Once upon a time, there was a woman in a small apartment.
She was tired because she did nothing. She was not allowed; anyway, she knew that if she did anything, it would likely be exhausting. She stayed on the couch where it was safe.
Pizza boxes and pieces of popcorn littered the ground. There was no reason to pick them up. No one came over anyway; it was too dangerous.
One day, she decided that the couch was no longer safe. It was too open, too exposed. She slid onto the floor. The disturbed air from her landing pushed away dust and hair, making space.
Though, now that she had arrived, she wondered if this really was the safest place. It seemed that way, but how could she know for sure? Face-down, with her nose pressed into the hardwood, she could feel that there was depth beneath her. Silence and darkness, real isolation, somewhere she could not reach.
Well, maybe she could. Maybe she could try.
She began to chew the floor. She could feel the splinters stick in between her teeth, but kept going. She made it through the underlayment and the thick mats beneath. It’s so nice to have a goal! Self-motivating is the worst, she said to herself, as her incisors raked the concrete.
I’ve felt rather lost without something to do. She raised her head and slammed it down, cracking the cement. How has everyone else managed isolation all this time? She tongued her loosened teeth. At least now I can tell people I’ve remodeled. I’ll throw a housewarming party when this is all over.
Down and down she went, gnawing and scraping through the layers of flooring. A rising pile of chewed, bloody pieces of wood and rock rose next to her. A tooth, spit out, lay ignored.
Finally, she got tired. She knew that if she did anything other than nothing, it would be exhausting, and yet here she was. She laughed to herself, face-down in the newly-carved hole. As tired as she was from the exertion, she was happy; it was much quieter down here. Nice and safe.