BLIND

I’m in a game of blind man’s bluff. Dark makes my skin prickle. Everything real dissolves in sound. No clue. Voices tease and describe the world. Not what I knew or wanted. Catch one and they take the blindfold. Noises of paper tearing first on my left, then again further off, trying to get me to run at it, bang into the wall or crash over a chair. They say bad, squirmy things about others. It won’t stop unless I reach them. Will that help? They whisper that life sucks. I caused it. Certain people should leave. I’m to blame. What are they going to do? Criminal. People who believe like me are dumb, deluded, even lunatics. Is this still a game? I can tell a rock from a jellyfish. Piles of words that amounts to yelling that a turd is a flower, that’s what, sane? Hissing and snapping teeth noises scare me. Jerking around, I yank my hair, stick out my tongue, and pound the floor with my feet. I didn’t want to play; they say I lost. They are close, their breath, then announce I have a stink. History’s landfill. Who are they? They don’t know me, never talked to me. We don’t conjugate alike. Maybe I’m foolish just because of who I am. It didn’t occur to me how it’s possible. I hear ripping and rush to touch one to be rid of this blindfold. I smacked into a couch. It wobbles; they’d broken a leg off and ripped open a cushion. Horsehair stuffing, the sofa is old. I touched carved wooden legs and thick upholstery with the feel of use and weight.

I thought Edna would help me. We came together. We met at a party. She talked fast, which made me laugh, always moving, touching things, changing the subject. I told her stories. She said they calmed her down. I think that’s her saying, “He’s okay in his way. We’re not fixed. That’d be like neutered.” I lunged at the sound. “Damn, piss!” I smacked into a wall. They scatter like rats. A staccato burst, “We get to have eyeballs and say what’s what, and you get to shut up unless we tell you speak, dance.” They’re bold now. Talk out loud, don’t hide with silence and sneaky shit. I hear grunting and run, but someone close yells limp dick mofo, and I spin, trip, and fall on my ass. I’m ready to bash something or anything.

Edna grabs my hand, pulls me into a closet, and shuts the door. “They’re tired of the game. You’re so bad at it. They’re on the patio getting wasted.” She took the blindfold off. The closet is black as ink. We kiss and fool around and get hot, then she slips away. I opened the closet and called her name; the lights are off. I hear her say, “You won’t do it.” A peal of laughter, then a man says, “Now you.” I can barely make out the contours of the room and the furniture. From somewhere: a bottle breaks, cursing, taunting, someone shoots a gun and cries, “Die fuckers.”

A gust of wind blows through an open window with the smell of grass and the sound of an owl hooting. The frosted glass of the front door glows. I leave the house and find my car. In the driver’s seat, I shiver, punch the radio on, music blares, I shout, pound the steering wheel, and jam on the gas.