Tear Down This Wall
I’m pinned to my bed by a nail through my stomach, no control of my arms or my legs or my hands, just sitting there, watching my door, waiting for it all to end. My windows to the outside world, my eyes and ears, are the only things letting me know I’m still alive. How I wish I wasn’t. With a laugh, someone opens my door. Ronald Reagan. Again. All he ever does is talk at me–and leave the fucking door wide open. He points at me, asking me questions which make no sense, telling me to tear down the wall, because he was the one who paid for the microphones, or something or other. His voice is enough to make me feel like I’m going insane. He takes my remote from off the bedside table. This hasn’t happened before. I still can’t do anything about it. He pushes the power button and one of his movies comes on, the one with the monkey. It’s playing at twelve times the speed and is over in about a minute before playing again. Reagan’s voice becomes white noise at this point, a long, ...