I look around the room and...

I look around the room and a feeling of anxiety swarms around me like a cluster of bees protecting their honey.   Everywhere I look, something is out of place.  A stapler, tossed aside, forgotten, sits right in front of me.  Cables run through the room like veins, pumping hot electricity to its organs.

My hand itches. I scratch it.  My eyes are drawn to the form of a simple hair tie lying on my cluttered desk.  Its black and white checkerboard design nearly hypnotises me.  How effortless, how inspiring the little oval is, simply existing.  Beauty in chaos.

My attention suddenly turns to the window.  Birds of all sorts chirp outside, just out of reach.  Are they in cages, or am I?

The sky is lined with clouds. A wave of nervousness splashes at my feet, encouraging me to grab the washing from the line.

I take a breath.

Exhaling, the birds grow louder.  It is as though they warn each other of a coming rain.  Perhaps they warn me.

Pushing my chair back from the desk, my leg grows weak.  I wonder why I haven’t bought a plastic carpet cover for my rolling office chair, then quickly recall that money is tight.

The birds scream more as I ponder the idea of looking for a job.  My gut twists at the thought of it.

A sip of ginger beer.

Cool, fizzy. It burns my nose because I am careless.

My neck itches.  I scratch it.

A loud car, perhaps a truck, drives by my home.  I hear it long after it’s passed. My walls are thin.

The wind sounds like rain.  My curiosity gets the better of me, and I head to the window sill that smells of copper.

Perhaps I should not  have put that second load in the washer.

The sky is grey, with only patches of light blue peeking through.  I recall how lovely the weather had been earlier.  The birds twitter and chirp gently; maybe they feel it too.

I breathe again.

I can hear the chatter of neighbours, somewhere down my street.  I can’t make out what they say, only that their tone is casual.  The birds speak clearer than they do.

An electric saw rumbles in the distance, and I notice a small nick on my arm.  It is red.

Upon further examination, it turns out to only be spaghetti sauce.  I smirk at my carelessness.

Another car shoots past, lighter on the road.  The wind has picked up.  There may be rain, the birds say.

The hum of my computer annoys me. My foot itches. I scratch it. My eyes catch the sight of a box near my speaker.  It is a box full of sleep aid pills.  They never worked.  A box of ibuprofen sits, ravaged, near the discarded stapler.  


Those worked.

My mind wanders, recalling episodes of television shows about people who hoard things, and cannot let go of their possessions.  With a sour taste in my mouth, I slowly begin to believe I am going that way, as well.

I ask myself what to do.  Shall I throw things away? Recycle them? What is with all of these papers I have, why do they multiply? Why can’t I part with old scribbles that I no longer care for?

A small, clear bottle labelled “NAIL BITER” lays on its side, quite close to the stapler.  The bitter, yellow fluid inside surrounds a small brush attached to the lid.  It is to be used like nail polish, yet I have used it only twice.  It works, but I always forget it.

A crumpled American dollar bill sits in my cream wafer tin that holds my pens.  I recall that I had tried to fold it into the form of a t-shirt.  Frustration burns in the back of my mind like a furnace.

I take a deep breath.

The saw roars, doors slam, birds sing. The possibility of rain grows. The wind plays with the trees, rocking them steadily back and forth.  The neighbours sound agitated.

I see a picture of a cat that I drew earlier today.  At the mere thought of a cat, the birds begin screaming again.  The saw grows louder.

A bowl once used for spaghetti now sits on the chair beside me, looking more and more like a murder scene than a dish.

My right leg bounces up and down, tapping the wheeled foot of my chair rhythmically. My left foot begins to fall asleep.  I shift my position accordingly.

While stretching, the chair pops under me and I nearly gasp.  I should be used to that sound by now.  I recall my husband informing me of a screw that is missing from my chair.  Perhaps I should find it soon.

Birds tweet some more, and I recall the bird that nearly hit my head outside today.  It had been a bright green bird.  Perhaps a Rosella.  I remember the sound it made as it whooshed over my head, a thick “flap” noise, followed by a gust of air.  I hadn’t seen it coming.  I turned around, and my gaze followed it as it rounded my house.  It was gone soon afterwards. 

The sky grows darker, but I cannot go out yet.  I made a promise to myself, that I would finish writing at least one thousand words before I run outside to save the laundry.  It’s a game.  Can I finish it?  Only ninety words left.

I can feel the clouds growing heavy with moisture.  I feel pressure inside my chest, anxiety trying to will me out the door. 

A tap on the roof—could it be rain? Is it a bird?  The saw continues to scream at me.

Forty words to go.  My mind begins to draw a blank. Is this the sort of game that housewives play with themselves often? My mind flashes images of Leave it to Beaver and other shows of that age.

The birds grow silent as the saw roars on.