Method of Mancy

I get lost. In my own house, in my own rooms. The room is empty; the only things with a pulse in here are me and the clock. The ringing of tinnitus in my ears roars in competition like an orchestra tuning up. Something is wrong. In the back of my head–in the corner of my eye, something is wrong. Something is wrong.

I’m standing somewhere in my room but I don’t remember why I came here. I walk out. Stand in the hallway. I must be going somewhere; I’ve moved. But I don’t really know why. I just stand there listening to the ringing. The only light in the large room comes from the small lamp by the door, suspending me in a small glowing circle that cuts into the darkness.

I wonder how long you’ll be gone. I wonder if while you’re away you’ll realize you didn’t love me that much after all, that you wish you’d left sooner. No. No no no. I stare at the console table and try to block it all out, try to focus only on the orchestra beating against my head.

I’ve turned you over and over in my mind like a coin, my fingertips now tasting of metal. I don’t understand how I got here. I don’t know where I am. I don’t know where you are or when you’re coming back. I get lost. 

I get lost searching my mind for an answer. I get lost trying to make it across the room. I get lost when I drive home, disappearing into the streets of our city. I’ve missed my turn– I’ve missed my turn– I’ve missed my turn– I–

I’ve missed my turn, I just know it. I need to turn around. I need to turn around; I’m going the wrong direction. I didn’t take that turn that leads up your street. I’m going the wrong direction. I’m lost.

Every single time, I get lost. I get lost– I get lost– I–

I get lost.