Think Of This

Back in October, I wrote a little piece. It doesn't have a title, but it does start with "Think of this," so I suppose that's good enough for now. Back then a few of my friends (both male and female) seemed to have similar stories/issues. After thinking about it, I decided to write a short story combining all of our stories into one. You can read into it if you want, think it's about you if you want, feel guilty if you want, but that's not really the point of the piece.

I will admit that I had to take out a couple of sentences, because they were a little more obvious and personal. They are more of a loose interpretation of how I see other people viewing the guy than about me. I also thought it would be fairer to show the guy that part before everyone else.


Think of this:
A young woman sits at home; a musty quilted pillow, contained by her arms. She stares out a window at nothing. Night has fallen and where there would be bright green trees and a flowing river, black night veils them. She is not thinking of the beautiful foliage. How could she, when her thoughts are agonizing and overflowing? One would never know. Her posture is perfectly relaxed and serene; She is a graceful statue. Only her watery eyes could give her away, but they’re shadowed by the night.

Meanwhile, a young man stands above a dirty linoleum floor, taking shots from a graying counter top. Loud voices and harsh laughter surround him. People urge him on for their own entertainment. He takes two more shots. The familiar faces begin to sway and warmth fills every joint. Heat pushes guilt away. The faces become more than just familiar; they become his best friends. He forgets these people never supported [him]. He forgets they don’t care about him. He is just a performing clown. He gulps down another shot.

The young woman begins quivering. Anyone around her would think it’s the result of sitting so near a frosted window. No one realizes she is waiting. No one can see the strain as she hunches forward. She bears a pain too enormous for her petite frame. She wonders when she will break. Tonight? Next month? In a year? When will the occasional tear turn into a flood? When will she not be able to pick herself up and carry on with her day anymore? The worry stresses her heart. It races faster. Her arms drop to her sides as she is consumed by helplessness.

A few hours later the young man finds himself staggering home alone. The heat has cooled down with the cold fall air. His drunken smile fades. A beautiful figure dances at the edges of his memory, becoming clearer with each step. He takes out his keys and fumbles to fit the lock with the right key. The door shuts behind him. In the surrounding silence, his cold hands comfort his face, he finally remembers the one who was always there; the one who always forgave him and all the times he took her for granted; Grief shakes his body. He never meant to cause her pain. He opens his phone and begins to dial.

A buzz interrupts the young woman’s melancholy. Her hopes and heart rate jump. Just as the tears begin to flow freely, she answers.
“Hi,” says the young man. “I missed you.”
“How was your night?” she responds; smile evident in her voice.
“Okay," He pauses, before continuing casually, "You know.”
“Yes, I do.”