FICTION - [untitled]
After I posted my memoir, a few of you said you'd be interested in reading some more of my serious writing. That makes me happeh. SO. This is just fiction. I really enjoyed writing this and I really enjoy how it turned out. It came pretty quickly, too once I got going. I struggled with it though because he gave us NO guidelines. He basically said "Fiction. 1,500 words. Go."
He laid there and looked up at the ceiling as the gentle sun from the window cascaded upon his face. He felt the warmth and while he was happy, he pondered if there was something more to life than this. Lying here, like this, every day and night. He existed for her - she used him, got what she could out of him, and then left him there again. Other than that, this was his existence, lying doing nothing. He wanted so badly to be able to move like her, be able to get from point A to point B, be able to walk out the door effortlessly and feel that sun through something besides the window. He wanted to stand up, he wanted to cross the room. He wanted to feel the carpet - he’d felt it once before but the moment was so fleeting.
“Mobility is a thing people take for granted,” he thought. “Legs… what it would be like to have functioning legs. The things I could see and do…” he pondered. For hours. What else was there to do in this room? The walls had been memorized since last month, all of her posters of Hollywood films - Gone With The Wind, Breakfast at Tiffany’s… all the photos of her and her friends pinned neatly to her dark purple walls with clear thumb tacks. “At least I’m not a thumb tack - now there’s a miserable life… I suppose…” he thought, not really sure if he believed it. He might be better off if he were a thumb tack of hers: they were higher than he was, able to look out upon the whole room, up and down, left to right. The realization hit him - he was literally more limited than a thumb tack.
Once in awhile, she’d knock his bed. He felt adrenaline and excitement at the possibility that he might be able to roll off the edge and begin to escape. But she never hit it hard enough, and the disappointment was more overwhelming than the tremendous onslaught of positive emotion he had felt not two seconds prior. Good things never lasted for him.
“Ughhhh my goddd, what did I do in a past life to deserve this?” he asked to no one. He didn’t even believe in God, he just felt like whining. And when you whine, you whine to God, apparently. He’d heard her do it several times, almost daily. Just like that, too, the “ughhh my goddd”, strung out forever in a heap of drama. “She should really be into theatre instead of fashion. Drama queen, she’d be perfect for it. And her clothes are never that flattering anyway. God help the industry if she goes through with it.”
Though she was full of negativity and tended to forget him more often than she remembered, he still missed her. He missed being used, even. He hadn’t been used in so long, and the boredom was becoming worse than that. There was dust all around him and hell, it’s not like he could clean it up or anything. So he waited. He waited for her to remember, to notice, to clean, to use him. But she never did. He watched her walk through the room pretending like he was never even there. Every. Single. Day. Every single day she did that, and every single day, he silently hoped today would be the day she’d touch and move him. But she never did. He tried to tell her, speak to her, but she never heard. She was very self-absorbed, that one. It surprised him she had as many friends as she did. Well, he didn’t know - it’s not like he had ever met them, he had just seen all of her pictures on the wall. She had a boyfriend, and a good looking one at that. She had plenty of girl friends, too - there was a huge spread on her wall of a series of photos from what looked like a night on the town (he wouldn’t know what that looked like either. He was only guessing.) and there were so many happy and beautiful, smiling girls with her. He was amazed at how that worked - all the self-absorbed girls, the ones interested in fashion and what other people thought of them were always the ones who got all the attention. Why is that? Does no one value a free thinker anymore? An independent spirit? Someone different? All those girls on the wall appeared to be the same - they all looked the same to him. Why do you need five of the same friend?
These are the things he thought about. He also thought about things he used to write for her… back before she stopped acknowledging him, back before she got too busy, before she stopped caring about words and started caring too much about her face, her make-up. “She used to be that girl,” he thought, “that girl who stayed in and read and wrote with me, that girl who valued schoolwork more than getting drunk on the weekends… what happened? Was it something I did?” He felt offended if he was being honest with himself. Betrayed. He was angry, actually.
This all changed one day. The sun was low, gone for the day, and she came into her room in a rush. For a split second, he was worried. She threw her schoolbag onto her bed and sat at her desk. She was sitting at her desk! He got so excited thinking that maybe, just maybe, she’d write with him again. He’d missed reading her words so badly. They were beautiful, you know. He tried to write with other people after she grew out of it, but it was never the same. She brought out the best in him and him in her, and he wasn’t able to find that anywhere else since. She reached out to get a spare notebook, and as she did, she struck him. Completely by accident, but her passion and urgency in whatever it was she was going to do hit him with tremendous force.
… And he felt the carpet. He could not even process - so disoriented - confused oh my god - hurt? was he hurt? he didn’t know - moving. He just moved. He was lying on the carpet. He could not even believe it. He tried so badly to move across it, roll even, but he couldn’t manage. It was okay though, because oh my GOD, did he mention he was on the carpet?! Her beautiful, glorious gray carpet. He’d seen clouds through the window before - this is what they’ve got to feel like. It made him forget about her, about how she forgot him, and that was a validating feeling. “What goes around comes around,” he had heard her say more than once. He finally realized what that meant. Karma, he’d written about karma before. He finally was experiencing what it was like to be on the good end of it. He wouldn’t mind existing like this from now on. It was perfect, calm, and so much more comfortable. “Living might actually be fun like this,” he thought with a smile.
