[The Shutter Muse apologizes for the delay- she has started editing recently and is on the first round of painful cuts and correcting. There will be more updates to come, hopefully in a more polished shape. Stay tuned! Also feel free to check out The Shutter Muse's second blog: nakedneon.tumblr.com]
I
leaned closer to the mirror. There was nothing beyond the first joint in my
fingers. If I stared long enough so that my vision became blurred I could
imagine them, the nails painted rouge, a polish I’d bought at the drug store
while buying my vitamins, the hangnails a bloodier red due to the absentminded
nibbling throughout the day. However when I focused my eyes on them they were
completely disappeared.
I
remember wondering whether I wasn’t still asleep as I turned, confused, and
padded down the hallway, the wooden floors and then on into the tiled kitchen.
I reached for the coffee grinder and remembered that it was cool and plastic
and when I turned the dial in whirred and buzzed and heated slightly under my
touch. A simple action, something I completed daily without fail.
This
morning the surfaces didn’t exist. My feet felt the cool tile but when I
crouched to touch it I could feel nothing. To my utter amazement my rings hung
on to my fingers as if they would fall off with mere suggestion, exhaling
themselves off the curve of my knuckles and clattering onto the floor.
The
panic followed the numbing realization that I couldn’t still be dreaming. My
heart jumped into my throat like a small creature clawing its way out of my
ribcage. I could feel the tiny nails scraping inside my chest, the muffled
cries rose into the back of my throat and I heaved up fire, choking up the
water that I’d risen to drink in the middle of the night. Through drowsy eyes
I’d held the cup and tested the water trickling from the faucet with the tips
of my fingers before wiping the drips hastily on my pajamas. The acidic bile
burned my throat and stung the cracks in my lips and I could taste blood. If
I’d smiled the blood would have pooled in my lip and dribbled down my chin like
ripe strawberry juice.
As
I ran the water, washing the remnants of my panic down the drain, the morning
sun cascaded in through the window like a golden waterfall. The water felt like
melted pearls, playing over my palms like mercury. I wiped my hands hastily on
my shorts and retreated to the bedroom to prepare for my day, shooting a glance
at the rumpled bed sheets.
You
had left early that morning, slipping out of bed like a whisper of silk. I
vaguely remember rolling into the indentation your body had left, curling into
it like a body into a shallow grave. Had you noticed that when you kissed my
fingers they were merely a memory? Or did they have a shimmer… What does
something look like before it disappears?
Do
you remember our first date? The sides of my mouth twitched into a smile even
as I stood in front of my closet, fingertips curled into my palms so I didn’t
have to wonder about their existence, thinking about how you had arrived ten
minutes early. Your fists were stuffed into your pockets and your scruffy chin
was tucked, like the neck of a bird, into your chest. Later when I tried to fix
your shirt which was buttoned incorrectly, you closed your hands over mine and
kissed my fingertips, thumb and pointer, telling me not to worry.
I
could still feel your lips in my hands and as I dressed myself methodically,
but as I quizzically examined my new hands I wondered where fingertips go when
they run away from home. I pulled out some gloves, despite the heat, and I almost
even chuckled wondering what my coworkers would think when they saw my new
fashion statement. In my daily routine I evaluated the facts. I could still
touch things therefore my hands were useful and existed. Because people don’t
just disappear, it would seem I’m imagining things.
How
does one contemplate their own downward spiral? How deep will my insanity
eventually reach? When I reached deep into the crevices of my own imaginations,
I couldn’t bear to consider which part of my body I might forget next. And the
doubt that I knew myself well enough. Were my eyelashes a little longer the day
before? Was my hair an inch or two shorter? Was I missing a wayward centimeter
on the tip of my nose?
And
how well do we know our bodies? Could I reconstruct myself from the soles of my
feet to the crown of my head on a piece of paper if that was the only way I
could recreate myself? How well would I be able to map out the constellations
of my freckles?
-The Shutter Muse
