The Egg Said Nothing (10 page)

I’ve learned nothing.

I’m still trying to ignore the headache, but it isn’t going away. I place a hand out on the floor in front of me and get onto my knees. My chest hurts as I breathe, as if urging me to stop. It seems to have the right idea; it’s my brain that has the problem. It keeps driving me with its logic and its willingness to defy logic. It puts my weight on my hands, even though I’m on the verge of collapse. Somehow, it gets me to my feet.

I lean against the wall and act like someone trying to catch his breath. Gingerly, I place a hand on my ribs. They hurt. No, I mean they really fucking hurt. I swear I hear them crackle when I exhale, so I try not to do that.

I stagger forward and fall as I reach for the shovel. The impact with the ground sends shocks through so many parts of my body I can’t keep track of them. You’d think my serotonin might kick in and help me. You’re thinking of an ordered, rational universe. You need to stop.

With the aid of the shovel, I get to my feet again and step out of the stairwell. The tool is my walking stick.

My eyes scratch along the walls, thinking it perfect. Fluorescent lights, soiled carpets, smelly fucking elevator at the end. All I was missing was Saint Peter.

The shovel thumps the carpet as I lift and swing, lift and swing. I make it to the elevator, crawling along on two feet like a man almost dead. I press the button. The doors close. My eyes close.

There’s a ding as the doors slide open. I start to walk out, and the doors start to shut. They hit my shoulders and pop back open. Even this elevator, this box stuck in the same repetitive points in space, is sick of me. It wants no part of this. I continue my hermit walk and make it to my door.

I lean against it, propping myself up with the shovel. Blood still runs down my face. I try to mop it up with my shirt, but it’s already too saturated to make a difference. I close my eyes and feel the blood running down my throat. I swallow.

I take a deep breath, and the pain is intense. I double over. The pressure from the bending is too much. My equilibrium thrown off, I fall forward, my face hitting the same carpet. I vomit.

My lungs inhale. I try to stop them, but they won’t listen. The bloody puke gets sucked into my nose. I try to cough it out, but it stays, burning my sinuses.

I don’t know what I’m doing, sitting here, bleeding. I should go inside, but I’m scared of what I’ll see. Even if I’d just stumble in on the same shit I lived through, I’d still rather not see it. So I will not knock. I will not let myself in. I will stay here on the carpet and deal with myself when I come out.

I slide backwards through the blood puddle and sit up. I crawl up the wall, leaving a red trail along the chipped white paint of my front door. In a way, it’s pretty. Leaving a mark. Making a change.

The elevator door opens. I see myself, looking disheveled but healthy. “Oh, fuck,” the other me says.

I feel elation. And anger. I grip the shovel with both hands, the solid wood grain warm against my skin. It feels familiar. It feels safe.

Gritting my teeth, I force my lips into a contorted smile. Pain shoots up my leg, through my chest. Every step makes me feel more alive. My blood pumps furiously. My anger is so pure. The elevator doors start to close, but I jab the shovel forward, catching them before they shut.

He grabs the shovel and pulls it out of my hands. It feels like I’ve lost an arm. I look down at my palms, blood stained and empty, trails visible from where the handle dragged the crusted blood away. Clenching my fists, I realize I don’t need the shovel.

When I charge, he spins away from me, shovel in hand. I run into the elevator, hit my forehead on the rear wall. The resulting blood spot is cloud-shaped and puffy.

No matter. I’ll take him to the ground. I’ll crunch his nuts with my knee and render him unable to protect himself. I’ll punch him and bite him. And then I’ll choke him.

I’ll watch the smirk leave his face. I’ll watch the color go.

I run at him, eyes closed tightly. I experience pressure as the shovel hits my head. In that instant, I feel blood splatter somewhere in my skull, against my eardrums, inside my sinuses. I have a sensation of falling. There’s carpet below me. And blackness. I can’t hear. I can’t think.

~Chapter 16~

In which the narrator beats some guy to death with a shovel.

I took a step away and helped myself to a deep breath. The garden tool felt light in my hands. I walked around the motionless body.

“Hey, you stupid fuck, apologize for frightening me so.” I kicked his leg. “Apologize or I’m gonna clang you in the fucking teeth.” He didn’t respond. I clanged him in the fucking teeth.

I dropped the shovel and bent over his face. Whatever he looked like before, he was a Picasso now. He’d have to steal a lot of purses to pay for the reconstructive surgery he’d need. I reached over and flicked him on the nose. Nothing.

“Huh,” I said aloud. “Maybe you’ll think a little harder before you try to fuck with somebody you don’t know.”

I soon reconsidered my brash statement. It didn’t appear he’d be thinking about much of anything, ever again. He couldn’t stay there, all lifeless and soaking into the carpet. Taking hold of his feet, I dragged him down the hallway. I leaned him against the back wall of the waiting elevator and tossed his shovel in after him. After pressing the down button, I watched as the doors closed and one of my problems disappeared into the bowels of the slum I called home.

Should I call the police?
I wondered.
Nah.

I shrugged my shoulders and walked into my apartment. Locking the door behind me, I immediately started telling the egg about the waitress.

About the author

Caris O’Malley lives in Arizona with his wife and daughter. You can find him on the web at
www.carisomalley.com
. He’d love to hear what you think of his work. Send him an email at [email protected].