OppressiveChoreographedDoom

Morgan Baker

Burnt toast.

Isn’t that the symptom of a stroke?

I wiggle my fingers to make sure they aren’t numb. I smile and place my pointer and

thumb on either side of my mouth to make sure it’s even.

Not a stroke.

My finger tips are tingling and my left arm feels numb.

A heart attack.

I move my arm and ignore my racing heart.

I stand and sit, stand again and walk around.

Not having a heart attack.

My lungs feel like they're barely expanding.

I’m suffocating. But I don’t move for my inhaler.

I remain frozen in my corner of the couch.

Four in. Hold four. Four out.

My dog comes and sits on my lap, pawing at my arm to pet him.

Nevermind, I can breathe.

The water from the shower head beats down on me.

The heat of the water goes into my lungs and strangles me.

If I fall right now, I’ll crack my head open.

The black and white blob stretches out on the bathroom floor. It’s only us here.

Who knows how long it’d take for someone to find me.

I don’t pass out.

I stand, naked and wet. The black and white blob has a face.

He watches me carefully while I dry myself and go through my routine.

Four legs, a step behind me.

The sun is finally setting.

He waits by the door to go out one more time.

Back in and it’s time to lock up.

Lock the deadbolt.

It doesn’t sound right.

Unlock and lock it again.

And again.

One more time.

It won’t be one more time and I know that.

Click,

Click.

A black and white blob invades my periphery.

He sits in front of me. A barrier between me and the door. It’s locked.

He looks up at me.

It’s locked, I repeat.

I stare and press down on the lock.

I take a picture —a shortcut for my illogical brain that sometimes works. The oven is on.

The nobs are perfectly centered and the lines tell me it’s off.

Off.

One for each knob.

He jumps up on me and presses his nose to my arm.

I take my last picture for the night.

Right, it’s off and I know that.

I always know that.

I’m not dying and my body remembers how to work.

The door is locked, and the oven is off. But it wasn’t once.

They taught me how to pick a lock and used what they taught against me.

I just need to double check.

I say to my dog.

And he follows me.

Morgan Baker is a midwestern multi-genre writer, usually bouncing between fantasy and horror. She holds a Bachelor of Science in English Creative Writing from Murray State University in Kentucky, while also currently working on her graduate degree from Eastern Illinois University. She likes to spend her time reading, cafe hopping, and walking with her puppy. She can be found on Instagram “@baker.morg”.