You are driving down the interstate. There is a car in your lane, and in the left lane, both going ten miles under the limit. You squint at their plates. Ohio. You will be here the rest of your life.
You scrape ice off your windshield before you leave for work. At lunch you notice it is raining so you take your umbrella. You leave for home and perspire in the heat beneath your jacket. What season is it? What month is it? What year is it?
There is a stinkbug on the wall. You blink. Now there are two stinkbugs. You blink again. Now there are four; eight; sixteen. There will always be more stinkbugs.
A man overdoses on the streets. The police give him Narcan. “They should just let addicts die,” says a woman. Then she is gone. Another addict overdoses and she reappears to say the same thing again. You are not sure if she exists to serve any other purpose.
You go home for the holidays. There is nowhere to sit. “Get the chairs from the garage,” says your mother. You return with the chairs, but more people have materialized. So many cousins. So many neighbors. Who are these people? Where is your family? There will never be enough chairs in the garage.
You watch the WVU game every week. The WVU game watches you. The WVU game says it loves you and only you. You know it is lying. It says that to everyone. You continue watching every week.
You’re at a four-way stop. The person on your right has the right of way, but they aren’t going. You wave your hand to let them know they are free to go. They wave their hand at you to let you know you should go. You both continue waving but refuse to move. Your arm is so tired. There are so many cars behind you. You must be polite. You’ve been here for days.
The internet is bad. It is awful. It is sickening and slow. “My internet is terrible,” you tell people. You pay for it every month anyway. You want to stop, but you can’t.
You are driving down the road, eating a pepperoni roll. You cross the state line. The pepperoni roll vanishes.
West Virginia Gothic
