Paranoia

Paranoia

Seeping through the smoke soaked curtains, the twilight fills my living room with peaceful serenity. Seated on a love seat, which hasn’t seen any love since the day I brought it home from the store, I take a deep breath. My lungs expand, my chest rises, and then I let go. The trapped air eagerly escapes with a hiss as it clears my clenched teeth. I am afraid to open my mouth—the scream could awaken the women in my bedroom.
    Thanks to the twilight, the atmosphere lingers on the mellow. Or so it seems. Should I look? I try moving my foot. The muscles respond, with an attitude, and the foot slips as I put it down. I must still be bleeding. I force myself to look down. In a puddle of blood, my foot looks like an alabaster boat about to cross the Red Sea. I follow the curve to where my ankle should be, only to find a tangled mess. The tendons, staring at me from a deep wound, look like something an insane man with too much rope at his disposal could have done if he had any artistic inclinations and no knowledge how to tie a knot. My head spins. I feel faint.
     I pull a cigarette out of my pocket and light it. This distraction, although momentary, allows me to regain my composure. Feeling stronger, I look down, and find my foot again. I follow the bloody path from there all the way to the bear trap in the middle of the room.
    If only I wasn’t so paranoid, none of this would have happened. Who the fuck ever heard of bears in skyscrapers.

Copyright 2012
This story appeared in Coffee, Cigarettes, and Murderous Thoughts.