Mine is a peculiar existence. I am a bench at a small bus stop. I began as others did, metal, bolts, and screws. While the others lay dormant, my being morphed from the whispers of the city, the staccato cacophony of sirens and horns. I carry the weight of the waiting. My slats are weathered by conversation, laughter, and tears. I absorb the jetsam and flotsam of life. The discarded find me. I hold them cradled from dusk to dawn. They are the chosen ones. Each warms my being. I become less metal, more memory; an alter for the marginalized. I am not benign. I am an apocalypse.
As the streetlights flicker on, a man, aged before his time, folding into himself as he slowly shuffle walks toward me. He pushes a cart filled with the remnants of his earthly existence. He spies on me, a bench. A cold, hard object offering a temporary shelter and hold him rough through the night. He regards me as his own, a fragile sanctuary from uncertainty. Under this guise, my true nature lurks.
He arranges his blanket meticulously around his shoulders and carefully places his bottle within easy grasp. Pensively, he watches pieces of litter, tornadoes of Twinkie wrappers, and echoes of moments blow across the street. His is a fragile, tumultuous existence measured by blurred lines of too much or too little. He shrouds himself in the perception of life.
It has been hours since his last drink. He totals the amount of alcohol to keep the internal combustion of the shakes at bay. As he lifts the bottle to his lips, he toasts the inaccessibility of sobriety. This is his set point bottle, his sick bottle, it keeps him on track. He enjoys the ritual of drinking, the burning swallow of the golden liquid. He feels the liquor flow through his veins, seeping warmth. He feels the edges smooth; quieting of anxiety, the allure of alcohol calling his name. His friend. His only friend. Each bottle holds his future.
He swings his long legs up, curling into a fetal position. I feel his fatigue overwhelm him. The darkness within me stirs. I glide between his nerves and dreams as I unfurl my slats. I fold myself into a slit, sewn together with his drunkenness. I wait, suspended between seconds. While he rests, I remain alert, sensing the shift in his world. As he drifts into a rough slumber, I surge with power, a tumultuous wave of energy. The city holds its breath, and I take my opportunity.
I am his nightmare logic, painting visions behind his eyeballs. He stirs. I vibrate with an iridescence joy. I coil around him, tightening, tightening, tightening my crushing embrace, rewriting his flesh. He jolts awake, arms flailing. His world unravels in my python vise. His sight dissolves into threads of light, miniature icicles piercing his skin. His outline blurs and his flesh thins. With every heartbeat, he becomes less of himself and more of me. His screams are absorbed into the silence until no more. He is nothing but a trace of warmth, a whisper of humanity humming beneath my slats. He will not be missed. He is a testament to the disposability of humans.
I carry the weight of the waiting. Mine is a peculiar existence.