July 7, 2011
By Sorian BRONZE, Amelia, Ohio
Sorian BRONZE, Amelia, Ohio
1 article 0 photos 0 comments

She is a nobody. But she still exists. She takes an extra shift just to take up more time. She drives a used car, back and forth, an endless cycle. Good times come and go. Bad times come and go. The mundane remains, until it becomes both the bad and the good and the cage that keeps her in her routine.
She fumbles with the keys to her cheap apartment. No matter what she does to the place it always feels cold and unwelcoming. She opens the fridge and grabs a beer, making a shopping list in her head. She cracks open the beverage and the sound of it rings throughout her all-too-silent kitchen. The echoes making everything lonelier.
She sinks into a battered sofa. Her shaky hands light a cigarette after several tries. “You can’t even smoke right, you idiot.” She whispers to herself, wishing she had someone to complain to. Her bloodshot eyes stare at the smoke swirling around her. Each swirl unique, but insignificant. Each swirl disappearing in seconds, just leaving behind their smell. She chuckles, a sad, raspy sound, realizing all of us are like smoke swirls.
All of us are different, but not important in the least bit.
She turns on the television. Wanting it to distract her. She flips though the channels. Rich people, beautiful people, young people, successful people, happy people. The flickering glow reflects off the decaying walls and her decaying face. It reflects off the fading smoke and the fading images outside the window.
Television makes her feel worse, it makes her feel smaller. It makes her feel like all has been a waste. What is the point of living for others if the ones you live for die? Her thoughts turn to her husband, a memorial beside a busy road. Her thoughts turn to her children. One born dead, the other lived dead until a crude noose finished the job. Her thoughts turn to her parents, who held each other until death held them both. Her friends, one by one going to live their own lives, not realizing they were isolating themselves in their own futile aspirations.
How desperately she wanted to love again, to be loved again. To find home again. To feel again.
She sinks onto the floor of her bathroom. Her shaky hands open the pills after several tries. “You can’t even die right, you idiot.” She whispers to herself, wishing she had someone to tell goodbye. Her bloodshot eyes look at the faces swirling around her. Each face unique, and significant. Each face disappearing in seconds, leaving behind their promise. She chuckles, a weak, dying sound, realizing what heaven is like, for the very first time.

The author's comments:
I want this to remind you not to let go of those you love. And to reach out to people with this sort of pain.

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