Uninhabitable

Reruns of the television show Chicago P.D. and each of its commercials and public service ads had so completely consumed Rock that he was consigned to their grip. At first, he accepted it as a permanent condition, but it had devoured the entirety of his house, and though he could not imagine a route to escape this pulsating envelope of music and sound effects and the infinite rotation of voices and bright colors, he knew a search had to begin before this circumstance digested him.

To start, Rock accepted there was no way to turn off the TV. His refrigerator was empty of anything that might help, and there was nowhere else for him to look. Rock wondered if he could resign to this force, perhaps embrace it. He considered options, including an attempt to sleep, but his bedrooms were uninhabitable. They had become no more than extensions of the stage sets blared from his television, the ones he had seen in his living room from the start.

It occurred to Rock to look outside. He walked onto his front porch, where he saw reminders of nighttime reality all around, something he remembered from a place in this past.

With adequate balance intact, Rock walked to his kitchen. He reached into a box of shredded wheat and placed a handful of the cereal into a small, white styrofoam bowl. He poured in milk, but the added weight caused it to tip over. Cereal and milk splashed on the kitchen tile, but Rock adjusted and put the countertop to work.