A Monster Energy Drink chugged. Chocolate and Sea Salt RxBars. Tortilla chips. All I’ve eaten in recent memory. I don’t remember things the same way that I used to.
It’s dark outside. My sweaty slip. Stained terry cloth robe. Seem fitting again. I watch True Blood. Dionysian vampire television. To get through the night. Until I can sleep again.
I spoon Raley’s Tomato Bisque into my mouth from a plastic container. Eat it soft and cold like yogurt. I don’t microwave. Or turn the stove on. As my illnesses progress.
“Satan dans un chapeau de Dimanche, is still “Satan is a Sunday hat.” That line comes up again and again from the TV. The Maenad puts wreathes on blonde heads.
I limp into the bathroom. Get distracted by red lipstick. A highlighter palette. Painted lips with dead eyes. Eyes dead with grief. Too much death on the news for joy.
I do not know if I am ill. Or psychosomatically anxious. With the fever. Of the illness. Everywhere.
My sweet wife sleeps in another room. As she prefers. As social distancing designates. We pop in to see each other with the excitement of dating. Longing for one another across different sleep schedules. A house older than both of us.
Old enough to hold my soul. I have thought this out. If I was even able to get into a hospital? I’d be de prioritized. Discreetly euthanized. Due to my psychiatric Disabilities. My best chance at survival? Staying home. Where all my medications are. Riding this out.
I have lost count of the times. I have lain down to die. In this bed of our madness. Woken up later. Fresh from a nap. It brings me courage.
I accept a possible death. Right here. Right now. In this bed. In this house. It’s my civic duty. The hospitals are overwhelmed. In Reno. In New York. All over. I have been through so many things worse then death. That dying here is much preferred. To the local parking structure. Acting Coronavirus ward. Or death camp.
Will I die tonight? Not wearing my deathbed outfit? Bit hot for fur. Scarves? Fringed lingerie? Pretty, but impractical. The toilet’s clogged. Fecal miasma causing my malaise. I am not sure if a plumber can be reached. In this time. In this state. Of the nation.
As dire as this may sound. The Plague. The shit. The specter of death. We are secure. My wife’s job is essential. She loves it. Something I have never known.
“I’m reminding you, psych meds,” says Alexa. I pop a Klonopin, Trileptal and Prazosin in my mouth. Stagger into the kitchen. Grab an energy drink to wash them down with. The living room’s green velvet couch. Blow job oil paintings by the door. Carved curio cabinet of strange dolls. I smile for a moment. At the beauty of the house. I hope to haunt.
Distantly, I think I hear, “How could she do this to me, how could she abandon me like this? Be so calm about if?” A female shriek. My wife’s television perhaps. One of the voices I hear that is not real.
My wife is already at her night job. I look around. She left me a fresh pot of black coffee. Some tortellini. Cold in red sauce. I devour it. I love that woman more than the sun and moon. That square meal is a kindness. There was something delicious, before. Before the troubles. Before the COVID. Before the end. Before the beginning.
My dear wife’s hash browns. Not crispy crater crunchy, but soft. Pale. Hot. Shredded potato. From a plastic bag. Wrapping me in eiderdown. As I sleep again. The angel of death outside.
