Clogged Drain (Flash Fiction)
Clinging to the back of my throat, stringy lines of hair. I gag as the fishhook of my curled finger yanks forward a clot, one that I hope is clumpy and dense but just turns out to be a thin, pitiful few strands. The remaining hair stays coated around my larynx, chafing, dry. Again, a coughing fit.
This is how I know I’m in a nightmare. There will be something that tickles the top of my mouth. Like the caress of a broom. Instinctively, I swallow, and a hacking retch is pushed from me. Oftentimes, this happens during a social situation with people I am unfamiliar with. I cannot reach down my gullet and yank out the hair. That’s not a good look. I can’t let them see. I cover my mouth with a hand and try to discreetly pull it out. Hook finger. Yank. It is knotted somewhere, deep inside, not further beyond but somewhere greater than my lungs or guts.
How did it all get down there? The strands I hold up to my eye and inspect show me that they are mine. Long and straight. Longer than what feels right on my head but shorter than what someone would call “long”. Yes, they are my hairs. I still have them; they aren’t gone, or missing. Would having all my hair completely vanish from me be worse than this? In my dream, I feel like I am going to vomit. Full-body baldness seems preferable. I like being hirsute. But this is the price I’m paying for it.
Another jab down my throat, past my gag reflex, thumb and forefinger pinching like a claw machine. Trying to dredge up something that I do not want. It’s horrible to hold, to pull out and reveal in front of fake people. But it is worse here. Hurting and hidden.