metamorphosis

on shelter

your eyes slowly open.

stuttering awake, you recognize the familiar texture of running water.  you look down to find callused hands rinsing lukewarm water over your knuckles.  a washcloth is taken to your bruised fists and is calmly lathered in a moderate-smelling soap.  bubbles cover the dried blood that threatens to come alive once more.  you dig your fingernails into your palms in anticipation of a chiding tone; the one that meets your ears is familiar and reminiscent of a good part of home.

"have you eaten?" the voice whispers, leaving soft trails of green around your posture as you kneel on the ground.  your knees are raw from falling on the cruel carpet.  a pillow is your feet.  was there carpet there?  where did it go?

your stomach growls in response.  you are met with the foods you grew up on--not spaghetti or ramen, though--and the pleasant smell of tomato soup feeds your nose and overwhelms the taste buds near the back of your throat.  you lift a bowl to your mouth; it is only bitter enough to slightly notice.  this meal would be perfect if something weren't missing.

you are urged to lay down, although you feel slightly uncomfortable with that idea.  there was something on your mind earlier that you felt like you should get done, but now you feel like you would benefit from laying down and doing it later.  a cold but soft hand rests on the small of your back and gently scratches it, only it is just below the area you were trying to reach yourself.  "calm down," you say to yourself.  you are being helped right now.  relax your mind.  do not overthink this.

"do you think you could scoot over a little?" you say, feeling only a little cramped by the lack of room you feel like you have.  you've laid in this bed for days, but now it feels like there is something quite noticeably off.  any time you try to find motivation to get up, there is something blissfully holding you down.  you feel nothing but overwhelming guilt--even selfishness--when you consider ever leaving the bed.  it is so comfortable there; well, almost. 

the more time you lay there, the more time you think of all the things that could be improved in this bed.  the covers only cover up to your triceps, whereas you feel the most comfortable when blankets are pulled up to over your shoulders.  the mattress is easy to sink into but you've been laying there for so long that you feel like you are being wrapped around the mattress more than laying on it.  what you are laying on is hard and feels stiff regardless of how you are laying.

you feel awful for even wanting to get up.  you have been bathed, lathered in soap, put into comfortable clothes, and you feel like for a brief second of time you were not hungry.  you've been fed filling meals.  you've been dusted off and put back into the world... right?

it is hard to pull out of the sheets, but it is done.

you look back at the bed you have rested in to find that the mattress had stuffing coming out of the sides, explaining why you felt like you were sinking.  the sheets did not help; they were a fabric interpretation of quicksand.  your hair--ratted--will take many on many brushings to revert back to normal.  you were fed, right?

why are you still hungry?