by A.R. Rivera
56
-Angel
"Blah-blah blah. Blah, blah, blah. Blah de blah, blah-blah blah. Blah blah, blah, blah. Blah la blah, blah-blah blah. Blah blah, blah . . ."
The last three days have been hell. I'm paying in spades for speaking to her. Avery hasn't shut up since that night in my room.
"Blah-blah, blah. Blah de blah-blah blah. Blah, blah-blah blah, la blah, blah de blah, blah. Blah de la blah, blah-blah blah . . ."
She's constantly going! Babbling!
Not trying to communicate. No, she's trying to control me. She's trying to push me into reacting!
She's pushing.
Pushing further.
Pushing.
She won't stop until she gets what she wants.
"Blah-blah, blah. Blah la blah, blah, blah. Blah de blah, blah-blah blah. Blah. Blah de blah, la blah, blah de blah, blah. Blah la blah, blah, blah. Blah de la blah, blah-blah . . ."
I am at my breaking point.
I was never the violent one, but I've been dreaming of squeezing the life out of her.
A few hours ago, Doctor Punta informed me that I lost another two pounds and so he's made a formal request to commence forced feeding.
"Blah-blah, blah. Blah la blah, blah. Blah de blah, blah-blah blah. Blah-blah, blah, blah. Blah de blah, blah-blah blah. Blah, blah, blah-blah la blah, blah de blah . . ."
It is crushing me.
I've lost the only hand I had to play. I don't know what else to do.
"Blah, blah, blah-blah . . ."
They think I'm crazy now? If Avery doesn't stop . . . I'll go stark-raving bat-shit.
Staring at the tiled wall of the shower stall, I let the spray hit my head. It washes into my ears and I can't hear anything for one blessed second. Then her voice is back.
"Blurdy-blah-lah, blah, blah, blah . . ."
If I only had a gun.
She won't say anything meaningful and she won't fucking stop!
Determined to focus on anything but her grating voice, I note how the water isn't very hot. It's all Goldie-locks. Not too hot, not too cold, not just right, but okay. The sound of warm spray hitting and dripping helps soften the razor-edge of Avery's incessant pressure, but nothing can block her out.
"Blah-blah blah. Blah blah, blah, blah. Blah de blah, blah-blah blah. Blah blah, blah, blah. Blah la blah, blah-blah blah. Blah blah, blah . . ."
There's a sing-song tonality to her bullshit. As if she's delivering a meaningful monologue.
I step closer to the shower wall and wish, again, for a gun. I'd splatter her brains all over the plain white tiles. As my mind conjures the images, I think . . . wait.
Yeah . . . I'm getting an idea.
Yes!
Excitement courses through me as the images of a plan form in my head.
Yes.
A damned brilliant one! So simple, I can't believe I didn't think it up sooner!
My chest swells with newfound hope, but I don't let myself smile as I reach for the shampoo and sloppily pour the thick liquid soap, making a big puddle in my palm that runs down my hand and arm, slowly making its' way down my body to the floor in front of me.
A wicked excitement cracks at one corner of my mouth as I massage the puddle between my palms and drag my toes over the dribbled spot on the slick shower floor.
"Blah, la blah, blah-blah! Blah, blah, blah-blah . . ."
Looking at the tiled wall, I am concentrating. I have to be quick and very cautious. On the off-chance that this latest stroke of genius doesn't work, I have to be able to try again.
This has to look like an accident.
"Blah, blah, blah, blah-blah blah, la blah, blah de blah, blah." Avery blabs on, waving a hand in front of her, examining her splayed fingers, as if she's just polished her nails.
I slather my hair with the shampoo that is so much better than the crap at the regular prison and start scrubbing, digging into my scalp with my fingernails. Working up a high pile of lather.
"Blah-blah, blah. Blah la blah, blah, blah. Blah de blah, blah-blah blah. Blah-blah, blah, blah. Blah de blah . . ."
I have to turn around. I have to get just the right angle.
As I spin, I carefully slide my other foot across the remaining puddle of shampoo on the shower floor. Letting the lather sit in my hair, I grab the bar of soap and move over, just enough, out of the showers spray to start greasing myself up.
"La-blah, blah-de-blah, blah-blah blah, la blah, blah. La-blah, blah, La-blah-de-blah . . ." Avery's annoying squawk slowly becomes background noise as I focus.
I need every surface of my body slicked down.
Once I'm done, I slyly check the proximity of the wall at my back and run my fingers over the sudsy mass on my head, dragging over my hair, pushing the suds down my body to pool at my feet before running down the drain.
The orderly that's been supervising my shower is just standing there with her hands in her pockets. I can tell by the bored look on her face that she doesn't have a clue.
Avery opens her mouth wide, "Blah, blah, blah, blah-blah-blah, la-blah de-blah, blah. Blah, blah, blah, blah-blah, la blah, blah de blah, blah . . ."
I open mine, too. But I am singing Jakes first song, Hall of Fire. "Now I'm finally getting old. Drinking Sherry, growing mold-"
On the count of three.
"Blah, la blah, blah . . ."
"This life is not what I was sold." I let the melody hang, like my head. Tears of joy mingle with the shower spray.
One.
Bending my neck as far forward as I can, my chin touches my chest. I'm coming, Jake.
"Blah-de-blah-blah blah, la blah, blah de blah, blah." Avery babbles in tune, singing along.
My feet begin to move, slipping across the floor in what I hope appears to be an impromptu dance to the rhythm in my head. "We didn't make it . . ."
Two.
With one last deep breath and all the momentum I can muster, I jerk and shift, whipping my neck back, aiming for the cement tiles of the shower wall.
I get it now: Good. Bye.
Three.
"We didn't make it after all-"
57
-Angel
I'm a stone.
I have been thrown. I plopped into the water and am sinking to the bottom.
A great river thrashes around me.
Fish float belly up along the surface of the murky damp.
Its cold, but I don't shiver.
Then hot, but I don't burn.
I wait for the water to lift me, to sweep me from this place on its' current.
