Fat Man's Dream

I can see that the top half of the Dutch door is open.

I sit in an old chair, my head tilted, staring out at a lush emerald valley and the prodigious mountains beyond.

I look down at my hands. They are immobile and devoid of feeling.

I try to lift them up but they do not respond. My head hangs, my chin resting oddly on my breastbone.

I am powerless, frozen in place, able to see only a small part of the house and the idyllic scene outside the door.

I recognize this place. It is the west coast of Ireland, just a stone's throw from the Bay of Dingle and I am helpless and in Hell's fire.

I stare at my wrist to rest my eyes from the strain of trying to look forward. My watch is missing. The sun is bright and low in the blue and clouded sky, the air, cool with the distinctive smell of the ocean.

I taste the salt of my own tears through the corner of my mouth. The smell of the sea, the taste of tears; perhaps more is possible.

I concentrate hard on my hands. Finally, my fingers arch slowly, moving, but hardly at all. My body jolts reflexively from this effort as a sob escapes my lips.

I have been silent, immobile and possibly unconscious for some time, I think.

I try to move my neck. There is no movement but there is a twinge of pain.

I am now exhausted; spent from my efforts to replace my involuntary lethargy with signs of life. These simple movements, a taste, a smell, a touch of pain, the milestones of my moment, are something to hold on to in my attempt to ascend this daunting incline upon which I've been placed by God knows what mindless tragedy. Gravity moves more tears down my face and I am again able to revel in their flavor.

I think about the possibility of parlaying these few faint sensations into a life for myself, some sort of rebirth, but it seems somehow impossible, hopeless, too far off.

I notice a rose beetle creeping his way across my forearm. As I see him there, I realize that I can not feel his progress. He moves with purpose but seems in no particular hurry. He is the color of a pomegranate, bulbous and shiny, his legs jointed and hairy, his head green, held safe and close to his body. To him, I am no different than the insensible floor he has just crossed or the lifeless furniture he has ascended to reach my arm; a useful avenue perhaps but hardly worth notice. To me, he represents a damnable prophesy. I long to squash him viciously with the flat of my hand but sadly, he is safe for now.

I wonder at my solitude. I wonder who has fed and clothed me. I am surely incapable of doing these basic things for myself, I reason, but I can not remember ever having had anyone to take care of me. How could I have survived? How will I survive?