(A flash-fiction about dissociation.)

Something’s missing.

You aren’t sure how long it has been although the darkness outside your window suggests that it must have been a few hours now. Time has definitely passed since the faint blue of midday.

A stomach gurgles. You are suddenly aware that there is an emptiness biting and that you require sustenance.

Mouth dry, you part your lips and attempt to speak but nothing comes out. Smoke has clogged up your throat. You open your mouth further until you feel a pain at the edges and a pop in your jaw, securing an opening.

You try to speak but the only thing that comes out is a guttural growling like the whirring of an engine fan. Slowly, slowly – like staring at drying paint or watching reruns on television – your hand reaches the concave of your mouth and you are aware that two of your fingers touch your tongue. You regain some feeling in both, pulling your hand away and staring at it.

It seems foreign. You move it left... right... left… right. It is yours, isn’t it? You aren’t sure. You bite your hand and pain sears, clarity returns. Skin throbbing, you know the engine inside your brain has started again and although the fog has cleared somehow you think that you are so incredibly tired.

All the cords and wires hum with electricity inside of you. A bubble bath of energy and connections – that’s the most interesting part, you think, how well it all seems to flow together. Like mechanical gears turning, turning, turning – each movement perfectly planned and motion flowing and there you are watching it all like some company boss. You head down the stairs.

She hears you coming. You wish she wouldn’t.

“Finally choosing to talk to us?” She asks, always asks. You’re connected now and the electricity is so overwhelming and your parts haven’t been cared for in a while. A bit of clear oil leaks in the corner of your eyes and rolls down your flesh cheeks. They feel hot, burning of shame. She shakes her head and goes back to watching the television. You can’t remember the last time you watched a movie or a show or even just sat around and listened to music. You can’t remember much these days.

“I-“ You begin but instantly stop, leaving your mouth hanging wide open. This isn’t your voice. You aren’t sure who’s talking or what your voice truly sounds like but you know that this isn’t you. “I-“ You try again. This time she turns around, give you a stare that chills the generator inside of you and shuts it down. You recall reading once that computers like the cold but you think that you’d prefer the heat- at least then you’d know that you were working.

“Spit it out.” She commands but you don’t even remember what you were going to say. Were you going to say anything at all? You notice the dark underneath her eyes and the wrinkles on her hands and the way she seems so feeble like wilting petals.

“I’m sorry.” You finally manage with a great deal of effort. The words don’t taste right and you almost wish you could take them back but then you watch her face relax. Something cracks beneath the hard resin and there is tenderness to her eyes that you haven’t seen in months. For a moment it as if you are truly there. Fully witness to the moment that you have created and you try to cling to the feeling. Try to tear off all the wires and gears, try to rip the cables and pull out all the outlets. You want to say that you don’t need electricity - you’ll run on the power of life. But you can’t.

“It’s okay.” She says in a voice so quiet that you can barely hear her above all the whirring inside of you. Captain Hook stares at you and she wants his clock back but it keeps on ticking and tocking inside your stomach and you don’t think it will ever come out. You can’t tell her that you don’t want it there either.

And suddenly you don’t feel sad or empty or detached – you feel angry. Everything inside of you is turning so fast and loud and you’re surprised that she doesn’t comment on the heat rushing to your face or the smoke pouring out your ears. You’re absolutely furious.

You’re furious because you’re sick of not feeling anything and not feeling attached to anything. You’re furious because you keep losing track of time. You’re furious that you’re disappointing your mother. Most of all, you’re furious at yourself, at this monster creeping inside the crevices of your brain like a virus sneaking past all your defenses. Your firewall just wasn’t strong enough.

Nails dig into your palms so hard you know that they must be yours. The hot oil is spilling again. You shake back and forth like there is a glitch in your system.

Then it passes. Your mother’s sad, sad eyes seem to fade and you are looking out at her from somewhere within. A place where the smog is thick and you can barely see out except for two tiny holes peering into the world. Your circuits have been cut and you’re barely buzzing, heartbeat slowing to a dull thud. You don’t know why you were ever so angry. Was that even you? You don’t even think this body is yours. Somewhere distant you are aware that she is still staring at you and for a moment you think you feel something in your chest. Guilt, maybe? The tiniest flicker of the fury barely moments before? You can’t place it. You can’t bring yourself to care to place it.

“It’s okay.” She says again but her voice sounds muffled like you’re underwater or in a different room or on the other side of a glass screen. “It’s okay.”