Drafts Archive

Exercise inspired by Steven Hall's "Raw Shark Texts" 

There it is, again. The crowded fullness, pushing against my skin. I am too big and my skin is too small and it 

I may as well. My diaphragm feels skittish. There are butterflies in my lungs. I cough. I get changed with dissociated movements, eyes unfocused, mind  already out the front door.

“Yeah I know, it’s good like that. I’ll be back in a bit.”

My sneakers feel bouncier on the other side of the threshold. I’m full of nervous energy, insides pushing on outsides pushing on insides. I walk slowly to the sidewalk, feeling like a wind-up toy car that's been dragged back so far the wheels start clicking. I stand around a moment longer; the darkness smells sharp and sweet and I think for a moment about the next five miles.

I head out with a little skip, starting my watch. My legs want to fly but I force them into a stumbling submission. 

. They scream in protest, craving nothing but a faster tempo. 

. I harden my resolve. The anxious energy locked so securely away bangs against the walls, not of its own accord, but on the command of the demons. They taunt it. I can feel them sitting there in my stomach, jingling the keys around, painting pictures of freedom with their silver tongues, narrowed eyes, and self-satisfied smiles. 

. They grow angry. Every step pushes forward only to come crashing down. The ground hits my feet hard, each stride a shock that leaves a piece of me in the pavement. Tiny pieces begin to give way - the extra ones go first. They break off bit by bit and lodge themselves somewhere in the gravel. My insides stop feeling so crowded and my skin feels looser. I’m a couple ounces lighter. But the demons aren’t done yet. They beg and plead and whisper temptations of fresh breezes and flight, then passive-aggressively kick my feet into the ground when I don’t allow my legs to obey. The banging turns into crashing as my insides throw themselves against the perimeters of their confines. More pieces come flying off: chips off my calves and scraps off my hamstrings. Panic edges itself into my mind. It’s a power play. The more I moderate my output the faster I begin to fall apart and the closer I (but not me) come to obeying the demons and finding some crack through which to squeeze. 

. I can almost hear them laugh. I pass another runner. 

 I can make him out in the dark. The streetlight lights up reflective lines on dark fabric that cover the body of a whole being - no missing pieces, no voices. 

 My legs won’t cycle smoothly like they’re supposed to and I continue to crash clumsily into the sidewalk like some kind of bumpy wheel that just won’t 

And suddenly the demons are gone and it’s just me and my dysfunctional body dragging itself along, surrounded by houses and cedars and stained fences that are perfectly intact, covered by a sky with familiar streaks of cloud and a moon that’s exactly where it should be, completely alone in a silent suburban neighbourhood. 

 My chest heaves as the demons surface again, this time with triumphant smiles and sledgehammers and realization sets in just as my sides come crumbling down and scatter onto the ground and 

 where did I go there’s nothing left but the space where I used to be and the trail of pieces that extends behind me. I weigh nothing and the prophetic flight the demons whispered so gently lifts me and lets my legs push me far. It takes me a moment to realize my feet don’t touch the ground at all. 

. I can feel the breeze on my face and the air that my lungs suck up but there’s nothing left of me. I’m entirely empty and I can feel but I can’t be felt.

My home comes into view and I see it like an outsider, somehow detached from everything that was once familiar. I don’t exist. They’ll find my calves on mile two and they’ll find my sides on mile five and they’ll find all the extra bits scattered everywhere in between, but they won’t find me. 

I slip through my front door and float up the stairs. 

I can’t feel my clothes come off. I can’t even feel the hot water on my back. The first thing I feel are the balls of my feet and the newfound weight that settles over them. 

My dad knocks on the door. “I’m off to bed, Kate.”

“Good night.” I’m a bit surprised my voice works. 

I smile, welcoming my existence. My skin fits just right.

Exercise inspired by Steven Hall's "Raw Shark Texts"