Wildes Writing

Tim Wildes

I woke up today with spit on my chin and sweat down my back. My head hurts and I can’t smell anything.

I was hungry and I needed to piss.

Today was gonna be busy, I was going to see my friends. We’d all meet up in the forest, like we used to. We’d hammock together, like we used to before. I think it’s been a while since we’ve met. I’ve missed them. It’s not abnormal to miss those you care about, even over a short period of time. It’s not abnormal to miss those you cared about.

It’s beautiful out today, a clear sky, there’s a nostalgic breeze. I breathed in and out a couple times to verify its presence, like pinching myself in a dream. The trees dance together like a trained act, demonstrative of their prowess and sure of their step. They are beauty and grace touched by a gentle sunlight, fraught with the divine.

We walked into the forest, and I saw gravel; I hate gravel.

We walked into the forest, and I saw gravel; I walked past the gravel.

We got to our meeting place in the forest, a cleared earthen circle, fortified by a sparse fence of trees. I said hello to them, they said hello to me. My friend took out a flattened pack of blue American Spirits, he offered me one and I declined. We listened to our music loudly, real loudly. The music was too loud, but I didn’t say anything, lest they regard me. We listened to our music as my friend took a drag off his stale cigarette, humming the melody. All my friends were lost in their own conversations, who knows what about?

I wanted to talk but I couldn’t, I was elsewhere.

I showed up again and changed my mind; I could take a smoke. How relieving, to be with my friends now, I’ve missed them. Satisfied, I put the cigarette out on my arm. It stung, bad.

“Didn’t that hurt?”

“Not now it doesn’t”

I got dizzy and confused, back in the ditch, elsewhere again.

            We left the forest a little after 7, the sun teasing her way down. My friend told me he was hungry, then my friend told someone else he was hungry. We decided to get dinner. I was hungry and I had to piss. My friends ate their burritos. I watched my friends eat their burritos. They talked about their families at home, they talked about their friends far, then they talked about themselves. I feigned addition to their conversation. I remember these people in my own life, I’ve only forgotten them. I know they had bodies and hands, they had faces and voices and the like. It was a good story I’m sure, whatever happened. What ever happened anyway to the chubby kid they knew? The one who laughed too much, who loved to read?

            I’d tell you what happened, but I don’t want to.

My friends finished their meals and eyed each other, then me.

“What happened to that chubby kid?”

“Who?”

“He laughed too much, remember? Always had his nose in a book?”

“Oh. I’ll tell you what happened.”

            My friends and I called it a day, I took the bus back to my apartment hungry, needing to piss. I went back to my quiet apartment and sat in the dark for a while because my eyes hurt. I closed my eyes and fell asleep there on my couch. A couple hours later I woke in a cold sweat: this’ll be a good story. I was so cold, but I kept the AC running; it felt good to me.

So, what happened to him?

I killed that fucker and took his name!

Through my yellowed teeth I coughed out something to pass off as a laugh.

            I left him there on that gravel road.

            Anyway, who misses him? Remembers him?

            I certainly do.

            Nevertheless, he died that day. Stinking of ash, I woke the next.

So what day it is anyway?

            “Today”, I think. I was satisfied with my answer.