A Shell

I

She drums the kitchen table with chapped fingertips, knees pressed flush against sturdy mahogany legs; today it sounds hollow. Her steady motions have borne smooth ridges into the surface, notches that she feels strangely proud of. The irregular slopes, scooping hills drained of pigmentation, will be evidence that she was there after all. 

She tilts her chin back to see what lies above her head. The room is a winding conch shell, getting smaller and smaller as it stretches higher, tightly coiling until the very tip, where it is thin as a pin. Her legs ache, pleading to be stretched, but there is no room in this space. No space in this room. Its walls feel like chalk, instruments of that horrible squeaking noise when her boots bite into the corners. They unleash plumes of white smoke. 

The cacophony of nails has pattered on for what seems like ages, something she’s still never gotten used to. It’s getting too loud now. Out of instinct, her palms fly to her ears, only causing the beating of her pulse to crescendo. She is alive. The table drumming does not stop: Tap tap tap. The waiting game, the echoing of her percussive limbs, the thoughts that have no substance. Has it always been this bothersome? Perhaps it’s because she’s thinking about it. She thinks too much. 

Wait. Has that crack always been there? At first it looks like a single dark hair plastered to the wall, but then she sees roundness, something shiny. A silver bubble bound by surface tension bulges from the little wall canyon. It expands. The liquid pops and splashes and flows into the shell.

II

He has become a shell. There’s nothing else to it, he decides. He does not have a house, so he is his own house; his house his shell, his shell his body. The open plains reflect a quiet sheen that cuts into him with the precision of a dart. And the floor is liquid metal, perfectly still, a lustrous plate that his feet can trod on without disturbing the flatness. Wind whistling past his cheek, he whispers to it his wish: He wants something to hold onto, something that won’t slip away. 

He grimaces. His jacket has gripped the nape of his neck like sandpaper. It’s made of steel, freezing with such intensity that it melts to his feet in a messy puddle on the floor. And now it has become the floor. And now in its smoothness it is not messy anymore. He’s glad. 

Then he catches a glimpse of himself in his polished shoes, in the mirror like hills and the glassy clouds that look ripe enough to harvest and eat, a crunchy fruit. It’s soft, his face. Like nothing he has ever seen before, springing to his touch and growing flush as . . . well, he’s never seen such a color. Ten feet away there is a mound protruding from the earth, encased in a patina of silver. A pea-sized hole in the side of this hill peaks his curiosity, and he peers inside. It’s a pale cave, where drops of his jacket have begun to meet the calcified interior. Strange.

“Hi,” he says. She is observing the rising tide of liquid mercury when she hears his voice. It’s gushing into the shell and she splashes her feet around, feeling it seep into her socks. They lock eyes. 

“Hey,” she replies. “Who are you?”

“I’m not sure.” He tugs at his collar. “What do you see in there?” She’s not sure why she shifts her gaze up to the swirl above her head. She could have told him what it looks like with her eyes closed.

“A cone. Like a snake that has stacked his own body to get a better view.” He pictures a snake zig-zagged like a chubby staircase. That’s probably not right, he thinks. They both know that he’ll never witness what she has described because the hole is tiny and his view is limited to the sight of her face. She gestures towards the substance that has progressed to her knees, lapping softly. “What’s out there? Is it more of this stuff?” 

“Yeah. It doesn’t move like that though.” A comfortable silence sets in for a minute. He leans his elbows on the shell’s exterior and sighs. She knits her eyebrows, still observing the substance rise.

“It’s not easy, huh?” They smile together. It’s past her chin now, sluicing around and painting the curved walls into a funhouse mirror. He nods, “Yeah.”

My eyes flit open slowly. It’s dark, but I can see the shadows of my ceiling fan, soft stripes dancing across my walls. It’s 6:00 am and the sun is just about to rise. Another dreamless night. A yawn and a huge breath in. I peel the covers off, wincing because the heat wasn’t on last night. The floor sends a wave of shivers rushing from my toes to my chest. Today I’ll make tea before I trek to school. My mug cradles two satchels of chamomile, and they are soon submerged by scalding liquid. A golden puff fills the water, and I set it down. Reaching for the sugar, my hand stops midair. The silver of the sugar cap gleams vehemently, and for a second my reflection looks foreign, staring back at me. I blink. Jesus, do I look tired. I leave the house but forget to put the sugar back. It stays on the wooden table, still as ice.