A Bird and a Body

Ah, the pills...

The pills, the pills – the marvelous pills. One to keep me sane; one to keep me happy; one to slow my happy down; one to stop 'bad' cholesterol; one for my achy tummy. They all have funny names, with 'x', and 'z' in them; Bill Maher says that's a kind of ploy to get people to think that they're spiffy. I think they're spiffy, because they seem to work.

I keep wondering, Ted: do any of these counteract?

Of course, you don't talk, not right now. Mother's in the room, so you're still. You peep your bird-eyes at her, glaring with an iron stare, willing her to leave the room. Or am I projecting my own wishful thinking upon you? She's a mean old biddy, sitting in her teeny-tiny rocking chair, crochet askew in her wrinkled old lap. She won't frighten you much right now, Ted; she's asleep.

Mother's a smelly old biddy. Biddy-bydie, smelly old body.

She just sits there and smells. Smells like old age, old age and piss. Well, pish-posh, Mr. Macintosh – we shall wake her up at noon! Do you think that she'll wake from her wee nap? Do you think she'll be angry, for waking her? Do you think she'll drool a little, drip on her darling doll dress? Will her eyes flick with recognition, then fade to a dazed drop-off? Do you think she'll make us sandwiches, Ted?

I like sandwiches, don't you?

Nah, that's right – you like grapes! Grapes, and grains. Grains and grapes. Good for the shits, shitting is great for the system. I really enjoy trail mix; you don't seem to like the salt, so I usually bring you roasted seeds. You never complain about those!

The clock keeps missing a stroke. I wonder how far off it is now. I have the calendar, and a chocolate bar; you're not allowed to have any. It's all mine. Mother said it was a special treat. I like treats. She never said what it was for; maybe I've been really good lately. I like chocolate, but chocolate doesn't like me. Chocolate makes me hive-y. I hate hives. Makes me think of bees. I don't like bees, either. Bees seem to like me – they're always flying, flying for my ears. Mosquitoes like my ears, too. I don't know why. Do mosquitoes like earwax, maybe?

You're so quiet.

Eegah, Ted. With you staring at Mother, and Mother asleep as she is, I'm all alone here! I don't like being alone. It's been weird, you staring at Mother, since yesterday, and Mother sleeping since Tuesday.