The Room (31 page)

He straightened his arms slowly and as his body and head were lowered to the bed he watched the window sink from sight and the wall came into view and then the joint where wall and ceiling met and as the back of his head went deeper into the pillow there was only the ceiling with its cracks twisting and winding their way to the corners and fading from his sight. He stretched his body and keeping his head still he followed the cracks with his eyes into the corners. He stretched his arms and legs toward the end of the bed and the sticky coldness made the door transparent.

He rolled over on his side and raised his knees. He squirmed around on the bed for many moments trying to find a secure position, but he couldnt hide. And each and every movement demanded the greatest exertion of energy as if he were glued in his present position and had to crack loose then move his body and tug his crotch after him. He knew he should simply get under the covers but thinking of all the necessary moves forced him into trying to find some other way to get comfortable even though he knew that each attempt would prove futile. He tried adjusting his body in various positions, his head, his legs … his knees raised to this level, to that level, his body at various angles and the various parts of his body at different angles to the others, yet long before he settled in any one of the countless positions he knew it would have to be changed to another, and so he continued to squirm and burrow until his despair forced him to try to get under the covers.

He rolled over on his left side, keeping his knees bent, and reached behind him and pulled the covers down as far as he could.
Then he raised and moved various parts of his body, moving the covers down an inch at a time until he was finally able to work them under his soggy ass. Then he reached back with his left foot and shoved with his hand while continuing to move his body, until he got the covers hooked with his foot then yanked and tugged until he could get both feet under then rolled quickly over on his other side and yanked the remainder of the covers from under his body, feeling the sheets resist him, his fingers almost tearing and shredding them, until he was able to whip them over his body.

Then he simply lay quietly for a few moments, his hand still clutching the covers.

Eventually he loosened his grip on them and put his left arm on top of them and adjusted his body, looking for the most comfortable position, but every move was so tiring and impossible that he finally stopped. Moving was more painful than any position he attained. It was like trying to move when your pants were wet and it was cold and snowing, only worse.

He tried adjusting his position to relieve the pain in his groin, but no matter how high he raised his knees he couldnt find any relief. There was a painful weakness in his legs that seemed to force him to think of having to walk and he knew he couldnt, that if he tried he would simply double up and crumple to the floor, and no matter how hard he tried to change the image in his mind he could only think of being forced to walk and ending up in a crumpled ball on the floor. It seemed like the only thing that would get that image out of his mind was to concentrate on the cramping pain in his gut. It felt as if his balls were being squeezed and twisted by a huge hand and the piercing pain shot through his gut and tugged at his asshole. He tried to shove everything out of his mind, but the pain increased and his chest and head swelled with nausea. He could feel the foul bile in his chest and throat, he could feel it swelling his head and burning his eyes. He thought of kneeling in front of the commode a few feet away in the corner of his cell, but he couldnt move. He couldnt get his arm to move, to throw off the covers. Or his legs to slide off the side of the bed. He knew he couldnt make it anyway, that he would simply end up on the floor curled up in a little ball until someone looked
through the window and saw him there and came in to drag him out. He could only swallow and swallow with his teeth pressed against each other, and try to force the sourness down against the pressure in his knotted and twisted gut. He could smell the rotten stink as it continued to bubble up and he fought to swallow again and again. He couldnt stop twisting and turning on the bed. His knees were up to his chin and still he felt as if he were stretched on a rack with some fucking sonofabitch kicking him in the balls. If only he could get his hands around the throats of those fucking bastards who put him here. If he could shove a lit cigar in their fucking eyes or shove an ice pick in their ears. Or if he could just get to the commode and hang his head in it and just let the fucking puke come out. If he could only relieve the pressure. But he knew he couldnt make it. Even if he could get the fucking covers off or slide out from under them in some way, he knew he would never be able to cover the few feet from the bed to the commode without crumpling and then some rotten sonofabitch would see him on the floor and drag him to his feet …

