Joy Moore - Day Three
Joy Moore
Day Three
I wake to a hammering at my door. Three sharp raps.
My head whirs, and I roll toward the wall, every inch of my body protesting the effort.
The pillow rubs against my swollen cheekbone and I nearly yelp from the pain, but I manage to remain quiet as I wait.
My heart pounds uncomfortably into the mattress. Sure enough, rap rap rap.
Two attempts, three raps each. It’s the only way I know another day has passed.
In this room, I’ve lost all sense of time.
I WAKE WITH a sour taste in my mouth. My body is heavy as I roll back around. If I didn’t know better I might believe I weigh five hundred pounds. I open my good eye a slit and my headache flares. I close it again.
IT’S DARK NOW and my muscles protest as I stumble forward. One, two, three, four. Five steps. I listen for voices, for the scuttle of feet. Hearing nothing, I open the door and retrieve my tray.
A bottle of water. A muffin in plastic wrapping. A banana.
I set the food on my nightstand and return to bed.
I SIT UP so fast my vision swims. Squinting, I focus on the untouched muffin.
“Naturally flavored wild blueberry” coated in unnatural shine inside its plastic sheath.
I reach for it, and it crinkles beneath my fingers.
I watch my hands as if they’re separate from my body, trembling with the effort of opening a simple wrapper.
The sticky scent of baked goods fills my nostrils the moment the muffin is free, and my swollen eyes water. Exhausted, I sag back onto my pillow, but I don’t sleep.
I lie motionless, Benny’s words playing on repeat.
Because she knows I’m in love with you. My heart aches as time reverses itself, all the way back to the flaming margaritas, to the first mention of TSMSYL.
In hindsight, it’s clear how we ended up here, but who could’ve known back then?
We didn’t throw a pebble into a lake. We shot a rocket, and that rocket hurtled us into the stratosphere.
Before we knew it, we were all trapped in space.
I sit up and stare at the muffin, determined this time. Pinching off a piece, I bring it to my mouth. Everything hurts—my jaw, my eyeballs, my skin—but I force myself to chew until I have no choice but to swallow, and then I break off another crumb, stopping when I’ve had enough.
Tomorrow, after I hear the knock, I’ll do the same, even though food is the last thing I want. I can no longer think only of myself. I need to stay strong for the baby.