.

THE DAY AFTER

12. The bottom.

[AMY, Sean Catlett]

There's nothing to eat here, I already know, but I crawl across Rouge's floor to the mini-fridge in the corner. I grasp the rusted handle to the shit-brown door and I open. A slight sucking sound, which doesn't sound like freshness, but more like someone farted. Lukewarm air pours out and hits me in on my legs. The stubble doesn't rise, but recoils. All it does is make the night even more putrid and sultry.

It's been four hours and neither of us have looked in the closet. We tell each other that they would have made their move already, but we're most likely only scared shitless of finding out that we're wrong.

And, guess what, surprise, surprise, there is a carton of eggs in the back of the fridge. It's long past the overdue date, but a lesson I learned a long time ago was that you can only take what you can get.

Sonic . . . . .

I haven't gone out for supplies, for comforts of living, for a-lot-of-shit-that-we-don't-need mixed with some-shit-that-we-do, because of an unspoken law that has been drifting around the apartment.

They are after us, and if we separate, they win. Divide, they conquer. With Rouge being bed-ridden and 99% insane, I do not think some fresh air will make any bit of difference.

Not even the scent of vegetarian meat cooking on a slab of rendered liposuction fat could clear the clouds of this dark day.

Flowers don't bloom in overcast.

I pick up the carton of recycled everything from the grating in the very back and weight it in my hand. It feels light. Empty.

Me and Rouge, we must look like a couple of Union Street hookers. You know the kind. Tousled hair from a previous, non-metaphorical job. Legs out of coordination because of soreness. Clothes bargain-basement and dirty and stained and loose and two sizes too small. Makeup running down. Arms bent. Lips chapped. Eyes dead. If we were to go out, we wouldn't last long, that's for sure, and then the FBI would have to protect us instead.

Sonic . . . . .

The carton doesn't snap open, but reluctantly peels open. For some reason I do it extra careful, but I still end up ripping it. Something sticky covers the lining of the inside. Membrane sticks the tops and bottoms of the carton together.

One egg.

It suddenly hits me that this is probably the last thing that either of us will ever eat again. Chances are that either they will come for us, or we will starve to death. I don't think anyone on the outside would want to help us.

I look over at Rouge. Her eyes are open and she's staring at me. She's mouthing the words: "You can have it" over and over again, as if it were a catchy song. She stops and goes back to sleep.

"Did you know:  That all eggs are processed with chemicals? That's right! The yolk you are eating is really a mix of food coloring and "organic substances" of the future!"

I saw an infomercial that told the history of eggs, and how they used to actually pay people who were able to come in and lay them.

Every hard shell was a wasted life. An empty vessel never destined to be fulfilled with the other part of it. Without the seeds, there is no life. And it's sent off to be part of the collective.

"Real" eggs were outlawed shortly after, when the ARS came in and terror-bombed the companies with propaganda and extreme picketing. Through the money paid by advertising, research was funded for an egg substitute.

I was about five years old when all of this happened. Before then, I remember eating "real" eggs, and I can't help but think if what's happening to me now is just the "chickens coming home to roost", if the expression is forgiven.

One egg.

That is all that is needed.

Sonic . . . . .

I can't stop staring at the egg in my hands. It's discolored slightly from age, but the pure whiteness of it remains intact. It looks so real . . . . . . . . as good as the real thing.

If I cook it now, this will be the first time I have tried the substitute. The next-best-thing. The take-what-you-can-only-have. How did I not notice these the entire time Rouge had them here?

And out of all the things that are worth risking, it is worth the risk stand in front of the window. It is worth the risk to walk past the closet to the door. It is worth the risk to travel along the darkness in the apartment to the kitchen to cook the last egg I will ever eat again. All of this is worth the risk of getting shot in the head by a sniper's bullet. Or whatever.

The eggs also feels empty in my hand, but that is not really all that strange. In a sense, they are really empty, and that is probably how they will taste. Nothing, I guess, compares to the taste of a failed life in your mouth. But I wouldn't know.

Sonic . . . . .

The kitchen is really only two cupboards and a Formica table, but I call it a kitchen because of the hotplate that sits in the center. The heat gauge on the side goes up to 10, which translates to roughly 450 degrees of heat. Depends on what method of measurement one is using, but I have the intention of turning it all that way up. 10 is easier to say anyway.

A roach goes splat under my feet. White, gummy juice squirts out of it across the floor and my bare feet, but it keeps wriggling, still alive.

"Did you know:  Roaches can live anywhere from nine to ten days with their heads cut off? It's only after the lack of nutrients do they finally die."

I'd hate to live that long without a brain. I'd hate to live period. But at least there's darkness to look forward to.

We cannot afford pans here. There is only one set of dishes, and I'm pretty sure that they're all soaking in the sink. From two weeks ago. Not imagining what's alive in there now.

I admire the egg in my hand. Even the lack of light has no match for the brilliance of the shell, the perfect roundness of it. So what if it's not circular? It's still a baby to me . . . . .

Sonic . . . . .

I don't have the heart to break this one.

One seed is all that's needed. One seed could have saved them all. One seed could have prevented substitution.

I place the egg on the cold hotplate, not reaching for the knob on the side. The dial stays at absolute zero.

The roach under my feet keeps struggling. Living. Fighting for something it doesn't know it's a part of. Lucky little shit.

SonicsonicsonicsonicsonicshitshitshitshitshitI'MPREGNANT! There, I fucking said it. There are too many infomercials on the TV at the other apartment for my own good. It's also too bad that there are too many thin slivers of metal in the world. Stereotypically, clothes hangers.

But.

You take what you can get.

Last week, I chose a dip-stick for engine fluid that I found on the sidewalk outside of a vehicle repair shop. It was stained and slathered with dried oil. The symbolism almost killed me.

Later that night.

I took down the bathroom mirror hanging above the toilet and set it up against the door. I locked myself in, just in case Rouge woke up. It was two in the morning. The florescent light bulb was flickering its last amounts of light. I sat on the toilet, stripped down and spread open. The flashes are adequate enough to get well illuminated glances at my insides.

This is what the boys want from me.

This is how I look to the ones licking me.

This is how I look to doctors.

This how I look to myself in the bathroom fucking mirror.

This is how I look to . . . . .

Sonic . . . . .

The oiled dipstick in my left hand, my right opened into a palm, spread fingers, I take a deep breath.

I turn the dial to the maximum setting.

The light flickers on.

The heat starts to slowly rise.

I put more weight on my foot.

The oiled stick is raised.

The roach squirms some more.

The light turns off.

The truth is, what I really want is just some acceptance. What I really want is to be loved. I don't want a fucking hand out. I don't want a pity-rape. I don't want someone's excess baggage.

What I want . . . . .

Sonic . . . . .

What I want doesn't matter.

My palm closes.

The metal drops to the floor.

I give up.

My foot lifts.

The egg smashes because I get tired of waiting.

.

To be continued.  Reviews are appreciated.  Oh, and visit our site: http://tdaproject.tripod.com.

.