Radio Show

Atop a stack of books an alarm clock begins to scream at three am. A hand pulls free from layers of quilts and cuts the sound short. They fill their lungs as full as they can and shoot up in bed swinging one leg, and then the other to dangle above the floor. Their slender arms reach above their head and they tilt their torso back and forth, their spine curving perfectly. Slowly the two feet inch closer to the floor until contact is made and they begin to move painfully slowly, dragging across hard wood to make it to the window on the other side of the room. For five minutes they gaze lovingly out the window and admire the brightness of the stars. There is no light pollution because no one is awake yet. No one wants to be awake, especially not now, not during the witching hour, people stay asleep in fear of what they might see if they are awake, in fear of what is about to happen because even people's nightmares are preferred to this. Ripping their eyes away from the void they find themselves in the bathroom standing before a figure in the mirror. What they see they don’t recognize, what they see they can't comprehend, but even so they lift their hands to their head and run their fingers through thick, long, soft hair, every fiber of hair and every nerve in their fingers coming alive. This won't do. There's too much of it this morning. They reach for an electric razor and get to work, allowing clumps and pieces to fall into the sink one at a time. Feeling their hand over their head in circles they search for pieces that are too long, for any that were too stubborn and stayed attached to their head, at the base of their neck they find the final strands, pinch them between fingers that are just too long and pull them tight to run the razor slowly over them, savoring the feeling of the hair releasing from their head. A sigh of relief falls from their lips as now they can finally move to the back yard to start the ritual. Here a shovel caked in mud is leaning against a dark green wall, taking it in their hand they walk into the middle of the dirt yard and begin to dig. Their back muscles begin to strain and ache every time they bring dirt from the ground, their fingernails chip and become sharp and jagged, the air bites their nose and every breath brings ice in their lungs, but it doesn't matter because they are almost done. When they finish digging it's a shallow grave, deep enough so they can be entirely covered, but not so deep they won't be able to later reemerge. They admire their handiwork momentarily before bringing their hands to their face and use their mangled nails to cut into their skin. Blood finds its way to the outside air and runs down their face into their eyes and filling their mouth, they push their fingers below their skin. They pinch the organ between their thumb and pointer finger and begin to pull. Muscles and tissue are exposed, nerves ignite, but despite the pain they don't scream. They pull and pull until finally they reach their feet and slowly and carefully step out of their skin suit. Leaving behind their old form they climb into the fresh grave and pull as much dirt over themselves as possible and ask the winds to cover them the rest of the way. Maggots and bacteria immediately begin to feast, it doesn't take long for them to decompose, when the creatures are finished with their meal a single rose begins to grow from the soft soil. As the flower blooms the sun begins to rise. This isn't an ordinary rose, from the center of the bud a hand is reaching for the sky, then an arm appears. Shoulder, neck, and head all emerge and limb by limb the person from the mirror climbs out of the grave.