Barn

     Some spiders skitter here by my leg. One across my ankle. I think it's a green spider, green with a crimson bloated abdomen. In the kitchen, when we arrived and I could sit there at the table slow motion trickling Calvados down my throat - then it's sister or aunt - mother?  I don't know, spiders are always female. Whatever close or distant relation, it's there on the rim of my glass and I make some involuntary action and it's gone and usually I'd be something else but now I'm whatever and all disinterest. I crush it later, a sad accident under bare feet on the stone floor.

Here I throw up a perfect arc all rotten apple and sunlight. Sort of in the bucket, sort of not.

 If I sleep, the vengeful spiders might seal my mouth with cobwebs. When I vomit again there will be no escape route. The liquid will seep down into my lungs and I'll drown in it. Right here in the hay. This is so pointless and unlikely it makes me smile, turns into stupid spasms and the hay dust sticks to the sweat. I don't care about the spiders for a while.

When you say my name it's dark.

 I'd forgotten you were there, or you weren't there at all. It's hard to describe the sound of my name in your mouth. like a croak, but not dry - there's some wet underlying mushiness there too. I think bubbles. You say my name repeatedly at two or three minute intervals for some indeterminate time.

 I'd wave, but it seems insensitive, with the nails and the splintered bones and all. I try saying your name too, it's scratchy through the cobwebs, plus I don't really know what it is. When I come, it's like a million million baby spiders. They skitter away somewhere, to build webs over your wounds, or something.