I was struck with an excruciating itch that scorched the arms and legs I no longer had. I still felt it all the same, every lingering, tingling second of it. My screaming desperation had no mouth to escape through. My overwhelming panic made me want to surrender to my helplessness and die. But even my suicidal thoughts were paralyzed, left with no choice but to fight and shout at one another for aural supremacy, at the expense of my own sanity.
My past self turned to me, wearing a grinning face—a gray one sloppily stitched together to resemble my own, too big and loose for her own skull. She grabbed me by the throat and laid me on her lap like I was nothing more than an object. An object like the phone she pulled out of her pocket, waiting for Annie to confirm that her flight had arrived safely home.
Home was Annie, wherever she went. Her embrace was the four walls and roof I called home. So, until we moved in together, I was back to being homesick. My daily medication could only be taken through a screen, in careful doses of messaging and calls. As tempting as it was, I couldn’t overdose, because when diagnosed with LDR, constant communication is the axe that could cut through the distance, but also cut a relationship short. Eventually my screen had to go black, displaying my saddening reflection.
“Dead!” my past self said, roaring with laughter as the stitches on her face ripped open into several bleeding mouths laughing along with her. “My phone is fucking dead!” she continued, as she rummaged through the car, scanning around with manic eyes, drooling all over me. “Piece of shit! All these charger cords are broken!”
Holding me up to her nightmarish face, she shook me violently. “It was you!” she said hysterically with each of her mouths. “You cut the cords, you bitch!” She looked at me with eyes that had turned into black orbs made of glass; her screens had gone black, displaying my maddening reflection.
I was… an axe.