[lj idol] week five | "who's got their claws in you, my friend?"
[that which is better: a subjective truth…]
*
She wakes slowly. At odds with the rapid-cycle flickering of the muted television still switched to on in the far corner of the room.
A bulbous wine-glass sits within arm’s reach and she blinks at it owlishly, detects a shallow pool of last night’s cheap red still languishing in its base and wonders, seriously, if she could count finishing it off as breakfast.
The answer, if she’s honest with herself, is… probably.
The obnoxious wall-clock with its thick, black hands tells her she should have been at work thirteen minutes ago. She can’t figure out if this is information she should care about.
Or not.
She wakes slowly. At odds with the rapid-cycle flickering of the muted television still switched to on in the far corner of the room.
There’s a weight settled, hot and heavy on her lower legs. She doesn’t need to shift her gaze to put the pieces together and all it takes is a slight repositioning of her hips to have the dog lurching upright and pressing its wet nose triumphantly against her cheek.
The clock on the wall, a house-warming gift from a sister she rarely speaks to now, moves soundlessly towards morning, and she closes her eyes for a beat. Relishes the thought of just five more minutes.
Just…
She wakes slowly. At odds with the rapid-cycle flickering of the muted television still switched to on in the far corner of the room.
The small space is filled with the rumbling bass of a man snoring and it takes her longer than it should to sift through the last twelve hours and come up with the correct answer to her initial what the fuck…?
The clock on the wall, a recent find at a community yard sale, silently informs her it’s late enough that she can wake him, can kick him out with a breathless apology she won’t mean, can blame work and deadlines and maybe even the last minute scheduling of a fictional staff meeting, if it comes down to it.
So she does.
She wakes slowly. At odds with the rapid-cycle flickering of the muted television still switched to on in the far corner of the room.
The end of the bed is occupied by a set of crouched figures, shoulders pressed together, matching curls drooped to just past bare shoulder-blades. They’re watching cartoons with the sound turned off and she smiles sleepily, sends a silent thank you to their father for the priceless gift and takes a rare moment to drink them in, undetected.
The wall-clock above their heads, a mother’s day gift from just months ago, heralds the arrival of morning. Of possibility.
Of life…
She wakes slowly. At odds with the rapid-cycle flickering of the muted television still switched to on in the far corner of the room.
Her phone splits the relative silence in two with the delivery of a text message. She rubs absently at her left eye in lieu of reaching for her glasses. Still needs three attempts to decipher what eventually reveals itself to be an abbreviated reminder from her most enduring friend that boot camp starts in less than forty minutes.
She knows the clock above her head, a relic from her grandparent's house, is stuck at eight thirty three. AM or PM is anyone's guess; the batteries as long dead as her pop.
I no ur still in bed… the message concludes. Correct, despite the cringe-worthy text-speak.
Damn.
She wakes slowly.
The television in the far corner of the room stares back at her, darkened, blank.
Off.
*
previously on...
introduction
jayus
the missing stair
in another castle
nobody can ride your back if your back's not bent
*
She wakes slowly. At odds with the rapid-cycle flickering of the muted television still switched to on in the far corner of the room.
A bulbous wine-glass sits within arm’s reach and she blinks at it owlishly, detects a shallow pool of last night’s cheap red still languishing in its base and wonders, seriously, if she could count finishing it off as breakfast.
The answer, if she’s honest with herself, is… probably.
The obnoxious wall-clock with its thick, black hands tells her she should have been at work thirteen minutes ago. She can’t figure out if this is information she should care about.
Or not.
She wakes slowly. At odds with the rapid-cycle flickering of the muted television still switched to on in the far corner of the room.
There’s a weight settled, hot and heavy on her lower legs. She doesn’t need to shift her gaze to put the pieces together and all it takes is a slight repositioning of her hips to have the dog lurching upright and pressing its wet nose triumphantly against her cheek.
The clock on the wall, a house-warming gift from a sister she rarely speaks to now, moves soundlessly towards morning, and she closes her eyes for a beat. Relishes the thought of just five more minutes.
Just…
She wakes slowly. At odds with the rapid-cycle flickering of the muted television still switched to on in the far corner of the room.
The small space is filled with the rumbling bass of a man snoring and it takes her longer than it should to sift through the last twelve hours and come up with the correct answer to her initial what the fuck…?
The clock on the wall, a recent find at a community yard sale, silently informs her it’s late enough that she can wake him, can kick him out with a breathless apology she won’t mean, can blame work and deadlines and maybe even the last minute scheduling of a fictional staff meeting, if it comes down to it.
So she does.
She wakes slowly. At odds with the rapid-cycle flickering of the muted television still switched to on in the far corner of the room.
The end of the bed is occupied by a set of crouched figures, shoulders pressed together, matching curls drooped to just past bare shoulder-blades. They’re watching cartoons with the sound turned off and she smiles sleepily, sends a silent thank you to their father for the priceless gift and takes a rare moment to drink them in, undetected.
The wall-clock above their heads, a mother’s day gift from just months ago, heralds the arrival of morning. Of possibility.
Of life…
She wakes slowly. At odds with the rapid-cycle flickering of the muted television still switched to on in the far corner of the room.
Her phone splits the relative silence in two with the delivery of a text message. She rubs absently at her left eye in lieu of reaching for her glasses. Still needs three attempts to decipher what eventually reveals itself to be an abbreviated reminder from her most enduring friend that boot camp starts in less than forty minutes.
She knows the clock above her head, a relic from her grandparent's house, is stuck at eight thirty three. AM or PM is anyone's guess; the batteries as long dead as her pop.
I no ur still in bed… the message concludes. Correct, despite the cringe-worthy text-speak.
Damn.
She wakes slowly.
The television in the far corner of the room stares back at her, darkened, blank.
Off.
*
previously on...
introduction
jayus
the missing stair
in another castle
nobody can ride your back if your back's not bent