At Least They're Committed

I’ve crawled on hands and knees across the gray, gelatinous floor, being careful not to slosh the fluids beneath my palms, knees and toes for fear of the sound it might make.

The wall, too, is made of a spongy, pitted tissue and slightly gives way as I carefully scoot my back up against it: listening, wondering, praying not to be noticed.

I can hear them in the red chasm next to me. They talk over each other, a cacophony of voices, none hearing nor acknowledging the other.

“Thanks for letting her take photos of you in your bathing suit! I looooved seeing them. I think of them a lot.”

“I won’t beg you any more to be bad,  I’ve given up. I promise.”

“You know what I love about you? Everything!”

“I just have to tell you how beautiful you are.”

The gibberish echoes and rises, throbbing louder and softer like a heartbeat: Undecipherable comments, garbled words and twisted thoughts floating in the air like purple haze.

My eye — the one not completely covered by bangs — peers warily around the corner. I dare not breathe. Despite their inability to see, they sense . . . they always seem to sense.

Unaware that I’m there, I see them: eyeless and formless black masses, practicing their lines again and again and again, mouths like suction cups opening and closing in unison. Slimy, soulless leaches sitting on bar stools, sitting in fancy chairs, sitting in office space …

“See anything Tammy Faye?” it plops to my left, soundless, thankfully. They seem to hear my every move, but nothing of it.

“Shhhhh!” I say anyway. “They’re back!”

It sneers for a moment. “Not sure they ever left.”

We sit back and listen for a moment.

“I’m talking to the most beautiful woman here! You!”

“I’ve missed you! When can we get together again?”

“Gross,” I say.

“Yup, it’s all fun and games ’til you get drooled on five times in one week and end up curled in fetal position with your thumbs tucked under your fingers and your fists clutched to your breast somewhere in your brain wondering what you did to deserve it all the while knowing full well . . . then hiding behind your eyeshadow.”

I lean back and roll my head its direction. Indeed, my fists, thumbs tucked tight, are cupped into my chest, my knees burrowed nearly to my chin. “Right. So, can you help get them out of my brain? I was being nice is all. I’m just nice . . . ”

Now it says, “sure,” with a hint of sympathy. “Just stay calm. I’ll see what I can do.”

And so amid the mutterings, mumblings and the gray, throbbing mud, I wait.