On Being Born

On Being Born.
By:
Nikki Riles
April 2008

I.
He wasn't awake. Not really. Inside his skull he thought, perhaps, things got a little fragmented. Like spiders crawling over cracked hills.
But he was sure he couldn't be awake. Because if he were he'd have the ability to react. The uncanny motion that the human form was so well know for. Instead he stood still and watched. He was pushed to the back of the seat watching the window washer work.
He remembered the elevator ride. Going up. Seventeen floors. He'd never been past six before. But he remembered the ride - so was he awake then? He moved in past the doors. So he must have been. He moved into the room. Must be.
Then when did he fall asleep?
The washer runs the squeegee across the glass. It streaks. It always streaks. He finds the search for a streak free window unhuman. A field through which we can see but blocks us from everything.
Perhaps he fell asleep when he started to sit. Leaning back against the firm board. Maybe he closed his eyes and forgot it. Hell, he could have even laid his head to rest on the desk. He does that sometimes.
The window washer pulls the ropes and the structure moves further into the sky. Seventeen floors. Surely it was the last one. Seventeen floor. He'd never been past six before.
The door should open sometime. He was sure of it.
But how would he know it if he was asleep?
They'd scream.
Oh. Yes of course. Thank you. They'd scream. Loud and vibrating. A force that would jump through lungs and chest it would reap havoc on the glass. They'd scream so loud the people in the floor below would look to the sky. Floor seventeen. He'd never been past six before.

II.
He dislikes the feel of being gone. Of water moving over his skin but he had no control of the way it flowed. Of firmness pressing against muscle and bone. Of coldness running over it all.
He can hear them whistle a hymn. Or something like it. It's strange but he's heard it before. Like aliens running cords through the air. Like rust and wet dripping onto the floor. Like birth. Like gore.
They twist the last of it out of him. Running down tubes and apparatus. He could spasm and twist - but no momentum. Was this deliberate? They send a man in to clean some of it up off the floor.
He's a window washer too. Hunched down and scrubbing. Across his face the window scorns. He runs the scrub over it. It streaks. It always streaks.
Now he can feel lines running through him. Streaks. Each one like zap. The result of which is usually snap. They wheel him out on cotton.
They put him behind a window, or something like it. Then let him sit. Women check and see where it all comes to rest. They push back the memories of hair. They talk with the people who come and keep their distance. They stare.

III.
He wishes he weren't alone so often. Like dusk and dark mar him a leper. He lies in beds of coton and satin, waiting for sun to come. He's quiet here.
But when the feelings come he screams. He screams louder than the people around him.
He screams like it all surrounds him. Like if he doesn't cast off the net the tide will take him whole. He screams and thrashes. His voice a lost squeak of usless technology.
Wires spark out and tell everyone he's done. They move around him, slow as molasses.
He rises of their accord. Lifting him slow and steady across the sparkling floor.
Down he goes on flimsy frame. They wheel him to the door. Floor seventeen. He's never been past six before.

IV.
Then there is fire. Moving through him on pins and spikes. Absolving him - casting him. He feels the warmth slow and steady.
Like the heater left on too long. Like somone open a window please, because the air is dense and sick. It slicks over sweat and skin. Like that dripping on the burner is him.
He can hear them moving still, like "Hush little baby, won't be too long."
But he feels it consuming him. He's felt it all along. This overwhelming sense of being gone.

V.
When the flames die down he's left to ponder. This glass, permanent, and cast around him. They bury him down deep. Down deep.
Deep as the sixth floor.
He can hear her open the door. Pacing back and forth. Handing off nectar in fist fulls. He likes to slide up sometimes. Like a ship riding through decomposed gore. Leaving her staring, like, was he there before? But he's pulled back under.
She laughs a steady sound. Gives the glass its nectar and wipes it down.
But it streaks. It always streaks.