She rolled back on her chair to pick him up, and as she did, she heard a loud crack. The wheel of her chair had snapped him straight in half.
- end-
A couple people didn't get this. SOOOO if you are one of those people, let me know and I'll explain it, happily. ♥.
He laid there and looked up at the ceiling as the gentle sun from the window cascaded upon his face. He felt the warmth and while he was happy, he pondered if there was something more to life than this. Lying here, like this, every day and night. He existed for her - she used him, got what she could out of him, and then left him there again. Other than that, this was his existence, lying doing nothing. He wanted so badly to be able to move like her, be able to get from point A to point B, be able to walk out the door effortlessly and feel that sun through something besides the window. He wanted to stand up, he wanted to cross the room. He wanted to feel the carpet - he’d felt it once before but the moment was so fleeting.
“Mobility is a thing people take for granted,” he thought. “Legs… what it would be like to have functioning legs. The things I could see and do…” he pondered. For hours. What else was there to do in this room? The walls had been memorized since last month, all of her posters of Hollywood films - Gone With The Wind, Breakfast at Tiffany’s… all the photos of her and her friends pinned neatly to her dark purple walls with clear thumb tacks. “At least I’m not a thumb tack - now there’s a miserable life… I suppose…” he thought, not really sure if he believed it. He might be better off if he were a thumb tack of hers: they were higher than he was, able to look out upon the whole room, up and down, left to right. The realization hit him - he was literally more limited than a thumb tack.
Once in awhile, she’d knock his bed. He felt adrenaline and excitement at the possibility that he might be able to roll off the edge and begin to escape. But she never hit it hard enough, and the disappointment was more overwhelming than the tremendous onslaught of positive emotion he had felt not two seconds prior. Good things never lasted for him.
“Ughhhh my goddd, what did I do in a past life to deserve this?” he asked to no one. He didn’t even believe in God, he just felt like whining. And when you whine, you whine to God, apparently. He’d heard her do it several times, almost daily. Just like that, too, the “ughhh my goddd”, strung out forever in a heap of drama. “She should really be into theatre instead of fashion. Drama queen, she’d be perfect for it. And her clothes are never that flattering anyway. God help the industry if she goes through with it.”
Though she was full of negativity and tended to forget him more often than she remembered, he still missed her. He missed being used, even. He hadn’t been used in so long, and the boredom was becoming worse than that. There was dust all around him and hell, it’s not like he could clean it up or anything. So he waited. He waited for her to remember, to notice, to clean, to use him. But she never did. He watched her walk through the room pretending like he was never even there. Every. Single. Day. Every single day she did that, and every single day, he silently hoped today would be the day she’d touch and move him. But she never did. He tried to tell her, speak to her, but she never heard. She was very self-absorbed, that one. It surprised him she had as many friends as she did. Well, he didn’t know - it’s not like he had ever met them, he had just seen all of her pictures on the wall. She had a boyfriend, and a good looking one at that. She had plenty of girl friends, too - there was a huge spread on her wall of a series of photos from what looked like a night on the town (he wouldn’t know what that looked like either. He was only guessing.) and there were so many happy and beautiful, smiling girls with her. He was amazed at how that worked - all the self-absorbed girls, the ones interested in fashion and what other people thought of them were always the ones who got all the attention. Why is that? Does no one value a free thinker anymore? An independent spirit? Someone different? All those girls on the wall appeared to be the same - they all looked the same to him. Why do you need five of the same friend?
These are the things he thought about. He also thought about things he used to write for her… back before she stopped acknowledging him, back before she got too busy, before she stopped caring about words and started caring too much about her face, her make-up. “She used to be that girl,” he thought, “that girl who stayed in and read and wrote with me, that girl who valued schoolwork more than getting drunk on the weekends… what happened? Was it something I did?” He felt offended if he was being honest with himself. Betrayed. He was angry, actually.
This all changed one day. The sun was low, gone for the day, and she came into her room in a rush. For a split second, he was worried. She threw her schoolbag onto her bed and sat at her desk. She was sitting at her desk! He got so excited thinking that maybe, just maybe, she’d write with him again. He’d missed reading her words so badly. They were beautiful, you know. He tried to write with other people after she grew out of it, but it was never the same. She brought out the best in him and him in her, and he wasn’t able to find that anywhere else since. She reached out to get a spare notebook, and as she did, she struck him. Completely by accident, but her passion and urgency in whatever it was she was going to do hit him with tremendous force.
… And he felt the carpet. He could not even process - so disoriented - confused oh my god - hurt? was he hurt? he didn’t know - moving. He just moved. He was lying on the carpet. He could not even believe it. He tried so badly to move across it, roll even, but he couldn’t manage. It was okay though, because oh my GOD, did he mention he was on the carpet?! Her beautiful, glorious gray carpet. He’d seen clouds through the window before - this is what they’ve got to feel like. It made him forget about her, about how she forgot him, and that was a validating feeling. “What goes around comes around,” he had heard her say more than once. He finally realized what that meant. Karma, he’d written about karma before. He finally was experiencing what it was like to be on the good end of it. He wouldn’t mind existing like this from now on. It was perfect, calm, and so much more comfortable. “Living might actually be fun like this,” he thought with a smile.
She rolled back on her chair to pick him up, and as she did, she heard a loud crack. The wheel of her chair had snapped him straight in half.
- end-
A couple people didn't get this. SOOOO if you are one of those people, let me know and I'll explain it, happily. ♥.