Red Room Where the Writers Are

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As she sat in front of her computer, the letter-ridden screen spelled out her last moments. She knew it was wrong. But she was surrounded by so much pain and chaos. There was nothing else left to do. Her parents kicked her out for some reasons beyond her control. Something about respect. No one really knows/wasn’t paying attention. So make of that what you will.

A couple of flies on the wall diverted her attention. Really, their lives couldn’t be in worse than hers could they? Trapped indoors, ready for a fate of starvation or worse, a crashing death.

The phone rang. It was her big sister. They had been talking for the past three weeks about her fall out with her parents. She didn’t pick it up. The small, black cell phone played “Flight of the Bumblebee” in shitty monophonic fashion.

About five seconds later. Her sister called again. Most likely it was for more bullshit. You should do more for yourself. Get a real job. Go back to school. Make up with Mom and Dad. You’re a selfish prick. And so on and so forth… and least that’s what she was hearing Frankly her sister just needed to shut the fuck up and stop harassing folks.

She got up and away from the computer for a minute. Walked past her fatass friend of the couch watching ABC and his brother sitting at the other computer, being yet another fatass prick, eating a bowl of rice. All she was really just tech support to these pricks. And I’m using the same word far too much. Okay, they were overweight jackoffs.

Let me rephrase that. A bowl of butter with some rice in it.

She went into the kitchen and made a sandwich. It was a boloney and cheese sandwich with Miracle Whip on white bread. White bread is so gross. The bleach. But it’s what they buy. They’re digging their own graves. All of them. And she’s going to be the one throwing the dirt on them at this rate. My God.

After making the sandwich, she sits back down and continues typing. She stops for a minute to turn on some music. IIDX music is on. The other two decide it’s “not going to be played in their house”. They didn’t pay rent… so she didn’t see how it’s their house. But she silently complied like a hooker on Belmont.

Her frustration was becoming very apparent. The wooden table housing her computer was now full of claw marks and salt from some silent tears.

She got up and went outside onto the patio. She could see her car a few feel away. She jumps the fence and hops into her car. She scribbles the end of her story on her notepad and begins to drive.

You know, the road changes depending on how you feel. I guess when you’re sad. Things just don’t register in your head sometimes. Like the red light on Lincoln Highway.

During her last milliseconds of life, she looked back on the events of the past month. Maybe her life was just meant to end at this point. Yeah, dieing young sucks but we all can’t die of old age can we? Then we’d be Japan.

Or even better, we all can’t live forever. We’d have to watch people die, over and over again. Time and time again. What kind of life is that to lead? In all seriousness.

Story close to home? For me, yes. But aren’t we all going home in the end? When we really sit down and think about it. We’re really just on this earth killing time. Does God really have infinite time? Then why waste it.