Pixels.

(second draft)

The screen feels cold and impenetrable beneath my fingers. I can just about hear the scratch of my nails as they sweep from side to side, catching hairline cracks along the surface. 

Swipe. Swipe. Pinching, zooming. 

I bask for a while in the cool, blue glow of happy memories, safely locked forever in metal and glass. The people I love, and me. Our smiles frozen beneath the surface. 

I used to joke: “My own personal lake where the bodies are buried.”

At first, I don’t notice. I’ve spent a lifetime studying the lines and shadows of my face; it’s only natural to fill in the blanks. But the longer I stare, the longer I swipe, pinch, zoom, the less I see of myself. Photo after photo, my features fall away. Where once my smile projected out, only a smudge remains. I keep going. Swipe, swipe. Photo after photo. Nothing.

I shake my head, rub my eyes. I decide to put the phone down for a bit, and leave it face up on the coffee table… Its glow diffuses into the fabric of the room itself.

In the dim light I see the yoga mat still sits unfurled in the corner of the room. There are abstract shapes of sweat where my hands and feet have been. A few more stretches might help: but my breathing doesn’t settle, and the moves which I found effortless and free before are stiff and ungainly now. 

I get up and pour myself a glass of wine, a big one, and settle back on the couch with my phone in my hand. The glow of the screen brightens, caresses my shoulders. It envelops me. Bangles on my wrist rattle gently as my fingers approach the photo gallery. 

I hold my breath as the pictures load. 

There they are again: slices of time. Vibrant faces, beautiful in their joy. And in every single one, I’ve been erased. Swipe, swipe. Pinch here. Zoom in there. Gone are my ponytails, my false lashes, my glossed lips. In my place, colours only bleed. I stare at the browns, pinks and reds pooling together indistinctly beneath the glass. 

Gone. Gone. 

I set to work.

I start jabbing at the smears where my own image used to be. The glass warms against my touch. It warps beneath my fingers. I keep going, reaching further and further. My hands dance underneath the surface; soon, all of me is submerged. I look around and all I see are billions of fragments of light. I reach out hungrily, grabbing fistfuls by the hand. Pixel by pixel, I arrange myself: recreating shadows and light, lines and contours. I move from memory to memory, tenderly moulding myself back into existence. 

Slowly, I begin to emerge among the people I love once again. A wave of calm contentment washes over me.

And then, I fly. Hurtling, rushing backwards. Hair whips my face and shoulders until a soft, warm darkness envelopes my body. 

It takes a while for my eyes to adjust to the darkness. The yoga mat is still on the floor, the wine still in its glass. Instinctively I bring my hand to my face. It’s smooth, soft. Endless. I laugh until the sun rises.