Jesus fucking krist, what the fuck could he do? His body and head throbbed and burned with the constantly swallowed puke. He kept his mouth jammed shut as his body jerked with spasms and fought the vomit down between retches. He fought and swallowed over and over and his body jerked on the bed like a puppet whose strings were being jerked. The contortions increased until he felt as if his balls were being shoved and yanked into his gut and no matter how hard he fought and swallowed the pain and pressure increased and he bobbed around on the bed as his body was bounced about by the contortions until he clamped his hands over his mouth and felt the bitter slime ooze through his clenched teeth and lips and crawl around his face and between his fingers. It was warm and wet and sticky. It stank. A few drops dribbled out of his nose and slid over the knuckles of a hand. He pressed harder and harder with his hands yet still it oozed from his mouth and spread further on his face until soon he felt it bubbling from his breath and felt it spreading over his cheeks and into his eyes until he felt as if he were going to drown and he had to move his hand from his face and he tried to catch the puke in his
cupped hands as it seeped through his lips and dribbled from his nose and he could feel it flowing over his hands and wrists and saw the long thin strings of mucus stretch thin and shiny as a spiders thread as he lowered his hands from his face. He fought so hard against the spasms and pain that soon he was no longer capable of resisting and his lips and teeth parted and the puke jerked from his mouth into his cupped hands until there was nothing left to come out and his body convulsed with the dry heaves. His eyes burned and he felt dizzy as he stared into his hand filled with the warm, sticky bile. He couldnt keep his head still. It rolled around, back and forth, and everything was cloudy, but even if he couldnt see his hands distinctly, he could feel them. And he could feel the window. And the hundreds of people in the corridor. The glass was thick and wired, but transparent. The door was thick and indestructible, but there were keys to the lock and it could be swung back on hinges. And he lay on his side staring at his cupped hands filled with phlegm and vomit oozing from between his fingers, flowing over his hands and dripping onto the bed; and his nose stung and burned from the sour, acid stink and agonizingly tickled as little bubbles of mucus and bile burst and gurgled in his nose and throat. His head jerked viciously as the fucking snot just hung on the edge of his nose and tickled until he wanted to scream his fucking head off and claw that fucking nose off his face but his hands were jammed together with the scummy puke and he clenched his teeth and his lips crawled from each other and his body knotted in a fucking growl and the rage flooded his eyes as his head continued to thrash the air and he shoved his nose into his shoulder and rubbed it back and forth, back and forth then lifted his head and squeezed his eyes shut as his lips twisted further back on themselves and in his head he wailed and screeched and a snarling, trapped-rat aaaaaaaaaarrrrrrrr gurgled in his throat as his body screwed itself tighter and tighter and his head trembled and the screeching in his head pierced his ears, the snarling flooded his throat and his spine was shoved deeper into itself between his shoulders and his knotted stomach rose higher into his chest, pushing his breastbones apart until he could no longer breathe and the screeching and snarling ceased and his flesh and eyes felt as if they were being
scorched and his spine as if it would snap and his head be thrust down into his chest.

Then his body suddenly slumped and his head fell forward, his eyes shutting, and he once more felt the warm, wet slime dribbling over his fingers.

It trickled onto his thighs.

He shook his head slowly from side to side with a low, pleading, no      no      no

His body slid from the bed, his hands cupped tightly, protectively, close to his chest, and fell against the opposite wall then he inched his way to the commode in the corner and opened and lowered his hands and watched it slide into the clear, quiet water. He leaned heavily into the corner and watched the ripples in the water as it continued to drop from his hands, splash, bobble, then jerk up and down before it started slowly sinking or just spreading across the surface.

