My Wife Locked Me in the Basement

My wife loves me. I remind myself of this as I stare at the steel door at the top of the stairs. I don’t try to open it. I know that it is locked. I can't remember how I know that.

I can’t remember a lot of things.

Or that's not right. I do sometimes. Time is just slippery, present devouring the past in an endless ouroboros. The memories slither to the surface before they wriggle away again, too fast for me to grasp.

I can feel them wriggling. I feel them in my ears, behind my eyes. In the throbbing in my temples.

Read More