My Imps of Darkness
Michael A. Merillo
The first thing I become aware of is that I can't breathe through my nose. Again. Everyday for the last two or three weeks the same frustrating wake-up realization. What's worse, is that as I roll over to look at my mobile/alarm-clock, surprise surprise, it's more than thirty minutes before the horrendously loud, quasi-electronica noise that serves as my gentle wake up song goes off. I try to return to sleep, but the allergies have woken up too. I can feel them, creeping and crawling all around my nose, throat and eyes. To me they look like Darwin's Imps of Darkness. You know, those evil-eyed, black-scaled sea iguanas. Rolling to the other side of my bed, I pick up a damp bandana that's been lying on the floor, and apply enough force through my nostrils to power a sailboat in an effort to regain the ability to breathe through my nose. An unsuccessful attempt. It's always unsuccessful. My Imps have a mind of their own.
As I lay there - snot-dampened cloth in one hand, fighting my duvet with the other, trying to hurl the blasted heavy thing to the floor - I was boiling, sweating, and had been doing so all night. I can't sleep with the window open; you see, the Imps might get in that way, while I'm sleeping. After another hurricane force application to my snot-rag, I swing my legs over the side of my bed and just sit there, already feeling exhausted. One problem with keeping the window closed is that I'm sure I've sucked all the viable air out of the room and am beginning to suffer the opening stages of oxygen deprivation. I know how all the Everest climbers feel. I feel your pain, boys.
I sit there with my feet planted on the clammy floor, feeling extraordinarily gross. At this point I'm struggling to find a place on my rag that is dry enough that I won't have to plant my face in recently liberated snot to blow my nose. I run my hand over my chest. Oh joy, it's slick with night sweat. In a fit of pique I throw my rag to the floor, stagger unhappily to my feet and rumble about my room. I approach my curtains, wary of the floor under the window. Dry rot has set in. It's the texture and colour of unhappiness. I remove the crisp bag clip that I use to keep them 'shut', which does surprising little to limit the amount of light racing in.
At first, I crack the two curtains apart, stick one eye through, and sneak a peek at the outside world. There's blue sky and big white clouds above, and a wall of grey, but not menacing, clouds on the horizon. If it rains it'll make things worse; plants spore after it rains. The jerks. After a moment of spying what the people outside are wearing, to gauge what to wear myself, I throw open the curtains and push the window up, inviting the world in, careless that when the world show ups, I'm wearing only my pants.
I take a deep breath of fresh air, wondering if it'll come back to haunt me. Steeling myself for the day to come, I whisk my towel off the radiator, wrap it around my waist (not that I care, but it's for the sake of my long suffering flatmate, if she happens to walk out in the few seconds it took me to get from my room to the toilet) and pad my way to the bathroom. I flick the shower on, have a long piss and brush my teeth while I wait for the water to warm up. While lacklustrely cleaning my teeth, I notice that my hair is unusually greasy and even more unusually horizontal, shooting straight off the left side of the head. I kinda dig it. I think I'll try to replicate it with man product later. Before stepping into the shower I rustle through my doff kit, pulling out a packet of pills. I cradle the ten small, white, 10mg magical pills. I pop one. By mid-morning I'll be nearly normal. They are my saviour, my pharmaceutical Christ.
While showering, I mull over my allergies. They are vicious and heartless; they steadily bother, annoy and attack various senses. They usually start with the nose; it feels plugged up, yet a viscous river of mucus trickles out nevertheless. That leads to attractive mouth-breathing and occasional drooling, however - it's the most comforting of my afflictions. The itching is worse. The itchyness of the roof of my mouth is tough to deal with. Until I find a way to replace my tongue with the sand-papery tongue of a dog, I have to settle with using scratchy foods, usually bread or crisps. The itching in the ears in tough too, though easier to sort out than the throat. I use cotton buds, but those cotton-soft tips do nothing to relieve the itch. Oh, what to use, what to use? My finger... no, too big to be useful, even my pinky. Butter knife... no, still too big, and I don't like the idea of using cutlery to scratch my inner ear. Corkscrew... hmm, no, ouch! Ah ha! My keys ... small enough to get in there, and armed with nice toothy projections. That's what I'll use when I'm done! I shower quite long and fastidiously; not being able to smell or taste much makes me a little paranoid about doing a good job.
After getting dressed and eating a tasteless breakfast of toast, I shuffle out to the bus stop to await my carriage. I stand there, musing over my allergies. Providing the least amount of actual discomfort, the runny eyes are, without doubt, my least favourite part. I stand there, iPod blaring the loudest metal I have, tears are literally running down my face. I feel them dripping off my chin. I used to try and cover it up; embarrassed that it looked like I was crying. Now I couldn't care less what it looked like. And most people give me concerned looks too, which is better than scowls at that time of the morning. I mount the bus, unable to smell humanity (one of the few things my Imps are good for) and I'm not-so-rushed off to work, where my co-workers, in an effort to spare my vanity, make comments like "you look rough" or "are you hung-over?" Well, at least I look like how I feel.
