Scrape, bored monster.

          Scrape the spittle as it dribbles from the corner of dry lips down my quivering chin. Cool metal is pressed against my face and drawn up over ivory skin like the clawed boogeyman's hand might carefully collect his sleeping victim's tears from under hooded eyelids. “Shhhh, Shh,” the monster says to me, her dead green eyes averted as she lifts my head, a sharp pain rising for a moment in my neck, to puff my sweat-stained pillow. Her floral perfume, overpowering, almost makes me gag. She forces a smile at me, her polished teeth as bright as her outfit, and her Splenda-coated voice rings: “Oh, so sorry to have woken you up, dear! Well, it's morning, so it's about time anywhosits. I'll get you your breakfast.” She swivels about and struts out of view, her heels clacking loudly against the sterile tile. They're no doubt some ghastly glossy color like pink or red or white.

          Immobilized, I wait, the gray speckled tiles of the ceiling returning my gaze, bored. There are 143 of them in total. The patterns on each make them unique, and some are even lucky enough to be attached to a fluorescent light, an elite crowd basking in someone else's bright fake glory. Disgusted again, I close my eyes, and observe the redness filtered through my eyelids. I wish I could rub them so I could watch those strange swirling patterns speak to me and leave imprints on my vision when I open them again. Whenever I do that I like to imagine I'm beginning to see a faint glimmer of some other world, some other reality that for a couple lingering seconds leaves its beautiful marks on my eyeballs. A sigh escapes my lips. Again I wish I had jumped from a higher window.