In Romania they had a word for this feeling of not quite belonging and feeling nostalgic for something maybe you ain’t really experienced and this great longing feeling—dor. We don’t have a word for that here in the Deep South. It’s just a lifestyle here.

It’s 1:30 AM and I’ve bought six thousand rounds of ammo in the last month. Some of them are for my pistols and some of them are for my rifles and I didn’t buy any more for my shotgun cause I haven’t picked it back up from Mary up in the mountains yet. Mary had to borrow it cause Mary’s neighbor shot Mary’s chickens and there was some revenge to be had or something. At least, that’s what Mary’s other neighbor told me she borrowed it for.

I ate a honey biscuit this morning sitting on Jason Brown’s blue velvet couch, out in the living room, and I couldn’t remember the last time I felt actually awake. Jason Brown’s dog stared from near my feet and it was like she knew I ain’t been sleeping. Just laying in bed in the dark feeling sad and scared and stressed for leaving the bathroom light on and feeling like I might cause bad luck that’ll kill me if I get up and turn it off. Laying there thinking about how did I even get there and when did this become my life and is any of this even real. Feeling sometimes like I’m outside myself and I’m just this weird person making choices like to fuck myself in the shower instead of getting to work on time or eating peanuts in bed under the covers cause I just wanna feel small.

The world’s ending and someone has taken control of me and I’m watching myself live from inside my head. It’s like when cows go into heat and then cry when the bull mounts them. Doing mean stuff to myself. Stuff I hate. Buying grape Powerade sports drinks even though it’s the one I like the least. Letting my truck run out of gas even though I got money for gas. I wanna make out with a girl and go down on her after we eat French fries and then she goes and spits on me and doesn’t say bye and leaves forever. You see, it’s like, I just have to keep telling myself this is okay and I cling so hard to my stuffed animals at night. My lover is a heretic and when I look in the mirror, I can’t see my eyes.


About the Author

Rebekah Morgan is a writer living in Southern Appalachia. His writing is featured in New York Tyrant, Maudlin House, Hobart, and others.

Photo, "Cows," by Max Benidze on Flickr. No changes made to photo.