot view it.  It is far too dark.  And for some reason, the casual movement afforded thus far in my black enclave seems to have dissapated.  Every effort to put my arm back where it belongs, listing to the side of me is resisted.  It rests on top of me, where it does not belong.  I grow uncomfortable with the new position.  It feels twisted and contrived.  My shoulder aches from holding my arm at this angle.  I concentrate on wriggling the offending limb up and over the thrust of my hip bone.  Every inch takes all of my strength and focus, especially as I am trying to maintain my hold on the fragment, which at this point feels like an anchor draggin my hand backward.

Eventually the arm rolls off of the hip to land hap-hazardly on the bed.  My fingers curved inward making the best protective device that I can.  I would like to peer at my palm to ensure that the scrap has survived its tossing onto the bed but the darknesss is too great.  Its once welcome warm embrace now a hindrance to my purpose. 

I wait, head suspended, my bag below offering  its bellows-like prayer for morning to come and an oportunity to view the precious offering to avail itself to me.