Daniel Davis
When I woke up yesterday morning, the world was bleary. The ceiling over my head was indistinct, just a white blob floating above me. When I held my hand before my face, I could vaguely make out my fingers, thick wiggling worms. I glanced over at my girlfriend, but could barely discern her silhouette. The alarm clock went off with a sharp, instant shrill, and when I smashed the snooze button with my fist, all I saw was a peach-colored blur striking a hard black object.
I made something for breakfast. Tasted like Frosted Flakes. The coffee was terrible. I left before Melissa woke up; got in my car, stared out the windshield for a few seconds, and then decided why not. Driving was surprisingly easy; I figured the bigger blurs were cars, the smaller blurs pedestrians, and I avoided both. I couldn’t see well enough to tell red from green, so I just moved when the bigger blurs around me moved. At work, I nodded to each vague form. I recognized my boss by his voice, and Stephen by his; Todd by the way he scratched his growing bald spot. Others, whose faces I’m sure I would’ve known, remained anonymous to me, and I tried to smile and nod, wondering if they could see my smile, or if I was as blurry to them as they were to me. I didn’t get a thing done; my computer screen was inscrutable, so I just tapped the keys and turned my radio up. I left for lunch when someone told me to go. I could still recognize McDonald’s, thanks to the arch. God bless capitalism. I ordered the usual, trusted that it was what it was. Returned to work. Did what I’d done earlier. I went home. Melissa had left; I usually called her after work, tried to get her to come over, but last night I didn’t. I had more cereal—I recognized the box—and listened to the television for a few hours. Funny enough, I followed everything. Later, when I went to bed, I fumbled with the alarm clock for a while, using sensory memory to figure out how to turn the alarm on. My wake-up call set, I closed my eyes, and it seemed to me that even the darkness was out of focus.
This morning, I open my eyes, and I can’t see. Not a damn thing.
© 2013 Rind Literary Magazine. All Works © Respective Authors.
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Vox Inaudica 