Unscrewed - Christian Peet

The third thing is the darkness. Impermeable. Mute. You are weightless. Groundless. Maybe you are moving but it is impossible to tell. There is only the darkness and the idea of you. The second thing is light. Blank. Unremitting. You are paralyzed, eyes tearing. You might be on fire but it is impossible to tell. There is only light and the lingering idea of you. The first thing is people. Eyes cast down. They have your body in their hands. They are yelling “Wake up!” They call your name. Or there are no people. Only silence.

Now in the darkness is a little light. It looks like a faint star, but it doesn’t shimmer. It could be a planet. You walk toward it until it is huge in front of your eyes. It is a lightbulb—dim, dying, browning out. You see you are in a room made of rough-hewn wood. What you cannot see, is your self. You have no body. You are floating. The lightbulb is getting bigger. No glass breaks, but you are now inside it. The glass reflects your image. You are filament.

Where there was no door in the room, now an heavy wood door opens. A woman enters, holding a glass of red wine. Where there was no table, she finds a small round table and upon it, sets her glass. The woman seems familiar but you cannot recall having met her. She walks across the room and stops before you. She reaches up, unscrews you from your socket. Now there is only darkness and the lingering awareness of a woman in a room, a lightbulb, red wine, and you.