Drawing in a breath, his mouth and nostrils fill with chilly air. There is a slight tingle in his nose and he quickly shivers as the cold air touches his teeth. Pulling in deep and pausing for a second as the once cool air warms inside him, he exhales slowly to see the small puff of air escape his lips and dissipate into the room. Slowly sitting up, Diego shrugs his right shoulder to loosen the muscles and let blood flow. One after another he alternates his shoulders. Moving on to his head, slowly letting it droop down until his chin rests upon his chest, breathing slowly he rotates his head until his ear settles upon his tired shoulder. Continuing the rotation, he lifts his chin to the heavens, exhaling strongly to see the stream of fog lift from his mouth in the chill of the late autumn morning in his apartment with seemingly no heat, before completing the circle and finishing with his chin nestled back into the top of his sternum.
Pulling his hands together, he interlocks his fingers, straightening and rotating his arms and pushing his palms away from his body. Leaning forward to complete the stretch he lets out a cough. His body is fatigued from all of the rushes of adrenaline that has been routinely coursing through his veins. Day after day. Never really imagining himself as an adrenaline junky, he is adjusting more slowly than one would like. Fighting the urge the lie back down and drift away to much needed sleep, he kicks the blanket off of his legs. Massaging his thighs and reciting his pep talk, one step at a time, just keep moving, he stands upright. Placing his palms on his lower back, flaring his elbows out, he bends himself backward in an arch trying to push his belly button to the sky. Bending his knees to maintain his balance, he bends over until the crown of his head rests gently on the mattress behind him. With a shout he springs back and hops in the air, ready to take on his day, or at least leave his bedroom.
Opening the door and peeking into the kitchen, he sees the clock on the microwave read 10:37 AM. With a shrug, he shuffles over to the thermostat. Damnit, Jamish... 58?!?!? Why!? No wonder my nipples are so hard, he says aloud, massaging his chest. Raising the temperature to 72 in defiance, he sets about to make himself some breakfast and go about his day.
What can I discover today? What to do, what to do? Maybe I could see how deep I can go under water before hopping back up to the surface? No... I read about the bends and I'm not trying to explode my lungs or whatever happens. Unless I free dive. I can't get the bends if I don't take any air in deep deep down. The equalizing might cause some problems though. Hmm. Um, maybe I could get into a club? For what though, am I gonna try to pick someone up? Maybe. Mark that under possible. Do I have any other powers? I could check that.
He looks at the sink with a smirk and a lifted eyebrow. Scanning the room for a receptacle deep enough to fit his head he grabs a large canning pot Jamish uses to can peaches and pickles, or would if he were the sort of person to follow through on developing hobbies. His hope chest full of paint brushes, jewelry making kits, straight razors and pamphlets on being an home barber, freezer bags of beer making cultures, blocks of wood meant to be carved into domino sets, sketch pads still bundled together and wrapped in cellophane, and the shoe box full of sports, dragon killing and Catch 'Em trading cards sat covered in dust in the front room as a not so gentle reminder of all the things we as humans set out to do and never get done. It had been a while since anything was added, but it was hard to miss.
Aha! What if I'm a teleporting Aquadude or something?
Microwaving some old chicken wings found in a to go container from the Korean BBQ down the street, he sets the pot under the faucet and watches as the steady stream of water slowly fills the pot. Before it is halfway full there is a ding. The sounds of sizzling and crackling chicken skin can be heard through the microwave door. As he opens the door a small wafting of steam pours out. The smell of garlic parmesan, spicy, Sassy Seoul and dry rub coalesce into the delicious aroma of breakfast. Despite being unable to remember exactly when they were bought, he dives in taking in a huge bite of the first drum, a Sassy Seoul, judging by the color. Instantly burning his tongue and the roof of his mouth he yanks it from his lips before completing the bite and huffs air in and out to soothe the burn.
Is it nuclear powered? Damnit... I'm not going to be able to taste anything for a week. I fucking hate burning my mouth.
The shouting continues, ending with several unintelligible words and sounds. The pot is almost full. He excitedly turns it off and struggles to lift it from the sink and transfer it to the floor. Figuring he would be able to better rescue himself if something went wrong if he were bent over or kneeling over the pot, he plops it onto the linoleum floor in the kitchen with a loud thud. Empowered by an astounding confidence built upon the successes of every attempt he had made up until this point, he is resolved to go through with this potentially deadly test. Taking a deep breath and centering himself before possibly doing the dumbest thing he has ever given himself permission to do, he clears his mind, exhales everything in his lungs, holds it for a moment and dunks his head. Before the pain of having no oxygen in his body gets too uncomfortable, he draws a short, shallow and quick breath in. He cannot breathe underwater.