As he stared he could feel the nausea growling in his stomach, but all he could do was shake his head and dryly cry until his body was folded by a spasm and he fell, sobbing, to his knees in front of the commode and let his head hang in the opening as the spasms pumped pain and tears through his body. He clung to the sides of the bowl, his head shoved against the valve until the spasms subsided, then leaned his arms on the sides and his head on his crossed hands and let the saliva drip from his lips. He stayed on his knees, with his head bowed and eyes closed, for many, many long minutes. His eyes ached, felt hot and wet, but it was so good to have them closed and have his face buried in his hands. His body existed but was only an empty weakness and there only to join and support his head. In his mind he kept shaking his head, no, no, but it remained still, pushed into his crossed hands. God it felt good to have his eyes closed and just to drift with the exhaustion. He could still feel the pressure on his eyes as if two large thumbs were pressing against them, but it felt good having them closed, seeing nothing but a grayness and drifting deeper and deeper into his exhaustion. And the further into it he drifted the more aware he became of his stomach and legs and shoulders and the twisting ache in the back of his neck, and he continued to sink
and drift until his head slid from his hands and banged into the wall.

He jerked his head up and moved his eyelids slightly. He started to lower his head back onto his folded hands, then stopped and shook his head and leaned on the commode and pushed himself up, then straightened his legs until he was standing, supported by the wall. He slowly turned his body around until he was in front of the wash basin, then turned on the water, his head hanging from his neck. Leaning against the wall he let the water flow and flow and flow over his hands, cupping them and letting the water flow between his fingers and over the sides, and as he continued to stare at the water he slowly lowered his body, then bent it and lowered his head further until it was close enough to try and flip some water on his face. He lifted his cupped hands, lowered his head, but the water flowed up his arms before he could get it to his face. He filled his cupped hands again with water and labored his hands up as far as he could without spilling it, then dropped his face into it and staggered and almost fell. He leaned against the wall with one hand and splashed water on his face with the other until he was too tired to lift his hand any more.

He leaned against the wall, his forehead on his arm, his other hand in the water. It was cold. Wet. It streamed into the palm of his hand. He leaned against the wall and stared at the water. At his hand, wet and cold.

He could see through the stream of water. He could see his hand, the white porcelain, the stainless steel drain and the tip of the shiny faucet, and the water flowing from the shiny tip onto his hand, into the basin and down the drain. It all happened at once and kept happening. Over and over and over again.

He shook his head, but again, only in his mind. He just leaned against the wall, his forehead on his arm.

And the water continued flowing and his hand got colder and wetter.

He watched his hand turn off the water and hang over the basin as the last drops of water silently pinged into it. His body shuddered with a sigh as the final drops fell from his hand.

He raised his eyes and looked at the bed a few feet away. He could place his body on it. He could cover himself with the blanket. It was all so fucking simple. Cover the few feet to the bed, lie down, cover himself and rest. Perhaps even sleep. Yeah, just that simple. But what was the use? Why bother? Why not just stand here with his forehead on his arm, propped against the wall. Whats the difference? Why go to all the trouble of going all the way from here to there. For what? Just to lie down under the covers? Why bother? Only have to get up again sooner or later. Why not just stay here against the wall. Just freeze like this. Petrify. Turn into a fucking statue. Why not? Whats the difference? There. Here. Anywhere. Theres no difference. Only the positions different. Lean here. Lie there. So what? So fucking what? Who needs a bed and covers? Who needs anything? Everything is nothing anyway. Whos going to do me anything? Them? Those pricks? Who needs them? Just lean and twist your back. Get the fucking knots out. Get them out and put them back in. Yeah. In an out. In an out. In an out. Fuck it. Who needs it? Its all bullshit anyway. Same old shit over and over. Up an down, in an out. Drink an piss an eat an shit. Who gives a shit?

his hand bumping over the edge of the sink and hanging at his side. He leaned toward the area of the bed and his body went forward. A foot moved and somehow the other moved in front of it and he stretched out his arms and his body continued to move further away from the wall and the first foot got in front of the other and his hands touched the end of the bed and slid forward and his feet dragged themselves behind the bending body and then his arms were on the bed and he pushed himself forward so the top of his body fell on the bed, his face buried in the woolen blanket, his legs hanging and waiting to be pulled up to join the rest of his body.