Distortion

Chapter 1: My Best Friend

I'd like to claim indifference when I saw the news that the world had ended. I'd like to claim that I had nothing to do with it, that nothing I could've done differently would've changed the outcome. But it'd be a lie and a long time ago my best friend told me lying was wrong. He'd said: "Britt Corden, don't you lie to me. Don't you know that the leaves die when you lie, that the planets fall out of alignment, that my heart breaks when you lie?"

It seems that much more happens when lies take place.

On the television screen, the news' anchors talk in circles and riddles. They have no more news than my next door neighbor who sits on the porch, idly rocking her chair and sewing blankets for the homeless. But it's their job- the reporters' - to know more than the average Jane walking down the street. So they speak but all that falls out of their mouths are more lies, myths, rumors, horoscopes, and fears.

My legs curled under my body on the faded, grey couch twitch at the news. My hands knead restlessly at the hem of my tank top. My grey-blue eyes flutter every so often, rolling at dreary words that aren't even remotely close to the truth.

The truth? God, nobody even knows the truth anymore. Lies distort everything.

I can no longer sit on the couch. My body craves movement. The restlessness coincides with the somersaults my brain is performing as it wraps its tangible guts around the idea that nothing shall ever be the same. I stand, my twitching legs shaking beneath my quivering frame. Don't be fooled. Fear doesn't exist inside this being at the moment. Adrenaline shakes my bones from the inside out. My feet drag across the floor, creating a friction of pure heat that races up my soles to my heels where it rests purely against the door of my soul.

The carpet transforms into cool hardwood as I transcend from the living room to the kitchen by doing nothing more than crossing a threshold. It doesn't matter that the hardwood hasn't been swept in weeks. It doesn't matter that dried dog food lines the edge of the wall or that dust mobs have formed a border between floor and wall. It doesn't matter that sand pebbles from the beach are scattered where sandals had been haphazardly thrown across the room or that grainy, dark chocolate melts beneath the stove where an attempt at cooking had ended disastrously.

It didn't matter because my kitchen matched the world's chaos in this moment.

Long legs led me to the sink. Feet tapping against the wood created an uneven pattern that couldn't catch up with my deep intakes of breath. The black countertop and silver sink provided little solace when the world was so quickly turning black and silver itself.

Sorry boys, no white around here.

Flipping on the faucet, I slipped a smudged glass under the stream and pulled it back seconds later. The water bubbled inside the cylinder from which we humans drank. I closed my eyes and downed the semi-warm liquid in two swallows. Then stuck it under the flowing water for a second time.

The kitchen was a compact area. Tight with pointed edges and surprising corners. It took a map, two months of fumbling in the dark, and a flashlight for me to pinpoint every sharp obstacle that would bruise my pale skin like the banana I was so often compared to. The fridge was my friend amongst the catastrophic minefield that I was forced to battle day in and day out when my stomach so chose to scream its protests. The refrigerator provided a shining star in what I considered the darkest of nights. Balanced just inside the doorway, the glowing appliance gave me ample opportunity to seek a simple beverage or snack and then walk away unharmed, to go unbruised another day.

But it was impossible to avoid the entire kitchen for long. Soon, the enemy inside of me -my stomach- would begin the internal battle, requesting something more than a yogurt or bottle of soda. Then, and only then, would I stare down the adversary that was my kitchen, lined with its oak cabinets and granite countertops.