The What Ifs

The What Ifs

Tires smooth loose gravel into the ground after turning into the local Circle K. Switching off the car's ignition, my car door swings open, allowing my foot to make contact with the ground. Loud beeps ring through the air as I press through the usual rotation of questions. I'm not a rewards member even though I should be. My finger presses yes to the question of wanting a receipt. Using the nose of the gas nozzle, I select the correct grade of gas and thrust the spout into the fuel filler's neck. After minutes of gas pumping into my car, I remove the nozzle from the orifice in one swift motion. A spark ignites from the rush of metal meeting static electricity created by the dry Arizona air. The car explodes, leaving the gas station in flaming ruins. My consciousness is left behind as a distant thought with no ashes to prove its existence.

I take a left turn at the light, waiting a beat for any last minute intersection arrivals. A car swerves and speeds through the otherwise empty field of traffic, colliding into my passenger side window. Glass snows through the car, scraping the seat cushions and leaving deep gashes in my cheeks. The air bag flares, puffing its white innards into my chest and chin. Air, knocked from my lungs, retreats from my body and dares not to return. As my head rests against the warm concrete, exposed by the broken window, I spend my last minutes wondering how warm the world will get today.

I grab the takeout bag from the service worker and pull off to the side of the road to munch on my meal. The chicken tender I bite into has a crispy outside while remaining soft, tender through its core. Hours go by and my stomach begins to rumble with the familiar signs of a bout of IBS. At the end of the day, I struggle to make it to my apartment, waiting anxiously as my bowels threaten to let loose while waiting for the elevator. Desperate, I crash through my apartment door and flee to the bathroom. Just in time, I sit on the porcelain throne. As I relax, a burp expands into my throat. Confident in letting go of whatever has bubbled up through my guts, my eyes expand as I retch. Crimson sprays across my freshly washed towels hanging on their allotted hooks. My innards, sharp, grind inside my stomach. Not your normal bowel movement. I reach for the trashcan while I am threatened with losing consciousness. The overexertion of trying to catch myself forces my guts to clench and to release until I feel slight relief. Lying on the ground, head spinning, I take into account the mess I have made. Slippery ropes of pink litter the bathroom floor. I panic, questioning whether to push or to swallow to fix the unnatural state of my guts being outside of where they are meant to be stored.

Face feeling oily and armpits sticky with odor, I turn the faucet of my shower on in preparation of an evening cleansing ritual. Using a cotton pad, I wipe off the grime of today's make up. The cotton pad jumps into the bottom of the trashcan as I make my way to the tub. A routine so mundane and so regular I forget to watch my step. My big toe hits the top of the tub's rim, jolting pain through the small digit. Cursing, I reach a hand out and catch myself against the tiled wall. Exhaling with relief, I push my face underneath the showerhead's waterfall, rubbing my hands against my face. Turning around, I reach for the shampoo bottle and lather up a good two handfuls of sud before massaging them into my scalp. Rinsing the soap, I'm careful to not let any seep down the front of my face but rather backwards and down the drain. Hair checked off the list, I grip my face cleanser bottle and squirt a dollop into my hand. Returning to the showerhead, I rub the soap onto my skin. First my cheeks and then my forehead. Scrubbing the cleanser against my eyes, I am cautious of noticing even the slightest burn of soap. I continue to rub and rub, feeling as though I'm letting go of the day's hardships. Letting the water caress down my face, I let it carry away the grime of today. I continue to massage my face until the slickness of the soap is gone. I turn away from the showerhead and reach for the conditioner, wondering what happened to the light. Did the power go out? Must have. No one is here, unless a home invasion occurred without my notice. Without panicking, I snake a hand out of the confines of the bath and slap it against the wall. Reaching the light switch, I flip it up and down, waiting for the moment of Ah Ha before my eyes adjust to the darkness. The light continues to flip. My eyes don't adjust. My hands clamber to my face, sensing something is wrong, terribly wrong. My eyes are now but empty sockets. I crouch to the tub's floor and palm my way towards the drain. As weak whimpers escape my mouth while water attempts to invade, I feel the pop of an eyeball slip through the drain's top and into the piping. I scream as I face perpetual darkness.

Against all of the warnings I've received, I thrust my hand into the sink's drain, fingers nimbly searching for the wine topper I dropped. Eyeing the disposal's switch, I give myself the assurance that my other hand won't deceive me and push the button, grinding my fingers into minced meat. Behind me the fridge dispenses a single ice cube, as it sometimes does, and I hear it fall to the floor. Dedicated to my current mission, I make peace with my decision to let it melt on its own out of pure laziness. Inside of the sink's drain, my index finger feels the head of the wine topper and gives the rest of my fingers the spacial awareness to pull the piece out of its temporary jail. After eyeing the topper, I toss it to the side of the sink, forgetting all about the moments of risk I went through to retrieve it. I pour wine into an empty glass and watch the dark red slosh into a pool. Gripping the glass, I pick it up, swing it to the right, and knock the bottle onto the ground. The bottle shatters into three large pieces of glass. Great. I grab a slew of paper towels, bending over to clean up the mess. My right foot steps back and makes contact with the loose ice cube. Slipping, I fall. Glass juts through my skin, obstructing the wine's planned passage way. Gurgling, my throat constricts, now craving oxygen rather than fermented grapes. I have discovered a new way to permanently wind down.