Through The Back Door

I see him there rotting.  Outside of my door there is a body, and I can’t seem to remember how it got there. How it crawled beneath my porch light. How it must have mustered the strength to curl up and die. Stinking, rotting beneath my peep hole, he’s looking up, into the sky, into the universe above, and he wonders why. It’s like he’s crying, head titled up, in a frozen contorted anguished face of agonizing terror.  Something found him, half dead on my porch last night. And I wonder about my sleep, and my sanity. My dreams, what were they filled with. I recall a night of undisturbed sleep, a relaxing sleep, a sleep. I can’t recall sounds outside my door, I can’t recall a struggle. I can’t recall anything at all. I don’t move from the small hole in my door. I peer down onto the oddly configured body, its eyes, gazing at me like some sort of last hope. Some sort of saving grace. Some mercy.  Assistance. Help.  I leave the house through the back door.



In the evening I return from my day. I return though the back door. I sit in a chair; remove my shoes, and my socks. I pour myself a drink, and I forget.



The next morning, as I put on my clothes, as I put on my coat, and my hat, and reach for the keys. Something etches into my slow brain, something about the day before. I see him there rotting. But his figure, like the falling grace of a condemned soul, is no longer positioned in a pretzel, but bent over. It bows, it prays. Its skin is gone. I can see what it was inside. My sleep. I can’t remember. My dreams, are gone. I open the door. I take in the smell. I close the door. I throw up in my umbrella holder.  His muscles show no sign of stress. There are no chunks missing. He wasn’t eaten. He’s just veins, just tendons, and fat. No skin. A dark hue of red. Some mass on my door step. Something I can’t walk past. I leave the house through the back door.



In the evening I return from my day. I return through the back door. I sit in a chair. I stand from my chair, and look through the peep hole. I watch the darkness. I watch the wind. I watch the lack of heat, the lack of body heat. I watch the skinless man. Still bent over, praying to something. Begging for what he has left. I close my eyes. I reopen, and nothing… Nothing has changed. My cup is filled, and I sit back and relax, and I drain my future dreams of thoughts of the man on my porch.



I see him there… bones. Picked clean. Downside up and swaying. His arms are where his legs should be, his legs where his arms should be. The wind picks him up in swoops, and moves through his ribbed cage, supplying oxygen to the white and sparkling bones. I crack the door open. I poke a foot out. I poke my body out. I look at the mass of oddly placed bones.  I walk around the skeleton, and I take in the sight from the front. I return inside.  I leave through the back door.



In the evening I return from my day. I return though the back door. I move to the door and I look outside. My porch light flickers. There is nothing outside. There is nothing outside. No pile of bones. No rotting body. No pile of muscle and veins. My porch is empty. And I return to my chair. I remove my shoes. I sit. I go upstairs. And I slip beneath the covers. And I sleep. Undisturbed sleep. A peaceful sleep. Sleep.



A faint smoke drifts from the middle of the field. The grass is knee high. And there is nothing around. And I feel the undisturbed wind. The clear and pure air. Oxygen seeps into my soul, and moves through my body. I feel pure. I feel clean. The grass is green. The sky is a dark blue. I approach the smoke, my bare feet sinking in the dirt. I feel the earth. I feel. I watch the smoke, drift from a single piece of wood. There is no fire. There is nothing, but a clearing in this field of knee high grass, myself and a wooden log.  I slouch while sitting up, and I gaze upwards. And up and up the fireless smoke drifts, calm and free. There is no twirling. There is no haste, no hurry, to reach the sky. And I stare at the fireless smoke in amazement. I accept its speed. I accept its lack of heat. There are designs in the stars above, peaking through the fog above. I breathe in the clear air. I breathe. I live. I don’t rot.



I wake up.



There is nothing on the porch that morning. Nothing praying, nothing rotting, nothing. I put my coat on; I put on my hat, and grab my keys. I leave through the front door.



I return though the front door.  I return my clothing to the proper places, and sit in my chair. I retire my socks and shoes, and my glass is filled. I relax, and I forget. I go upstairs. And I slip beneath the covers. I roll over on my side, and I close my eyes. I shut off the darkness around me. I steady my breath. I feel something tugging on my consciousness begging me to drift off. I feel something tugging on my shirt. I feel its hands wrap around my waist. My eyes are open. I can feel something rotting hugging tight around me. I can feel the hands clasping around each other in a hold. I can smell its breath. I can feel its presence.



I dart from the bed. I bolt down the stairs, and I hear it following me. I feel it following me. I hear the thumps it makes down the staircase. I grab a vase from a nearby table. There is a smash as it connects with its face. The thing sits there, bleeding, and cringing. It is crying, head titled up, contorted, and bleeding. I run to my kitchen, and I shuffle through my drawers... I forget…



I see him there rotting.  Outside of my door there is a body, and I can’t seem to remember how it got there. How it crawled beneath my porch light. How it must have mustered the strength to curl up and die. Stinking, rotting beneath my peep hole, he’s looking up, into the sky, into the universe above, and he wonders why.