Like Everyone Else

BY GIL SEGEV

I am like everyone else. I wake up, turn off my alarm, and wish I had died in my sleep.

I lock myself in the bathroom, even though the front door is also locked and I live alone. I turn on the hot water tap and wait seven minutes until it reaches a tolerable lukewarm temperature. At the sound of the rushing water, my bladder wakes up. I stand on the mat at a 90-degree angle and I pee in one unbroken stream directly in the middle of the toilet bowl. It is thunderously loud. I flush with the tip of my left pointer finger, and then I wash my hands just so, and when I get it wrong, I start over again. Repeat three times.

I splash water onto my face and pretend I am drowning, but I like the thrill of knowing I am dying more than the absence of any sensation. I pat my face dry, but the towel is rough and still soggy from yesterday. I make a mental note to replace it but spoiler alert, I never do.

I pour boiling water into my mug and stir three spoons of solitude, a dash of loneliness on top. The neighbors upstairs are quite this morning. It is 2AM.

Appropriately caffeinated, I sit at my desk and begin to type letters and numbers on the keyboard, which is not connected to the computer which is not connected to the monitor which is not connected to the power grid which is not connected to the universe in any meaningful way. I am very productive, and in no time at all I have accomplished nothing. Another day’s work complete. Satisfied, I take a break.

I check my phone but there’s nothing though, only memes and ads. I wonder through an online shop and order a lovely red blouse from Amazon.com in size medium. It costs $39.28, free two-day shipping and returns are included.

At 4AM my phone rings, and for the briefest of moments I am both surprised and thrilled. A rush of sensation of something other than dread breaks through the surface, a flame of emotion in the dark licking at the wet ambers around it, but then I see that it is only my alarm going off to remind me I am not worth the air I breathe. The something that arose within me sinks back down to the pits of despair from where it came. The surface tension returns to the lake of my suppression, all is calm. The flame extinguishes completely.

I walk past a mirror and pause slowly. I squint at the grey figure vaguely shaped like me behind the glass. Is that what I looked like yesterday? Were the bags under my eyes always so prominent? When was the last time I changed this shirt? I attempt to piece together the last few days but there is only now, now, now. No has, had, will, could, only is, am, somebody please send help.

“You are fine,” I tell the thing in the mirror. “You are normal, everyone feels this way. Things are exactly as they’re meant to be.”

After a long day of emptiness I finally crawl into bed, but the bed is a full bathtub and I am drunk. I set my alarm but the alarm is a toaster positioned on the ledge of the slippery porcelain, and I drift into a lesser nightmare. I am like everyone else. MM