< my eventual bloodless coup / by ofelia hunt >

the refrigerator divides also

The men kidnap me and put me in the refrigerator. It is very cold and dark and I'm not strong enough to push the door open. I think the problem is air pressure. Outside, there is too much air pressure and inside I am slowly removing air pressure. I think, 'There are many molecules of air around me right now.' I think, 'I need more air molecules.' I am greedy for air molecules. I want them in my lungs. I think, 'I should have learned how to meditate.'

Last night, before I took my shower, my boyfriend said he felt bad. He said, "I had a nightmare and you were kidnapped but I had to go to work and something happened and I had to get gas so I couldn't solve the mystery and then Kevin Costner told me I should play more golf or something."

I said, "You're kind of a bastard."

Today I say, "You're kind of a bastard." Now I'm talking to the refrigerator door. I lean back against the back of the refrigerator and push my legs against the door and lift myself off the floor and push but nothing happens and I think, 'You're wasting air molecules, don't waste air molecules bitch.' Then I think, 'Don't call yourself a bitch, bitch, that's anti-feminist or something.'

The refrigerator opens and I roll out. My head hurts. I am in a room. It is bright. The men surround me. They are wearing blue ski masks. One man holds a knife. The knife is shiny in the bright light.

The man with the knife says, "You're probably wondering why we put you in the refrigerator." He watches me along the blade of his knife. "For now you can call me Mikhail. I have some questions."

I say nothing. I breathe in the air molecules and am thankful for the air molecules and I put as many air molecules as I can into my lungs and my lungs also are thankful for the air molecules.

Mikhail stabs his knife into the table behind him, then pulls a stool from beneath the table and sits on the stool directly in front of me. Mikhail removes his blue ski mask and stares at me with his little black eyes. Mikhail says, "Be calm and I won't stab you." The other men leave out a side door and close the side door and I hear the little snick as they lock the side door. "You see," Mikhail says, "We treat you like a dangerous criminal and lock the doors because you are a dangerous criminal now, with the answers to many questions and I will ask the questions and you will answer them or I will stab you repeatedly. I am quite skilled at stabbing and I very much enjoy it."

I think, 'I don't want to be stabbed.' I say, "I love you Mikhail."

"You're lying," Mikhail answers.

I say, "Okay." I feel the backs of my teeth with my tongue, searching for the hollow tooth, the hollow tooth filled with cyanide gas. I think, 'I don't have a hollow tooth filled with cyanide gas.'

Mikhail says, "Where are the documents? I have read your profile and I know you have them."

"That's pretty vague," I say. "Documents? Profile?"

"That is not the correct answer." Mikhail removes his knife from the table. "You are terrible and capitalist," Mikhail says. "All capitalists have documents and profiles, it is only natural, and you will tell me where your documents are now."

This is when I divide. I am one person. I am two people. I am four people. I am eight people. I am sixteen people. The room is full of me. The walls are warm. The room is bright. Mikhail is pushed into the corner. I crowd around Mikhail. I reach for him and pull pieces off him and eat the pieces I pull off him until there is no Mikhail and no more Mikhail pieces and so I hold his knife and sit on the table and pull myself back together until I am just me with the knife. I place the knife in the refrigerator and close the refrigerator and climb slowly out the side window.

It is morning. I think, 'I just ate a communist.' I think, 'I don't know where to go.'

I walk along the street and the street leads me into the city and in the city are many tall buildings and many people walking and driving. There are apartments and the apartments have people and refrigerators and telephones and magazines maybe. I call my boyfriend on my cell-phone. I say, "I ate Mikhail."

My boyfriend says, "What?"

"Nothing," I answer. "I'm tired." I turn off my cell-phone and sit on a nearby stoop and lean my head against the railing and the railing is cold and hard but I lean my head there anyway and I wait a while. I think, 'I don't know what I'm supposed to do anymore.' I think, 'I should wait here until somebody tells me what to do.'

Nobody tells me what to do so I go home.