Perpetual Life of Ducks
By: Jinapher J. Hoffman
Tags: Short Story, Experience, Psychology, Fiction, Mental Health

Perpetual Life of Ducks

Written by Jinapher J. Hoffman

To get my ducks in a row is to know I’m not organized at all which is why I won’t. No ducks, today. Nope — never — but that’s not quite the case.

The ceiling light flickers.

I look at it, try not to blink.

I blink. Back to the ducks.

I slip from my shirt, fold it, move on. Pants are next. Then underwear. Then socks.

Then my hands are on the vent, right next to the Flickering Light. Push up, slide. I grit my teeth. Time for the duck I don’t want to do but must do. I shimmy upward, naked skin moist against the dusty vent-tube-thing. AIR DUCT. I exhale as I pull my feet in, stare down at my pile of folded clothes, at my bed properly named Gilbert, at the door with the padlock I hate very much.

“Goodbye,” I say.

I pick up the vent, put it in place. “Wasn’t even there.” I get on my stomach, pain shoots up my nipples as I scoot forward. I bite my tongue. I hate this duck. I wish this duck wasn’t in the row with the other ducks. I think about the last duck. “Okay.” I nod. “Worth it.”

The air duct never gets smaller but I swear it does. I work slow. There’s no way around that. Every scoot forward, I swallow my fist. Can’t talk. Can’t breathe. Can’t let them know. Clothes never would’ve let me fit. For sure. Definitely. I stop when I hear voices — different from Fred or Liza or HoneyBun Jill.

“I’m not supposed to be here. They have it all wrong. I’m not crazy.”

I peek through a grate.

Two women sit across from each other. One looks like me but ten years ago. Normal. A little insane. The other looks like Dr. Greg but with breasts and darker hair.

“Okay, okay.” Dr. Greg with breasts raises her hands. “So, you don’t belong here, but why do you think they put you here?”

Me ten years ago slumps.

“I can’t help you out if you don’t tell me.”

“I just like things clean, okay? And that twerp had chocolate all over his face, his hands, my desk. Like, that’s not okay!”

“So, you did what exactly?”

She twiddles her thumbs. “I cleaned the mess.”

“How?”

Her lips glue shut.

“Do you remember what you did?”

Nothing.

Dr. Greg with breasts holds up a photo.

I can’t see it. I want to see it. I play with the vent, try to open it. Won’t work.

“That’s circumstantial!”

“He’s stabbed forty-two times.”

I give up on the vent. I don’t want to see that. Blood does something to me. Makes me hungry. Makes me sad. I squish forward, past me ten years ago. Maybe she’ll get my room now that I’m gone. I should’ve left a note. Showed her the way to the last duck. Oh, well.

The air duct might as well be a desert. I swim forward in a pool of sweat. I can see the last duck. It’s so bright. So blocked. I pull up to the grate. Sunlight peeks through. I yank. Nothing. I tug. Nothing. “This is what I get for blinking at the Flickering Light.” I press my ear to the bottom of the air duct. Listen.

Footsteps.

Voices.

Vending Machine.

I shake my head. “Just gotta do it.” Can’t turn around. I knock on my head. “Good enough.” I rear back, then push myself forward. My head slams into the grate. The air duct shakes.

Below gets quiet.

I blink a few times, push back. Then I go again.

The grate bursts.

Blood gushes down my forehead and I smile. Light — it’s everywhere. All around me. A warm blanket. A hug forever. I slide and fall. Tumble to dirt. Roll in it. Better than clothes. Yes, I like the last duck in the row. I spring to my feet. To my left is a parking lot. To my right is a garden. In front of me — I race forward — there’s nothing but trees. My feet burn on the asphalt until they don’t. Leaves and grass beneath me, I thrive, toss my body into a thickness of muddied green. I climb over roots, sprint across little rivers. I’m free.

I’m free.

I stop, wrap my arms around my bare stomach. There are no ducks anymore. Nothing to be disorganized about. Nothing to latch onto, to caress until it’s ready to break free. I whip my head around. Each tree frowns. Every leaf screams. How do I breathe? I reach my hands up, rub my neck. I swallow once, twice. Another. I belch. This is all wrong. I look up. The canopy keeps things dark. The sun peeks through in spots, just like the grate. Am I back in the air duct? I jump, hands up. Can’t reach. Too high.

I grab hold of a branch, lift myself up. Bark scrapes my thighs. Blood from my head spatters my shoulders. So many branches. So high to climb.

Then I’m there. Head above the canopy. The sun is far, still. I look. Try not to blink. This is different than the Flickering Light. This one burns. I close my eyes, see spots in the dark. Where do I go from here? Can’t climb higher. No more branches. I look back toward home, its concrete walls and barred windows a speck of white among the green. The last duck has taken me so far, but that’s all it was: the last duck. I’d been so afraid of the ducks, then I got through all the ducks. Now, I don’t have any ducks, and I think I’m lost.

I hug the tree, look down. Maybe I could fly. Can ducks fly? Am I a duck, now? I think I might fall if I fly. I throw an arm out, test the wind resistance. Not sure I’ll make it. I think about the last duck. “Well, that one was worth it.”

I jump.

I splat.

No, ducks don’t fly, I guess. Should’ve been a quail. Yes, a quail might’ve been nice. Except I might’ve gotten shot down. Bullet through the eyebrows and out the back, blood around my head like a halo — just like now. Angel I am — must be. Except I’m not. There’s no light here, just little dots on the backs of my eyelids. If I trace them, I swear it’s a map, another line of ducks. I inhale. To get my ducks in a row is to know I’m not organized at all which is why I won’t. No ducks, today. Nope — never — but that’s not quite the case.