Multiverse

Tim Hatch Multiverse

The double-pronged death razor, otherwise known as the fucking plug to my wife’s curling iron, sits on the off-white tile, an evil little bastard waiting on its natural prey, hiding on the midnight floor. Its teeth sink in the soft arch of my foot and, holding back a scream, I kick it out of the way, which causes me to stumble back into the tub. I reach out and I feel the familiar shudder of fractured

reality

as my palm hits the pink tile wall.

In one, I step on the plug and scream as loud as I want to and when my wife asks what’s wrong I tell her she’s a fucking child who can’t pick up her fucking toys. I hobble after her as she, a bag of clothes, and the dog back out of our driveway.

In another, I kick the plug and fall back into the tub. She runs in and sees me a broken, screaming sculptor’s mannequin and the guilt crushes her. I hold that guilt like a cleaver hacking away small pieces of her one argument at a time, swinging wildly in a constant threat that keeps her from the door.

Back in this reality, I grab hold of my foot and my temper and I wrap it in the gauze I’ve learned I need to keep on hand. As I clean the yellowing blood, I wonder: In how many of the universes born of my childish anger have I squandered love?

In bed, I stare at the ceiling instead of sleeping, and I wonder: How many universes do we get to create? And what happens when we run out?