A. Ferland

It's 7 Am
The fourth prime number
The lights are too bright
The woman in white is asking me about the nausea
She is not the same as the one from last time
I am uncomfortable
My skin crawls like a kingdom of locusts
Does she know the pills are improperly stacked
Improperly stacked
Can't focus
Gently rocking back and forth
Gently rocking
Gently
The woman is not speaking anymore

''My hands can't stop shaking''
''The doctor said we had to increase your dose''
''No.''
''We have to, you'll tolerate these new ones better. I promise''
9 Am
Composite number
There are no more apples
Always eat an apple at 9
Don't know what to do
Walking in place
Swallow new pills
Warm sensation snaking down my leg
Left eye is twitching
Can't switch to more comfortable posture
Dystonia dystonia dystonia
No more apples, pants stained, twitching
Sickened
She promised it would be better

9:30
930
There is something special about it
But it eludes me
Thoughts more clouded than before
Bath has been running for an indeterminate time
Remove clothing
Careful not to slip on drenched floor
Enter

The tapping at the door becomes louder
Sickened
Still sickened
It unlocks and the apartment woman comes in
She stays by the closed door and speaks through the barrier

''Your rent is late again.''
I echo her statement.
She doesn't like that
I don't understand why
Her voice keeps rising in volume
But it can't penetrate the haze
There is a crash
She is not moving
A red pool is emerging from behind her head
Mixing with all of the water covering the floor
She still isn't moving

S.H

Nausea creeps out of my throat.
In awful terrible vigils, even numbers
Swirl about my skull.

She no longer moves
No longer moves
Moves
Moves
Move GODAMN YOU.
10.
The most evil number, divisible by too much
Resulting in what has occurred.
Crimson lines soak with white bubbly streaks.
I just wanted to clean myself.
Be clean. Clean the wounds, her wounds.

Standing naked above her broken body,
Split on the top, resembling my mother’s vase age 8
The middle of my aunt’s legs, age 12
A flower made of flesh, splintered and cracked.
Now 10. 10 in an even month, even day.
The memories – miasmatic brainwaves.
Her body was made of glass.

No. There is no more order.
Even and odd are made up.
If even and odd are imagined?
Then what else?
This woman’s life

Nothing

If God created order,
To no god am I friend.
These numbers imprison me

12 PM
Can’t wake up.
She’s still in there.
I can hear her clawing against the door.
Her laugh, the way she smiled so hurtfully.
But impossible. The gray splatter showed that.
She ought not to live.
Her essence divisible by 3s.
I’m glad she’s gone.
The irregular cunt.

12.
12.

What careless hour.
Meandering by, like birds
With their wings severed.
Blood flaking from the sky
Among the rain.

No more numbers.
No god or medicine
To make them reappear.
No more hurt
No more sections.

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