If I were to write the story of my life I would start it out slow and awkward. Unsure steps. More falling than walking. If is only in the last minute do I feel my feet catch me.
Impact.
My knees cushioning the blow.
I did not start life upright, now will I end it that way. But this story is neither about beginnings nor endings. There are too many people. The full story of my existence would entail visiting distant relatives, cousins, lovers, frinds. That gets pretty messy in print. Besides, I would have to tell their tales, and I don't care for heresay.
But let us begin somwhere.
October 27th, my birthday.
The doctor, gripping my legs, slapping my back. My eyes, not adjusted to the light squint and burn. I cry out, clear my lungs. Fill the sterile room with my voice. Waiting for the blissful reaction to my coming.
The doctor doesn't notice.
He's not done yet.
I wait till his breathing becomes short and labored before I start calling out his name. He grunts in recognition the way large animals do when exerting effort.
I cry out again, in hopes he will finish soon.
The smacking sound and rhythm repeating themselves. Echoing inside me.
My mind wanders.
He penetrates me again.
I am no longer in the room. I have left by the cracked window, slipped out when he was slipping in.
I have left his primal act in favor of shopping lists and neon lights. But I know better now than to take my body with me.
Next
