Future by Remi Jokosenumi
Week x of lockdown; I don’t know what month it is. I can hear the consistent stressed rhythm of the rain beating against the windowpane. I can hear the overwhelmed gurgle of the gutters rapidly filling; I can hear the rushing water descending through the pipes like a surging waterfall, and I can hear the harsh, yet endearing hush of the torrent whipping down on the steel drainage cover. I shift around in my bedsheets and try to open my eyes. Managing only a pathetic squint, I rub my eyes and use my pinkie nails to scrape out the crusted rheum huddled cosily in the corners of my eyelids. At first, all I can see is darkness, and now the darkness is stained by irregularly shaped off-white spots, and now… my bedroom begins to materialise. I can see navy blue veins popping through my gaunt arms; I can see the grey patches of dry skin on my purlicles; I cannot see my long scraggly legs, for which I am grateful to the duvets covers for, however, where the duvet cannot reach, I can still see my oversized feet and my big toe poking out of the hole in my left sock. I look up slightly to see my bookshelf. Books from my childhood: the Gruffalo, where the wild things are and the entire collection of Winnie the Pooh, gentrify the shelves amongst “fine literature”. My eyes fixate upon a stack of unwrinkled GCSE textbooks; my eyes glaze over as I
fantasize over the summer that was viciously snatched away by the bony claws of the Pandemic. I roll over in my bedsheets a second time and glance down at my desk. A perfectly positioned ray of daylight breaks out from behind my blinds and casts a light over my grandfather’s Nordengreen classic watch. The beam of light, however, is not the golden ray filled with dancing dust mites seen at the breaking of a Mediterranean summer dawn; the light is a drained grey that gives the watch face and brown leather strap a discouraging sterile tint. I try my hardest to see the time, straining my eyes and stretching my neck, but can only catch the minute hand. It’s twenty-five past Something. I flop back onto my pillow and feel around my duvet and bed sheets for my iPhone; I grab onto my phone wire close to my hip and reel in the phone until I feel the rubbery texture of the phone case at my fingertips. I thumb the on button and squint, as I brace myself for a brief explosion of blue light; I am disappointed as the flashing image of a drained battery occupies the black screen; note to self: Instagram is for the day, sleep is for the night. I tense my core and launch my body upwards, flicking my arms behind me to steady myself. I instantly cringe as my
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