Day -46, July 27th, 6:29:59

He clutches his gut and winces. He can feel the movement but dares not acknowledge it—because it, whatever it is—is moving—through him—in him. He lets out a hurling kind of grunt, and then, dreadful pulls back the white covers to see deep red spread across the sheets, his t-shirt, his hand. In the shadows of the covers, in the low morning light, he slowly removes his hand only to see a massive worm, as thick as one of his fingers pushing its way out of his stomach. He cries out, rolls on to his side, and—

He awakens. In a panic he searches the sheets, bleached as though they were new. He pats around his stomach, but the trawling feeling and the motion is gone, though he is drenched in sweat. He turns and there she is lying beside her, her hand clutched to her stomach, her beautiful yellow dress ruined by a massive blood stain. He stammers, paralyzed and then reaches out to help her. As he does, she widens her beautiful silver eyes—silver like tinted glass on a bright day—and she mouths the word, “No.” Then—

He awakens. In a panic he pulls back the sheets, but then stops… ponders. He listens to the empty quiet of the room and nearby thunk thunk of a train crossing the river. Good morning, Joseph. Then, the laugh. I have devised the plan. Today the watching ends Today will be exciting. There is a click and the alarm sounds. Joe rolls over and hits the snooze button, looks up at the ceiling and cannot close his eyes again. He feels a lump in his throat. What do you want!? Then, a beat, and God if I could just see her once. Just once. Here. He runs his hand down his face to wipe off the sweat and then pushes the covers off and slides his feet to the floor, sitting up in bed. Standing and stretching he makes his way into the kitchen to turn the coffee pot on, all set up to… the coffee pot is empty. Shoot. All right, deli it is.

He stares at his coffee cups in the sink. He opens the cabinet and stares at the coffee cups on the shelves. Coffee spoons. He thinks about throwing them all out and getting new ones. Moving away from the cabinet he stares through the tiny window in his kitchen that looks down into the alleyway and across the next roof at the East River. Nothing is stirring and he watches the light of the sun begin to wash across the Brooklyn Bridge. It is going to be a scorcher.

In the bathroom, Joe stands back from the water as he lets the hot water get going in the shower. As soon as it starts steaming he begins the delicate process of adjusting the cold water in millimeter turns to get that just-right-warm-water temperature. He steps into the water and lets it wash over him, running his hands through his mop of wavy hair. He always shampoos first, to keep dirt from elsewhere from getting into his hair. Then he works his way down from the top, looking down at the drain as if it were some kind of threat.

There is never any way of knowing what to wear on a given day so Joe works his way through his closet from left to right. He owned only jeans except for one pair of cotton slacks for special occasions and a tailored wool suit for very special occasions and funerals. Everything is hung. He grabs the first long sleeved shirt on the left of the long sleeved shirt section and puts it on. He gets the first pair of jeans on the left of the jeans section. He looks at them, notes the worn areas, notes the holes, notes the slowly wearing seams.

Joe walks from the bedroom to the living room where one window looks out to the Brooklyn Bridge’s Western tower. Next to the window on a small table is a Torii with several photographs and newspaper clippings about the Brooklyn Bridge. Beneath the table is a basket with many letters that Joe has written. He takes one of the letters and reads it.

October 9th, 1999

Dear Brooklyn Bridge,

John Roebling, Thomas Blake, Thomas Douglas, Francis Demel Drake, Michael Duddy, Patrick Collins, John Nakis, James McLaren, John Murphy, Johannes Heinrich, Walter Solley, Neil Mullen, William Reardon. These are only a few of the names that I have found of the men who died while building you. During the course of your construction, over 37 men were estimated to have died. In some cases, the records of your construction to not record this. Some of these deaths have only been recorded into history through the memories of the families of those who died. I suppose I just wonder if you know that. Somewhere in the space of your mortar and brickwork are their souls etched? Do they remain with you somehow? I think of all that you are, and how many millions and millions of feet have crossed you and left their mark. And if all these souls left their mark, then did not the men who built you and died while doing it and also all those who are dead of old age now. In so many ways you seem so permanently strong and trustworthy but the truth of your form is in the human hand. You must know that. I am sure that the pride of your stance and the nobility of your shoulders that carry such a great weight comes from this knowledge and the knowledge that where they could not carry on, you will.

Thank you mighty bridge, Joe

After reading it, he methodically folds it lengthwise in half and then in half again and half again; then folds it into a staircase pattern. He sets the folded letter in a metal dish sitting before the Torii and lighting a match, sets the letter on fire. He waits for a moment with his hands crossed in front of him while the letter smolders and stares out at the bridge. Sit down. Stand up. Work. Consume. Work. Consume.

Joe holds the front door to the apartment while he checks his pocket for his keys, lets the door close behind him, checks one time to make sure that it is locked and heads down the stairs through the lobby where upon opening the front door, bumps into it. He laughs. Geez. Need that Coffee, rolls his eyes and walks to the left down to the nearby deli before heading to the subway. He reaches for his headphones in his jacket and winces when he realizes he’s left them in the apartment. He rolls his eyes and just thinks, Geez. Need that Coffee. He rolls his eyes again.

Read the whole thread: The Hunger Engine

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