I seize in the middle of the aisle. The bags of cereal sit around me, pointing their round bellies at my still figure, moving ever closer, trapping me in. A sea of plastic closes in on my shadow; then, around my legs, my fingers, my neck, my mouth. My one free eye detects someone approaching from the opposite end. I am powerless to stop her strides. She doesn’t seem to detect me at first, but then she does.
Stops, stares.
Minutes go by.
Hours.
Days?
For the first time, it’s hard to say. Eventually, the spell seems to fall behind me. For a brief moment, it’s like nothing happened at all. This aisle, the plastic, my useless fingers, my taped-up mouth. It’s all I’ve ever known, it must be.
For the first time, I see my friend react. She feels it too. I see it in her eyes. Or maybe she saw it in mine. Maybe she’s scared. Happy for me?
Maybe she feels nothing at all.
For the first time, her hand moves. Slowly, very slowly upwards. Concealing her index nail with her thumb’s flesh, she directs her attention to my forehead and, by the time I dart my eyes, her index finger is assertively pointed forward.
For the first time, I move. The flick sends my flying backwards, slipping off my feet and into the ground, the back of my neck drawing a perfect quarter circumference in space.
For the first time, I don’t stop falling at the cold, sanitary floor. I’m certain my body is there, but most of me keeps going, descending into the hot air below, embracing the putrid smells and the burning surfaces.
For the last time, I stop falling. My spot in this world secured, I gladly peek down to see what I don’t feel: the abdomen that once belonged to me, pierced through by a scorching rock, drawing me deeper below.
Days go by.
Weeks.
Years?
It’s hard to say. The floor wants me and the floor shall have me. The only words that manage to escape my lips are:
I’m sorry.
I’m sorry.
I’m sorry.
I’m sorry.
I’m sorry.
I’m sorry.
I’m sorry.
I’m sorry.
For all eternity, over and over, deeper and deeper, deafer and deafer.
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