semi-fiction: Paint My Soul on the Bathroom Wall
Title: Paint My Soul on the Bathroom Wall
Genre: Semi-fiction
Words: 361
Rating: PG-13 for language.
Summary: And now she's reduced to crying in a bathroom stall; alone except for the graffiti scratched into the sickening yellow paint of the stall door.
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There was a time in her life when she thought things were manageable. Everything could be handled with a smile and a little bit of elbow grease (that last bit she got from her mom).
And now she's reduced to crying in a bathroom stall; alone except for the graffiti scratched into the sickening yellow paint of the stall door.
Mary loves John.
get some real names asshole. can't come up with anything more original than that?
Life is beautiful. ENJOY IT!
555-6789 call me and you're guaranteed a great time
Help me......jk.
What prompts one to deface property? A claim to fame, no matter how small? Proof that you do exist in the universe? Maybe it's the lure of the forbidden. She's never understood it.
She draws a breath and holds it when she hears the swoosh of the outside door opening. It was only a five minute break, people. Get the hell out and give her some space. Okay, yeah, so it's a public restroom, but whatever.
She can't hold her breath any longer and she releases a sob and a breath at the same, disguising it as some sort of cough.
She can feel the change in the air in the next stall over; whoever it was has sensed her mood. Good. Maybe they'll leave; she probably only has one or two minutes left before she has to appear back out there, perky and fresh as a fucking daisy.
She sniffs as the neighboring toilet flushes, pressing clammy palms to damp eyes; watches as bodiless blue flip-flops flip and flop their way to the sink. She sniffles again, one last time before pressing down the lever on the toilet and heading out to run luke warm water over her shaking fingers.
The girl next to her avoids her eyes in the mirror, turning away to make a vain attempt at drying her hands under the ancient blower.
She blinks away any traces of tears from her eyes; she probably has less than a minute now.
She takes a deep breath, wipes the moisture on her jeans, turns away from the mirror, opens the door.
Back to real life.
~la fin
Genre: Semi-fiction
Words: 361
Rating: PG-13 for language.
Summary: And now she's reduced to crying in a bathroom stall; alone except for the graffiti scratched into the sickening yellow paint of the stall door.
-
There was a time in her life when she thought things were manageable. Everything could be handled with a smile and a little bit of elbow grease (that last bit she got from her mom).
And now she's reduced to crying in a bathroom stall; alone except for the graffiti scratched into the sickening yellow paint of the stall door.
Mary loves John.
get some real names asshole. can't come up with anything more original than that?
Life is beautiful. ENJOY IT!
555-6789 call me and you're guaranteed a great time
Help me......jk.
What prompts one to deface property? A claim to fame, no matter how small? Proof that you do exist in the universe? Maybe it's the lure of the forbidden. She's never understood it.
She draws a breath and holds it when she hears the swoosh of the outside door opening. It was only a five minute break, people. Get the hell out and give her some space. Okay, yeah, so it's a public restroom, but whatever.
She can't hold her breath any longer and she releases a sob and a breath at the same, disguising it as some sort of cough.
She can feel the change in the air in the next stall over; whoever it was has sensed her mood. Good. Maybe they'll leave; she probably only has one or two minutes left before she has to appear back out there, perky and fresh as a fucking daisy.
She sniffs as the neighboring toilet flushes, pressing clammy palms to damp eyes; watches as bodiless blue flip-flops flip and flop their way to the sink. She sniffles again, one last time before pressing down the lever on the toilet and heading out to run luke warm water over her shaking fingers.
The girl next to her avoids her eyes in the mirror, turning away to make a vain attempt at drying her hands under the ancient blower.
She blinks away any traces of tears from her eyes; she probably has less than a minute now.
She takes a deep breath, wipes the moisture on her jeans, turns away from the mirror, opens the door.
Back to real life.
~la fin