Moldy

 The drip was slashing away from my grey ceiling. Every crack against the floor was subtle but loud. As my chin pressed deeper into the concrete floor and small hairs flowed away, I felt the cold breeze on my shoulders. This low on the ground - it was both an advantage and a soothing. I felt each whiff of air as it passed by, felt each second bring the drop of water closer to the ground. Now, I arched my chin higher, spooned my body forward, and stayed completely still on my stomach. Any second now the water droplet would fall. And if it did, it would land straight on my forehead. The droplet stretched. It looked like it didn’t want to fall — like it was trying to hold on. For a moment, she thought it pitied her. I always had a fascination with the texture of materials, with the presence of different temperatures or shapes. And this droplet was one step closer to a new experience. As I blinked away the seconds, I could not look away from the center of the ceiling’s corner. It was completely molded. Each stroke of green slashed through the roof, as if it were a complex web - an artwork. The droplet lowered, elongating against the mold. It stretched on and on and o... slur drip.. it collided directly with my forehead. It was cold and small and unforgiving. The stench of the mold hit my nose before I could slip my body away from the exposed watery floor. It was murky and intoxicating - something between dying bread and the leftover orange peels. It reminded me of sweet old honey home. I rushed over to the bathroom mirror, my eyeball almost touching the clear mirror. As my fingers stretched out my forehead to find the droplet mark - they were quickly redirected to something more profound. A lash. It stood right below my eye. Its shape that of a half moon - right above my scar. I took my tongue out, twisted it sideways, and let it bend away. I needed to catch this profound luck. Where I came from, it was best to catch it and leave it in my neck, between the tight layers of my peach blouse. Right below the dark black vest covering my shoulders. It took a while before the wetness of my tongue felt the sharp and delicate brush of the lash. It was tiny. It was still and bendable. I quickly took it off my tongue, pointing it directly between me and the mirror. My eyes were wide open. In the reflection I could see their white canvas overflown with red trails. Little trains linger on them, like the ants on my farm. They move in pattern as do my hands. My hands are now my master - my soul. They moved me around, they flung me to the side. As I hold them high, I feel my back against the cold white walls. My body is now bent. My smile is as wide as that bent.