He awakes from Lucite dreams, and sees snowflakes falling past the window. He jumps out of bed and tries to catch the snow in the act of falling up instead of down, but by the time he gains his footing, it has stopped altogether.
In the shower, he inspects himself. He is anatomically correct. Parts of him are shriveled, parts of him sweat and stink. He is comforted to think that this is not the work of a loving sculptor.
There is dust on the mantel, a quarter-inch thick. He does not wipe it away. He wants to see how thickly it will be allowed to settle before it disappears on its own. It’s the same with the garbage in the kitchen, the way it’s begun to overflow. Eggshells and grapefruit halves, the detritus of his perfect meals that he eats gleaming from their white plates, now piling up high until the lid cannot contain them. A few more days, and they’ll start to scatter on the floor. He thinks of that day the way that soldiers must think of the enemy’s barricades as they draw closer.
When he walks to work, he stops frequently, looking sharp to see if the scenery stops moving at the same time he does. He gave up the trains and buses years ago. Too fast. At this speed, it will be easier to catch the world trying to slide past him.
He has a job where he sits at a desk and watches people walk by. This is not a job you dream of; it’s a job you wake up and find yourself doing. Sometimes people ask him questions, and as he answers them, he searches their eyes for manufacturing irregularities.
Every day, he is allowed thirty minutes to locate, purchase and consume lunch. He eats, he chews. Hot grease burns his lips. He’s not permitted to stain his uniform, but he allows his hands to get as dirty as he can get away with. No one thinks to report the ketchup grimed under his nails, and he does not allow himself to speculate that it is because no one else can see it.
Every seven minutes, the building he works in rumbles with the passing of a train below. He rode it all the way to the end, once. The last stop was at the docks, and the sight of rows upon rows of shipping containers made him ill.
Outside, the weather changes from snow to rain. People track water into the building on their shoes, shake it off of their umbrellas. The water puddles on the floor and he counts the minutes and watches the puddles shrink. He’s never seen one evaporate completely, but he would like to.
At least once a day, he thinks of taking the elevator up to the roof of the building, walking to the edge and stepping over the safety railing. He thinks of the impact, his skin splitting, his organs forced out through his mouth. There would be terrible pain, but in that moment, he would know that what he fears isn’t true.
Walking home, there is a slickness to the surroundings that was not there in the morning. People grab onto one another and brace themselves against walls to keep their balance. He stops, and holds his arms out at his sides, and feels himself slide, the wet pavement moving a few inches beneath his feet.
His apartment is warm. The heat envelops him like amber before it hardens.
There will be a moment during the night, when he wakes up and is unable to move. He will lie in the dark, choking on his exquisite dread, for several minutes. When he finally regains enough muscle control to turn his head, he will see an enormous eyeball pressed against the window, twitching as it watches him struggle.
Then he will blink, and it will be gone.
Morgan Roth is a writer of horror and experimental fiction. They live in Western Massachusetts.
Published 8/7/26