(1) My roommate stirs. Her alarm rings at 9 AM, and she hastily turns it off to avoid waking me. My half-waking dreams are all the possible ways the email I sent last night could be answered. They range from “We’re sorry to hear you felt that way” to “Well, it wouldn’t have ended this way if you weren’t as worthless as you are.”
(2) I don’t want to wake up. Sleep offers nothing better.
(3) The snooze button should have broken by now.
(4) It’s 10:30. I have somewhere to be at 11. My alarm goes off again.
(5) Snooze.
(6) Snooze.
(7) What if I just disappeared? Fell off the face of the planet, faded into oblivion. Rotted in my sheets. What an inconvenience I would be, even then, decomposing under Blair Arch or on the steps to Murray-Dodge cafe. How concerning that I would serve a better purpose, nourishing life in death.
(8) Last night I biked to—
(9) Where was I biking?
(10) The air is cold. February is cold. Each breath is cold. I am burning. I let my bike fall. I lay down on the pavement, stare at the sky. Orion’s Belt. It’s the only one I recognize. Pride was his downfall, but he became those beautiful stars. Did you know stars burn? Surrounded by the vacuum of cold space, they burn. I burn. It’s cold.
(11) A passerby asks me if I’m okay. It’s 2 AM, and I don’t look okay. I’m dying. We all are, but I feel it acutely. I wish the world would stop spinning. I wish the planet would pause, give me a break. I pray daily for another pandemic. How selfish of me. People died. So many people died. I survived then, but I’m dying now. Just one moment to breathe, please.
(12) My alarm goes off again. If I don’t get up now, I never will. I say a prayer. It’s not my own strength by which I leave my coffin.
(13) I bike to Dillon. I’ve gotten in a bad habit of talking to myself aloud in Spanish or Korean. La gente va a pensar que estoy loca. 죽고 싶어. 살고 있어.
(14) Me convertí loca. I don’t remember when; I didn’t write it down in my GCal. I was doing so well, too. How quickly it all fell apart.
(15) I rehearse for a play. I am not myself. It’s easier this way. The person on stage is a puppet, a marionette I manipulate, a mouse in a cage I taught tricks to survive. The play is written, the lines unchangeable. The conflict will be resolved, so long as you stay long enough to see the end. How unsatisfying it would be if the principal actor left the stage, if the character constructed by my actions died and the story never was complete. The character is the prey, and I the infallible hunter.
(16) I leave my bike. I walk, how novel. I walk to Small World. I need coffee like I breathe. It’s already 2 pm. Everyone else orders a medium chai latte with almond milk, or an oat milk latte with lavender syrup please. I order a black coffee and leave.
(17) I enter Firestone. It’s such a beautiful building. I only have bad memories of this place. Late nights, getting kicked out, crying in a C Floor cubicle. If I wanted to, I could disappear here. I stick to the collaboration zone, keep the temptation at bay.
(18) By the time I leave it’s dark again. My eyes scan the sky. I have to find Orion. I have to. I can’t look away until I do. I search and search and search. Where is that arrogant man? I find him. I find myself. The thought has never crossed my mind that I should look for the scorpion instead.
(19) It took me months, but I found the scorpion. I see her everyday, as I wake and brush my teeth and wash my face. The scorpion watches me, waiting until my back is turned, until I’m so self-assured that I lower my guard. She watches me as I walk to class—my bike is still broken from when I crashed it—caught in every window and mirror and puddle of water.
(20) The scorpion nearly got me that rainy night. My bike slipped out from under me, and I hit the ground hard. It was an accident. That’s the line I rehearsed. I was scared. But I survived the scorpion. I’m not like the stars, dead and beautiful and haunting. 살고 싶어. I refuse to be Orion. I don’t know what I am, but I’m still here to find out.