Do You Think of Me?

My eyelashes blinked dew off them, wishing I had a neck to turn my head from side to side so that the drops would pile against my cheek instead of pooling in my eye. It takes a while before I can see. Ten, maybe fifteen seconds before I manage to blink out the water to the corners. When the sky before me is finally clear, I wonder: have you thought of me?

I think of you, all the time. Even if we parted ways amicably. 

My lips are frozen in time. They’re slightly ajar, trapped in a mixture of shock and confusion and relief that’s somehow settled into every inch of my face. They’re pale and cracked, as though someone had picked and pulled at my skin, leaving the bruises to heal poorly, allowing them to dry out.

If I had a hand, a finger. If I had a way to feel them I would. And I’d pull at the skin until it bleeds or goes soft again. And if I could beg for a bit of water, just a bit, I’d do so. For a single sip, regardless of whether it is cold or tepid or warm like the sun above me is. And if I had a chance, just one, I would suggest bringing me a glass filled to the brim with water from the fridge back at home. 

“Wouldn’t you fix yourself?” A voice asked me. My eyes turned to find it, but it was just out of the corner of my eye. “To be whole. Instead of a head on the side of the road?” Their shadow fell over me, overcrowding the sun. “To be complete.”

The cracks in my lips tore at their corners as a shivering smile fought its way through. If I had a voice to speak with, I’d tell them that it didn’t bother me. That the ants travelling down my hairline, finding their way into the conch of my ear, were more than enough company. That the birds nipping at my lips, searching for my tongue, were all the conversations I needed. That their beaks, struggling to poke at the marbles underneath my eyelids, and the sky, ever shifting above me, were all I ever needed to see. Instead, I closed my eyes and drifted off into a dream.

Do you think of me? 

No. You can’t think. You’re just spine tied to flesh. Nerves sprouting out of cracks and digging into dirt with each step you take. You’re just bones underneath slabs of string. You’re just blood pouring through vessels beneath the skin. And still, can you think of me? Can you stop in the middle of the night, remembering that you were more than just layers of fat and tissue, and think of me? I think of you. All the time. 

“If you had a wish. What would you ask for?” The voice returned, along with the sound of hands pulling at metal. I had heard them return, had heard them set out tools and get to work where my throat was meant to be, but I’d kept my eyes closed, hoping they’d soon leave. “Would you ask for your body back?” There was a click, a bit of pain and then I was more.

They had given me a metal spine and a fake throat and, judging by their expression, it was meant to be a gift. “Try it out. I’ve worked forty nights and days on this.” They said, crossing their legs and resting their head against their knuckles.

And since now I had a voice it was easy enough for me to look them in the eye and say, “I don’t need it.” The sound that left my throat was prickly, like aluminium being crumpled against the phone. The cracks in my lips struggled in forming the words. My tongue flopped against the roof of my mouth. 

They tilted their head slightly, a bright smile settled against their teeth, “You haven’t answered my question.”

“No.”

I could remember staring into a mirror. The world back then had always seemed small. I could remember the stabbing sensation bursting at the back of my neck. The feeling of my bones, cracking and popping whenever they felt slightly tense. My fingertips, pulling away at the pieces of dry skin on my lips and patting away at the scabs. I could remember the urge to slice away at my thighs, and my hips, and my chest.

“Why not?”

“I like my face.”

“It’s a good face.”

“I know.” I stated. Their eyes narrowed, a small spark in them. They kept quiet, only moving when a small beetle in my ear made itself known, their fingers reaching to pull it out and toss it to the side, crushing it when it attempted to return. “You don’t believe me.” I sighed, the words croaked, hissing against the metal. 

“If you had a hand, what would you do?”

There had been dreams. Dreams of a thumb softly pulling down my eyelids and pressing against the soft, chewy ball. It would do so with care, testing the waters before slowly increasing the pressure. Pushing down until there was a small pop. Then they would guide the ball, slick and small enough to fit in the palm of my hand, out from underneath. 

“I would get a glass of water.” I replied, shifting my gaze to the sky before us. Clouds swirling above our heads. I wondered if it might finally rain.

I had always liked the rain. Back then, my fingertips would reach out the window, allowing the drops to fall onto the swirls of my skin. And the sound of water against the rooftop would settle against me, allowing me to simply lean into the moment. 

They reached out, pulling at bits of metal, and stretching them out.

“Don’t you want to go home?” They asked.

I remember moving through the night, bursting past people passing by and shifting my hands on the bars of a bicycle. The wind pulling at my hair. My lips curled up into a smile, drying out my teeth. My sister behind me, calling out for me to slow down and wait for her. My father watched from afar, counting out each lap as he kept an eye on his watch. My mother -

“Yes.”

“Yes. But-?”

“But?” The word echoed against my ears. I could remember my toes, separating before coming together as they dipped in and out of the pool. The sun harsh against my skin, bits and pieces of my hair finding their way into my mouth even when I tried my best to hold it back with a rubber band. And I remember my reflection. Twisted and wide. A reflection that followed me wherever I went. On fridges, on microwaves, on spoons and forks and knives. It was there in the shower, on the windows of stores and cars. It was in the shade of someone’s glasses and puddled in the water.

My reflection was always the same. Too wide. My shoulders were at different heights and the length of my arms shifted, as did their width. My body … my body was an amalgamation of different shapes and sizes. And I remember going on a walk, my heart beating madly against my chest as ants crawled up and down my arm. I remember falling, letting out a silent scream, and my vision blurred from the rain. The heat visible in the air. And then, my mind turned to oil. My legs popped off, one after the other. My arms followed suit, tumbling to my side and soon, the rest of my body fell. Pieces of me, scattering onto the floor, until all that was left of me was my brain. And even then, if I had a hand -

No. I don’t need my eyes. I don’t need my mouth. All I need to do is scream.

“But I was just bones.” I was flesh peeling off and breath echoing against my lungs.

“You’re not.”

My eyes rolled. “Let me be,” I said. “I’m tired.”

They placed a gentle kiss against my hairline and stood. Their hands brushed the dust off from their coat. They smacked their lips and my sight followed them as they shifted their weight from side to side. Their arms reached out, their bones cracking as they stretched, and exhaustion fell from their shoulders. They turned to me, as though it were not goodbye and a mere ‘I’ll be back tomorrow’.

“Do you think it thinks of me?” I asked.

They smiled, “It’s your body, isn’t it?”

“Is that what you think?”

The man sighed, eyes distant and empty. “I think. Well - I think that it’s six feet under.”

If I had fingers they would curl into the ground beneath me, easing the tension out from the muscles in my cheeks. If I had a neck, I would’ve turned away, finding interest in the horizon. It wouldn’t be enough anyhow. “Yes, but- does it think of me?” I whispered. 

They did not answer.