I sometimes wonder about the blood on Mars and the indigo stilettos on the streets of New York. The ‘tack, tack, tack’ sound against the sidewalk beneath the bourbon leaves of an autumn day as I look out my open window encased in old world brown brick with crumbling mortar.

I’ve been trying to rid my hands and my head of all the electric things. There’s a blue vase on a small table in my room and I stuck some wildflowers in it to make my life seem more natural. The sounds of the city do not play fair in my dwelling place, yet I can still hear the birds chirp in the diesel air and those indigo stilettos pound the pavement.

I pretend my squeaky bed is a coffin. I lie upon it and cross my hands across my chest. I close my eyes and I can hear the clumps of moist earth strike the lid of my ornate box. I breathe and wait until I can no longer hear a sound. I’m feeling terribly claustrophobic. The depth of my own dreamland demise is beginning to suffocate me. I can feel my living heart begin to beat faster in my chest. It’ so dark. I feel blind. Even the colorful imaginary orbs of the universe have disappeared from my radar. I don’t like this death. I don’t think I can take much more of it.

I sat up in the bed and gasped like Basim in chaotic Baghdad. I have flashbacks of the bad parts of my life, and it stuns me into a death ache. If I could only step onto the bridge of a time machine ship and go back to the birthing room at the red brick and crucifix hospital where I first saw artificial light and the animals in their blue gowns. Would I then be able to correct every misstep I took in the first life? Would I then be able to snuff out every foul word for the essence of harm? Would I be able to drown every bad deed by simply walking out into the new sea?

I get out of the bed and go to the refrigerator for a cold beer. They’re not allowed to sell it cold at the stores anymore. The heinous, misguided politicians still exist. I expect one to come into my apartment any day now and unplug my refrigerator. Shithead in a suit. The madness blooms like a pool of black orchids in the garden of evil and more evil.

I go to the window with my beer and look out. I like feeling that I live up in the trees. I hear someone yelling. I can hear a car horn blare. I hear music and smell incense burning. A magic carpet comes floating by…mystical jinn with purple skin. Their banner reads: Rock the Vote!

I feel bouts of anguish and joy like a roller coaster. I drain the beer. I put the bottle in the proper recycling bin. I look around at the room I live in. I’m alone. Maybe I have always been alone. Maybe all of us have always been alone.

I pull a bowl of Easter eggs out of the refrigerator and take them to the table with the vase of wildflowers. There’s a second window. This one has thin yellow curtains. I push them apart as I sit down. I tap one of the Easter eggs on the table to crack the shell. I peel it clean. I salt it, take a bite. It reminds me of eons ago when I wasn’t so tired all the time and people were alive. One more shake of the salt and one more bite. The day is slowly fading. Blue skies turn pearl white and orange. The traffic hums. I go to the couch and turn on the television set. I sit alone as the world spins and the wolverines howl. That place out there is beyond me.

By

Aaron Echoes August