Of Washing Machines and Death Dates
Often, when I’m
asked to describe my life, I compare it to a washing machine. It spins around
continuously, reverses direction and continues spinning until everything’s all
nice and clean.
The hard moments are the times when the sock disappears into the whirling vortex.
But of course, you don’t notice that until later, and it was true for me. Everything was running normally: Fucknut was still rushing me to get to class on time, I could still see dates and my relationship with Leila wasn't going anywhere.
Life wasn’t good, but it was normal.
At least, as normal as it could be for a person of my abilities.
But since normalcy was only attainable in my dreams, I turned to them. Dreams are my impenetrable barriers against Death.
At least, I thought they were impenetrable.
I was proven wrong. Death started entering my dreams, becoming the star in each one at the end. I would wake up feeling uneasy, violated even. Like it had assaulted me in the middle of the night.
But that was stupid. Why would Death rape me?
The dreams always ended badly – I always died. At least, whoever I died as in that particular dream. Because for every dream, I was a different person. Strange, I know. But my entire being is strange, so it would make sense if those dreams were strange as well.
At one point, I was an old woman who died of a stroke; in another, it was a young adult in a car crash. It was always different. And always indescribably familiar.
In each and every single one, I couldn’t see Death. But I always knew it was there, hovering and waiting for that perfect moment. I would never be able to see what form it took, but I was aware that it was watching me make that wrong move.
So you can see why I’m nervous to tuck the covers over my head tonight.
But I needed sleep, and that was that. And soon I was trapped in another dream, another dream of Death.
However, it was different. Something was strange in this dream. And then, I knew what it was.
I was myself.
In some horrifyingly sick dream, I was going to find out how I was going to die. My mind was too panicked to take stock everything; all I noticed was that everything was glaringly white.
I was staring – or my dream body was staring – at a fixed point at the window. I couldn’t see what it was staring at, and I would not find out in this dream of mine.
Because I already died.
I woke up, knowing my heartbeat was erratic, that my breathing was harsh and that it came in short gasps. I knew what to do; I’d been doing this since the dreams started. I went to our tiny bathroom, rinsed my face with cold tap water and looked in the mirror.
What I saw there made me stop breathing altogether.
Written in reverse with the big black font I knew so well, was a date.
18:30:00 – 04.21.11
It was my death date.
And then I couldn’t get enough air. My death date. I could see my death date. There wasn’t enough oxygen in this damned bathroom. I could hear my own breathing – I knew I was taking in air, but it wasn’t enough.
My loud was enough to wake up Fucknut and get him out of bed. The sight of me leaning over the sink gasping for air stopped him from scolding.
“Claus, what the fuck is wrong with you?”
I didn’t reply. I was too busy trying to get enough air into my lungs.
“Claus, shit. Stop gasping – you’re going to fucking hyperventilate.”
Still no answer.
“Fuck this. You’re not fucking listening, you bastard. I’m calling the damned hospital.”
I needed more air, damn it. I didn’t need the hospital. I didn’t need Fucknut raising hell all over the dormitory. I didn’t need to see my own death date.
At one point, I remember my eyesight fading to gray and the feeling of being physically lifted down the stairs. I know because they conked my head against the steps a few times. I was being bodily brought to the hospital at three in the morning all because of a bunch of numbers.
A bunch of numbers that meant my life.
There was something stuck in the washing machine again. Only it wasn’t a sock.
It was the whole fucking laundry.
Shit.
The hard moments are the times when the sock disappears into the whirling vortex.
But of course, you don’t notice that until later, and it was true for me. Everything was running normally: Fucknut was still rushing me to get to class on time, I could still see dates and my relationship with Leila wasn't going anywhere.
Life wasn’t good, but it was normal.
At least, as normal as it could be for a person of my abilities.
But since normalcy was only attainable in my dreams, I turned to them. Dreams are my impenetrable barriers against Death.
At least, I thought they were impenetrable.
I was proven wrong. Death started entering my dreams, becoming the star in each one at the end. I would wake up feeling uneasy, violated even. Like it had assaulted me in the middle of the night.
But that was stupid. Why would Death rape me?
The dreams always ended badly – I always died. At least, whoever I died as in that particular dream. Because for every dream, I was a different person. Strange, I know. But my entire being is strange, so it would make sense if those dreams were strange as well.
At one point, I was an old woman who died of a stroke; in another, it was a young adult in a car crash. It was always different. And always indescribably familiar.
In each and every single one, I couldn’t see Death. But I always knew it was there, hovering and waiting for that perfect moment. I would never be able to see what form it took, but I was aware that it was watching me make that wrong move.
So you can see why I’m nervous to tuck the covers over my head tonight.
But I needed sleep, and that was that. And soon I was trapped in another dream, another dream of Death.
However, it was different. Something was strange in this dream. And then, I knew what it was.
I was myself.
In some horrifyingly sick dream, I was going to find out how I was going to die. My mind was too panicked to take stock everything; all I noticed was that everything was glaringly white.
I was staring – or my dream body was staring – at a fixed point at the window. I couldn’t see what it was staring at, and I would not find out in this dream of mine.
Because I already died.
I woke up, knowing my heartbeat was erratic, that my breathing was harsh and that it came in short gasps. I knew what to do; I’d been doing this since the dreams started. I went to our tiny bathroom, rinsed my face with cold tap water and looked in the mirror.
What I saw there made me stop breathing altogether.
Written in reverse with the big black font I knew so well, was a date.
18:30:00 – 04.21.11
It was my death date.
And then I couldn’t get enough air. My death date. I could see my death date. There wasn’t enough oxygen in this damned bathroom. I could hear my own breathing – I knew I was taking in air, but it wasn’t enough.
My loud was enough to wake up Fucknut and get him out of bed. The sight of me leaning over the sink gasping for air stopped him from scolding.
“Claus, what the fuck is wrong with you?”
I didn’t reply. I was too busy trying to get enough air into my lungs.
“Claus, shit. Stop gasping – you’re going to fucking hyperventilate.”
Still no answer.
“Fuck this. You’re not fucking listening, you bastard. I’m calling the damned hospital.”
I needed more air, damn it. I didn’t need the hospital. I didn’t need Fucknut raising hell all over the dormitory. I didn’t need to see my own death date.
At one point, I remember my eyesight fading to gray and the feeling of being physically lifted down the stairs. I know because they conked my head against the steps a few times. I was being bodily brought to the hospital at three in the morning all because of a bunch of numbers.
A bunch of numbers that meant my life.
There was something stuck in the washing machine again. Only it wasn’t a sock.
It was the whole fucking laundry.
Shit.
