Twinge

   The horns were blaring, echoing in his half clogged ears. Everything felt upside down, motivated to lay in an intangible stupor. He wasn’t thinking. Not thinking unclearly or bewildered, just not thinking. The cactus winds and abscond sands had a power over every aspect that made him himself. He could still, if vaguely, smell the salted peanuts under his waxy shoes. Could still hear the sound they made, first loud and then dissolving into an agitated mincing. The lights had been opaque, dotted with soot from the passing trains. Their glow came in clusters of color, slick as strung pearls. Sharp pegs in stucco detained handmade flyers along with the sweating paint that needed a new coat two winters ago. He hadn’t read them. Iris, or at least that’s what he’d been calling her, had performed that night with the rest of the clowns, their gluey faces like wads of decomposing newspaper. No one bothered looking for clientele anymore, but still they kept the rides maintained and running for each new sunken night. Iris was the one with a life outside of the disarray, or so he guessed. She was the one who could still smile and look like she meant it. To him this was admirable.

  Garlic. Why did the tracks smell like garlic? Maybe someone had been growing it nearby, but more likely it was the main ingredient in some “gourmet” dish that didn’t quite meet one of the passenger’s standards. He tried and failed to roll his eyes. All of his body was replying like that now; just an argument his brain and limbs couldn’t work through. It was getting colder, lying there amidst the sea of iron. He mentally curled deeper into his jacket, only managing to bring more frost from the idea of warmth. On any other night he would have laughed at that and then call himself a true logician. His lungs were beginning to ignore him too though, his throat pouting uncaringly. He began to recede into an unknown, unstable offer. He didn’t fully trust let alone understand it, but with his mind the only remaining escape, what else was there to do? He felt it tugging at the very thing that gave him the name “human,” his conscience snagging on a loose nail somewhere in an unfamiliar province, forcing him to promptly unravel.

  The blue jay hits the glass hard, much too hard. He only catches a glimpse of velocity turquoise before it is met by a smeary red. His cheekbones grow taut as he opens the window. Stupid bird, his thoughts whisper sadly as a gloved hand reaches out to scoop up the limp creature. He handles it carefully, folding in its beaten wing. Its tiny brown eyes are ajar, its beak open just a hair as if it was ready to release a final screech. He remembers a nest he’d seen a little ways up the road where he buys his vegetables. There are thousands of birds just like this one, hundreds that that particular nest could belong to. Still, he makes the association. He brings it out back, wrapping it in a fairly new dishcloth. He digs deep, letting himself fall into a rhythm with the wood and metal shovel. It’s dark now. The distant horns of trains can be heard. He remembers the one time he’s ever been on a train. He had an awful meal that reeked of his least favorite food. Trying to be inconspicuous about it at the time, he lowered the window when no one was looking and let the mess slip out the window. He chuckles, patting the dirt down over the new grave, walking back into the house.
  
  He felt a jolt as the hallucination ebbed, could almost hear it break off like a tree branch. Hallucination? Memory? It didn’t matter. He sputtered, tasting blood and something chalky. Grinded gravel probably. It was unpleasant, but at least he was feeling something. Standing proved to be too much, so he simply rolled over, still unaware of which direction he was facing. His eyes hadn’t caught up with his other senses yet. He smelled popcorn. Tobacco. Licorice root and faint perfume. His jacket still wasn’t working and his hands were shaking fiercely. Come to think of it, his entire body was shaking. No… the ground was shaking. He inhaled harshly, shards of something like ice jagged in his throat and back. Then his eyes switched on.

  The sky was a smoky lavender with strips of jade. There was the sound of wheels on uneven ground, small stones skipping behind him. He craned his neck to discover he was on a long white stretcher; silhouettes with milky faces pulling him along at a speed that made his now sprinting heart hesitate. Opaque light, dotted with grunge. Vivid color that made him flinch. Words that bent and sculpted themselves into odd shapes he didn’t recognize. Then. The smile. Iris leaned over him, her eyes worried but her lips extended across her teeth in encouragement.

  “You’re okay now,” her remote voice was telling him.

  “Yeah,” he croaked, feeling the first of the bruises begin to materialize, a heavy blanket being tucked around him. The lazy carnival lights flooded with the anxious ambulance’s as he felt his body rise and settle into the vehicle, new hands and voices. He thought that maybe Iris was there sitting next to him, but then again maybe not. The doors shut hurriedly as the muffled sound of horns and sirens echoed in his half clogged ears.