Cup of Joe

I remember the smell of coffee. The texture of it as it hit my lips. The hot, bitter taste of it. It’s a faint memory, but I hold on to it dearly. I know the idea of coffee will die out from me soon, or maybe it has already. I know that, and yet I pretend that it is significant. I know I will have no new memories from here on. I wish I cherished the ones I before.

The concept of time went out the window only a few days after they slammed me into this room. There is no light at all except for when they shove in the food tray twice at the preordained times. Sometimes I wonder what colours used to look like. It’s been so damn long.

I woke up early today. Except that I don’t know what early and today are. Just anachronistic expressions. I woke up early on the day they brought me here as well. But what was it for? I miss the feel of water. Sometimes I rub food on me just to remind myself of the feeling of wetness. I remember having lunch that day. It was in one of those places where they served you. I remember feeling dizzy. I remember the taste of hot maple syrup. I remember the hot vapours running off a cup of hot coffee.

They say that a man breaks down if he spends too much time alone with his own self. I honestly cannot say if that is true for me. It’s been a long time since they fed me. I have not seen any light as of late. I remember traffic lights. Red and green and that other colour. People walking on the pavement, cars zooming past as soon as the light turns green. I walked into the place for lunch. The hunger driving me to the place.

I feel like I still have my vision intact. I can still see shapes as I remember them. My head has become a floating consortium of my experiences from before, with some memories trying hard to uncloak themselves and other fading into limbo. I am now beginning to feel weak. The pain is starting to take over. The sound of my stomach is the first thing I’ve heard in some time.  I remember the pain from that day. A hard object struck me in the stomach. I remember coughing up blood. The taste of blood against the aftertaste of coffee. I remember falling down.

Today feels like the end. I close my eyes, pretending as if they made a difference. A sudden rush tries to push me to remember my family, but fails. Maybe I had no family. I remember the place where I had lunch. Two people in hats sitting on either side of me. Their faces don’t exist. They ask me for the money I owe them. They tell me to put in the cup marked “Joe” before I exit the place. I remember the smell of coffee.