This bed haunts me. It frightens me the way it’s still here, sturdy, unwavering. The tree to which the planks belonged is long dead. Its soul lives in them. It carries a heavier mattress now. The sheets are changed regularly but their memories seep within it. It breathes remembrance.
Would it speak if it had a voice? And if I asked, would it answer me…who I loved the most, who I shouldn’t have let go of, who I must never allow inside again. It must be saturated with what I’ve experienced. It must have seen my dreams, kept my tears, replayed my breaths, dispelled my fears. It must know what it’s like to be me by now. For years now I’ve talked on it, cried on it, smoked on it, drank on it, read on it, slept on it, fucked on it, died on it, prayed on it, grown silent on it. It’s seen my soul as I’ve lain here unconscious and paralysed night after night, as my brain repaired the body it’s attached to. This body that follows me everywhere; one I can’t get rid of.
My fingertips possessed. My eyes drawn to images I crave to decode. My eyes witnesses to crimes I’ve been waiting years to commit. My ears prone to lies that sound good in the darkness. All bleed into this bed. This black lacquered existence I come back to daily. I don’t spend much time on it. I’ve only ever used it with my eyes half closed. The colours I adorn it with are specific.
Like me, it prefers winter. Summer deforms its edges, as it does mine. It distorts and confuses its purpose. The new mattress suits it well. It enhances it and rounds off its corners. They were almost sharp before, now they’re elegant. It’s embraced it. I’m still doubtful. I only sleep on its left side, ever since the accident. Somehow, though, it’s always been where I’ve belonged; on the left side of everything. The sinister one, the peculiar, the least prominent but the more profound. In a way, my left side has always been more prevalent.
I’ve thought about digging through its layers with my fingernails, exposing my deeds and destroying my delusions, one story at a time, one soul at a time, one collective set of memories at a time. It’s known me since childhood. It’s seen me grow up, grow wise and impatient. It’s lain there immobile but present, silent but breathing. It knows everything.