Day Faith


At the end of the day as I was walking home, I found a man lying on the ground who had been beaten. His shirt was torn, and his face was bloody and crying. He was pleading at me with big watery eyes, but I was running a little late for my favorite show. I came to my house, and it appeared that the neighbors cat had been sick earlier, and had left a lovely present for me on my doorstep. As I walked in and threw my keys on the counter, the phone rang. It was Denise. She had been in Detroit for the last couple of days on business, and had decided to give me a ring because she felt obligated. Her call was meaningless. I half-listened to her as she rampaged against the politics of major car corporations, and hung up the phone when I couldn't take it anymore. She immediately called back, but I just sat there watching the phone as it rang, trying to imagine her frustration on the other end of the line. Eventually she must have gotten tired with the whole ordeal, because the phone quit ringing.

I decided it was time to eat. Going to the freezer, I realized that I had bought nothing in the past month that even closely resembled sustenance. I ate anyway. Frozen biscuits usually taste better cooked... I didn't mind. I plopped into my chair, just in time to catch the credits of my show. Damn Denise. Damn her to Hell.

Oh well... I stood up and kicked the TV in. Another day. Deciding whether to sleep in my suit or pajamas took up the better part of the next hour, until I determined that my suit just didn't feel good anymore, so I stripped it off in the living room and pushed it into the corner. Ahhh, better.

I studied myself in the bathroom mirror. The same tired shoulders, the same haggard face, the same graying hair. Depressed once again, I staggering to the bedroom, I coughed up blood and flem into my hand, and wiped it on the wall before I collapsed onto the bed with the grace of a corpse. I lay there, and laid there. All my life seemed to be wrapped up in today.

I had gone to the doctor again today and he told me that my condition had not improved. As a matter of fact, it had grown worse. Much worse. If I sleep, I die. I haven't slept in fifteen years. I lay in bed and do not sleep. There are approximately twenty two thousand, three hundred and thirty seven dots on my ceiling. I finished counting them last night. I'm done counting my dots. I'm done counting on my luck.

Goodnight. I'm going to sleep.


Copyright 2003 by pauly hart