Insideout

by M. Sweeney

John stands shaving at the morning mirror, sunlight burning a molten oval in the frosted glass at his side. He slaps too heavy with the razor, distracted, ruing the inexplicable erosion of closeness with his girlfriend, Jeannie, of late. It escapes any logical analysis. None of it should be happening. Yet all of it is happening. He might as well wish his whiskers would grow back in again.

Some odd shuffle in the sunlight and a massive double take–they WERE growing in again. Surely that’s an illusion? No! Each hair stiffening out to right angles, creaking in its follicle, then slipping back into it like spaghetti sucked between lips.

What the blue murdering…?

Then, absurdly he hears the tune, the Finnegan tune, playing in his mind, but too loud, as if echoing in a bucket. It’s playing on a violin, a manic violin…someone sitting on the pan behind the door fiddling away like a lunatic. He boots the door. Nothing.

He went fishing with a pinnegan.

His hands shake as he holds the razor. “Not happening. None of it happening.” The hairs draw back from the razor, every one of them, burrowing under his skin. He tries to brush his teeth but he keeps losing track, has to start over. Begin again. The sun burning in the window.


He grew fat and then grew thin again.

He escapes the bathroom, fear clutching at his windpipe, decides to phone Jeannie. His ear burns from too much sunlight. Or is it the receiver? It seems like he’s called her already. Perhaps many times. His heart lurches, edge of panic. She’s already speaking.

“Yeah, who is it?”

“It’s me Michael. Michael Finnegan.” He stares at the mouthpiece in horror. He didn’t mean to say that. It just sort of…

Crackle on the line. “John? Honey?”

He tries to speak but never gets started. But always gets started. And is already finished.

Then he died and had to begin again,

“John, you don’t sound so good, I’m coming home.”

He tries to reply.

*Click.*

But the words are good. Goood words. There’s hope in the words. Real sunlight, not like the bathroom.

She arrives at the door. It’s still there but fading. Life is returning with her.

“The bathroom” he bleats, pathetically, touches his face. “Just there, round the side, my chin, chinnegan.” Tears press but don’t emerge.

She takes his face in her hands. “John, honey, are you ok?”

Something about her touch grounds him, a lightning rod. He sucks a deep breath.

“Yes…yes. There was something, It came out. But it’s in again now.. In again for good.” Breathing easy now, clearly now. “Look, just promise me we won’t lose track of each other again.”