Sleeping in Chaos

 

            Gladys suffered under her self-inflicted agony, a strange, twisted interpretation of a dream that never actually existed, a vision of greater times that likewise never existed, her thoughts ever vacillating in an analog clock like manner, the large brass pendulum in constant movement unable to make up its mind. Living in opulence, she loved the comfort, the ease, and the never-ending interaction with those she loved, but she had built an odd device in the backyard of her home that sat unused, unloved, and ignored for years on end, with the thought that one day it may be useful.

              She would spend her days pacing from the kitchen to the living room to the bedroom and back again, a cycle of unproductivity and distraction, doing her best to not think about the decision that ultimately would need to be addressed. Eventually her vacillation stopped, as well as her pacing and she stood at the kitchen window, leaning against the edge of the sink, staring at the object for hours on end, wishing she could think it into activity.

              Mid-week arrived and she slipped on her shoes, crossed the deck, and stood before the aforesaid object with a lighter in hand. She checked the fuel level, the air filter, and the concrete pad upon which it stood and then pleased with the state of things, she lit the fuse, sat on a deck chair, and watched the device rapidly propel itself into the clear blue sky, punctuated with one or two fluffy white clouds. As it disappeared from sight, she re-entered the house to be interrupted by the ringing of the doorbell.

              Greeted by two police officers, she feigned ignorance of a recently launched rocket and presented a surprised and disgusted face when presented with the details provided by multiple neighbors. The officers searched her backyard and when questioned about the small concrete slab, she explained it away as the stand for the tetherball pole. Seemingly satisfied with the answer, the officers apologized and continued on their way, approaching each house in the neighborhood.

              Still bored and needing a distraction, she turned on the television to watch a news report of a pending hurricane in the area, which was unusual, as hurricanes were certainly not native to this part of the country. Within the next thirty minutes, a warning alarm went off from the nearest fire department and she watched as every neighbor around her fled, leaving her alone. A second knock on the door startled her but she did not respond, knowing full well that it was probably some well meaning neighbor or a disaster response person there to offer help. She muted the television and read the text floating across the bottom of the screen, refusing to act, or be even slightly concerned.

              "The rocket has done its job," she thought, knowing that as it reached just above cloud level it released an abundance of nano-particles to stimulate activity in the atmosphere, prompting the disaster that would soon touch everything with a one mile radius. She retreated to the basement to turn on the television there, again with no sound, to listen to the ensuing devastation as her house was torn apart, leaving her completely and totally alone.

              When the sounds stopped, she ascended the basement stairs and sat in an open space that once was her house, surrounded by debris, broken glass, splintered lumber, sparks, and sputtering waterlines. She kicked aside a few boards and sheetrock to uncover a book of poetry, knowing that reading would distract her from the reality of this situation. Everything had fallen silent as she sat surrounded by destruction, loss, and chaos, all power and water having been turned off.

              The occasional car entered the cul-de-sac to release a few occupants who would spend a few hours digging through the rubble of what was once their home, looking for something of value, something that would trigger an emotional response, to only leave shortly thereafter. She could hear the calls of the disaster response workers, the cries of neighbors, and offers of help but she ignored them all, content to distract herself with her silence and poetry. "You have to destroy in order to rebuild," she told herself.

              She turned her chair in order to lift her feet out of the pool of water that had been building beneath her and continued her self-imposed, self-deceiving destruction, to be joined shortly thereafter by a very large frog who mirrored her silence, with an odd, content, blank look on its face, as if it had some question to ask but was lacking the vocabulary to do so. She closed the book, looked at the frog, made eye contact and maintained that eye contact until it became too dark to continue.

              She picked up her slimy companion and began walking away from the house, away from the destruction, away from the neighborhood, and toward the lights of the downtown that she formerly despised so greatly but now she was content to embrace it as nothing else remained. The walk was a simple one, following a slight decline toward the bright and shiny tinsel of the clearly depraved city, she paused, looked back the neighborhood, the only stretch of land touched by the hurricane she had created and released.

              She lifted her small companion up to eye level to block out the devastation that sat upon the hillside now in front of her but soon to be behind her. Suddenly confused by the odd combination of variables that flooded her mind, she turned once again and descended into the city with a constant stream of monolog to the frog, it merely looking at her and unsurprisingly non-responsive. It had no advice to offer, it had no input or suggestions to guide her on this strange descent.

              After three nights of sleeping beneath cardboard in an alley, her hunger became unbearable, motivating her to find employment as a dancer, despite the numerous "Now Hiring" signs across a multitude of vocational possibilities, it was money that moved her to descend to this new low. After a week of work, the frog began to talk to her, to offer up advice, and to make suggestions about next steps, as he too was a bit leery of the current trajectory.

              This odd couple found an apartment for rent that barely met their needs, though unfurnished and dirty, it was close enough to work, to shopping, and to other likeminded city dwellers. Like a fog drifting in from an unexpected change in weather, the once glorious past faded into obscurity and confusion, leaving her remembering nothing but the first day she rescued the frog from the wreckage of a previous hurricane, details of which she could not remember.

              She sat on the floor, staring into the frog's eyes, second guessing the wisdom of listening to an amphibian for life advice, surely one not licensed in psychology by the state, but she couldn't help herself, finding solace or guidance from nowhere else, from no one else, at least no one she was willing to consider. As abruptly as the frog had started talking, it suddenly ceased all guidance, no matter how frequently or aggressively she tried to interact. The following days, weeks, and months descended into lengthy stretches of thoughtless distraction that led to blatant disregard for anything of value, until the authorities were called, and her emaciated, unkempt body was extracted from the empty apartment floor. 

            The beautiful house and peaceful neighborhood that once housed her now sat rebuilt, revived, a beautiful restoration of what once was.