By Ouanessa Nana
The Cornfields.
The plant rioted, revolting against the hard, stained ground beneath it like a lesion scarring from a fire. It sat on the interminable popcorn yellow cornfield with a sky just like my dad that never seemed to change.
Itching at the stickiness of the pale blue plastic that fused with the fibers of my skin. It spikes, surging pain as I lift heaving cases of blood into the belt, trying to reject the fresh smell of newly worn gloves. Mildew and rubber I can taste.
If I squinted and tilted my head I could see my past self, screaming my head, my tongue bursting as my teeth fell over. All of my thoughts, a puff of smoke as I withered and decided against the pressure, the industry leaving my remains out to dry as I turned into a fully white clump of bones, just whispered on people’s tastebuds.
I put my arm over my mouth, hacking at the contamination of the rose-colored air, trying not to let the dark sludge drag against my feet. When I first wake up, ripped from my dream, my eyes swollen and aching, I wish I didn’t exist.
It is then that I peel myself from the covers at two am, still in my work clothes from the day before that I regret ever allowing myself to sleep.
Every day, I slip on my worn, dust-filled white tennis shoes and try to ignore the searing pain as bacteria eats away at my feet, my toenails so black I don’t remember the last time I’ve seen the dusty pink shade of my skin underneath.
A rush of sleepiness left my mouth gaping wide open and I almost choked on the cavernous air as my jawbone fractured. Bleary and pale memories nuzzled up against me, taunting me with replays in quick flashes inside my head, showcasing my weakest moments where I’m curled up in my sickness, or twirling my fingers into the nearest wall, It demands me to remember why me why I’m here doing this, for the pennies at the end of the day. But it also reminds me of the hate that curls and churns in my gut.
The grinding of my teeth is what usually stops me from lashing out and barking. One time my coworker got too close and I bit his head off. He still walks around without it, pushing his gray cart with just the base of his neck, a red pulpy pump, no matter how many times I offer to buy him a brand new one.
I do this every day. My feet trip on gravel and cracks on the way to work, anxiety and depression clinging to my chest, the gurgles of my empty stomach a sneak peek of what’s for lunch.
Today I pretend to smile.
The plant is blaring, the bustle of machinery and shorts against the crumble of gadgets and cogwheels. This sound always scrapes against my ears and I flinch at the ricochet leaving a lasting impact on my bones. Caliber, my close confidant and the only person I talked to at this horrid place, perched his knees on a small black box at site seven, the buttery station, stacking metal boxes into the machine and watching as it turned into cases of gleaming large brown eggs and powdered bread. He wiped the sweat off his brow, the thick fabric from his cotton gloves catching on the tip of his hair and tearing it.
He didn’t even notice the blood leaking from his forehead. He still wears the gold metal band his thirteen-year-old daughter Ledger gave him before she died in her sleep because he was here working instead of at home with her to make sure his fever wasn’t spiking and that her medicine was being taken. He still goes home and tucks her into bed as if she’s still there.
He waves at me when he catches me staring and I smile back, shoveling sheets of metal paper into my own machine, releasing my fingers quickly before I lose another one to the beast. It makes me feel warm and I almost forget how much I hate this place, the rust settling in my skull, a constant loop eroding and carving, tethering to the promise of shiny copper coins.
My mental health clenches.
Sometimes it catches me by surprise. The darkness. It runs rampant and seeps out of me, festering, boiling, curdling inside my blood as it feeds off my grief and the blood-stained between my teeth. I can’t help but succumb to it, take it in chillingly because it is better than being numb.
I have no other choice but this. Before I was broke and starving but now I’m scraping the barrel, dodging the gunfire, bandaging hunger like it’s a sticky wound.
It’s the American Dream, isn’t it?
My teeth grind by instinct, pieces of my front teeth chipping.