Yanking his head out of the pot splashing everything in his kitchen in an arc from directly in front of him then upwards to the ceiling like in a shampoo advertisement, and violently coughing to remove the water from his lungs, he thrusts himself back, instinctively pounding on his chest. He violently slams back into the cabinet on the far side of the room with a crash that knocks open three of the hanging cabinets' doors and jostles spices and a couple dishes free from their place. Falling on his drowning body, he is unfazed by a soon to be bruised forehead, arms and chest. Desperately gasping for air, his mind floods with thoughts of regret, frustration and despair. None of his childhood, nor do any memories of life come flashing before him, just regret. Feverishly giving himself a modified Heimlich, he finally spits up the water in his lungs, and bile and acid that was in his empty stomach onto the floor in front of him. His eyes welling up with tears and laughter filling his belly, a combined sense of relief, dread, frustration and elation clog his thoughts. He lies down on the sticky kitchen floor staring at the light fixture secured to the ceiling above. It is a half dome with small floral designs along the edge of the widest part. The center and lowest point of the dome had a small screw with a cap that looked like a dreidel he had seen in some movie as a kid. He hadn't noticed that before. He counted his breaths in and out, one, two, three, four, being somberly reminded of the fragility of humanity.
Oh my god. Oh my god. Oh my god. I'm alive!! HAHAHAHAHAHA. I can't believe I almost drown myself in my kitchen like a fucking idiot. What an idiot. At least I know, oh my god. I think I'm just going to lay here for a while. Yeah, just lay here. I should clean this up before Jamish gets here though. Whatever. I'm alive!
Lifting himself up onto his knees he surveys the damage. There doesn't seem to be too much water on the floor. The pot is still mostly full, remaining upright despite the several kicks received while Diego thrashed about gasping for air. He picks the pot up, dumping it completely into the sink at once causing it to splash itself onto the counter, him and even back onto the floor. Everything he had avoided while kicking for air he just did to himself. Hanging his head in defeat, he slowly poured what remained into the sink and cleaned the rest of the water up. Hoping the wings were finally cooled down enough to eat, despite being unable to taste them, he migrates to the front room with the TV, the shelves of video games and books, the hope chest and the two pieces of art his mother had given him. One was a mother and child holding onto their own balloon and drifting upward toward space with a signature on the bottom that read, “There is no limit – Z” The second was an image of a packed duffel bag and a kitten sitting on top of the clothes grooming its paw.
He sat in one of the comfy chairs at a 45 degree angle to the TV and tossed the stress ball that was sitting on it onto the recliner on the opposite side of the room, also at a 45 degree angle to the TV. It bounces off the seat, ricocheting off the cushion leaning against the backrest of the chair and making its way onto the end table. Tilting his head to the side, he contemplates a game of catch. He hurriedly finishes his wings, washes his hands and heads to the recliner. First he sees a pair of glasses, but quickly rethinks his choice considering the undue stress he would cause if he dropped Jamish's specs. He grabs the stress ball sitting idly on the round end table next to the couch, squeezes a few times and underhand tosses it to the comfy chair. Taking note of the time it takes to reach the chair and judging the arc he plans his next poof. He walks to the comfy chair for the last time and decides playing catch with himself is just the thing he needed after the earlier debacle. He sits back in the comfy chair, and basketball shoots it across the room. In an instant he poofs to the recliner, looks up, locates the ball and basket catches it into his stomach. He laughs aloud and tosses it back to himself. Poof. Back to the comfy chair, catch. Back and forth he throws it, higher, faster, harder, softer, bouncing it off the coffee table, off the wall, over the blade of the ceiling fan. He begins to throw it faster and faster, poofing faster and faster to accommodate and he notices something one of the times he throws it. It looks like a person.
Diego, did you just see something? Self, I, did you, I just see something? Am I seeing myself? Am I seeing the future or the past or something? That doesn't look like my shirt.
Faster and faster he throws and poofs. And then again, he throws from the comfy chair and just before poofing he sees someone looking back at him for an instant. Smack! The stress ball hits him in the face and falls harmlessly to his lap. There is no crash on the other side of the room. No sounds of bouncing balls on the floor.
Who was that? Was I not playing catch with myself? Were we playing catch with each other?
He takes the ball in his hand and trains it on the recliner. With a flick of his wrist he sends the ball across the room. It quietly sails through the air, gently landing on the seat cushion of the recliner, bouncing up and onto the back rest of the chair and coming back, narrowly missing the edge of the seat cushion before lastly landing on the floor and slowly rolling back toward Diego. He determines he's alone. Same as he ever was.