invisible

by Josh Price

I saw her. She was going to be there later, she said.

She walked in long after I’d passed out.

They all hung around me like phantoms and at some point everyone left, went back inside the house to watch movies. I slept in the trailer.

I opened my eyes in the dark, neon beer light throbbing so bright I’m nothing but my shadow on the wall. There is something wrong and I need to go outside.

I sit up. Stand. Walk around.  Don’t think about it and maybe this bad feeling will pass. Count to ten. Say the names of objects in the room. I stumble out the doorway, trip on the stairs and wind up on the ground.

I wake up in the dark outside the trailer, soaked in something. “Don’t drink with the pills,” the Doctor said, “Oxycontin is strong pain medication.”

The dark becomes morning and I catch myself staring at the sun. I pull out my eyes, to keep them from burning. I clutch them in my hands. I will hold out my eyes to her, sun reflecting on shiny retinas. I need to find my way, I’ll say. I can’t see anything without you.

I’d held out my eyes to her before but she didn’t take them. She had eyes for someone else. If she gave me the chance again I’d take it, throw it on the ground and stomp on it, I’d sneer at her for daring to hurt me. I am always pretending the reality of me isn’t true.

So now, I’ll stay curled up on the ground, beaten back by the world, pulled into a vacuum where hope is gone and I’ll tell myself I don’t know anything.

What happened last night? Don’t drink with the pills, the Doctor had said. No one’s awake to let me in the house. Blinded, I get up; feel my way through the grass and onto the back patio. I put my eyes back in and try to go inside. I try the back door and it’s locked. I don’t know if I’m trying to get into the house or out of the world surrounding me.

I needed water, so I went around to the side of the patio, turned on the hose and drank, wiped my mouth with my sleeve.

I found a window and looked in. Yeah, sure, I could see again. I could see her inside, asleep on the couch, someone else under the blanket with her.

I went back out to the trailer thinking, if I pulled out my eyes once more, dug a hole and buried them in the yard, I wouldn’t ever have to see again.

Photo of Josh Price

BIO: Josh Price loves gardening, music, and cemeteries. He lives in Northern California with his patient wife and terrible dog. Trailer Park Ocean is his debut chapbook, available through ThirtyWest Publishing, featuring "Philemon" which was nominated for a Pushcart Prize. The Los Angeles Review, fauxmoir lit Mag, Scribble Magazine, and others have published his flash and short fiction. Visit him at Instagram and Threads @s.joshuaprice, and at josh-price.com.