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STILL by me Out the window, there’s a passerby singing a distilled tune, clearer than water. Here, he dances to a silent rain, splashing in puddles of concrete and running from nothing. The city’s uncomfortably quiet; only the creaking of the bottom floor in this wretched apartment complex sounds off. The old couple passing my grey door argues over their next vacation spot, a pitter-patter of a wiener dog following behind them. I haven’t moved in six hours. The windowsill pulls me, seven flowers hiding behind a clothesline going from one building to the next, but the sun peers through for only three hours a day. How those roses are alive, I can’t tell. A few weeks of this lockdown has sent me mad, not because I am extroverted by nature, but my mind is my enemy. Alone, I can’t run from myself, and in here, I am always alone. The clock above my gas stove strikes noon, and I don’t move from the broken, couch cushion I sit on. Cheeto dust on my fingers drop to my toes as I rub my pointer and thumb, feening for money in my palm. The restaurant on Broker’s Street shut down, leaving me to my own devices and my apron in the hamper. I don’t like working there, but it’s enough to survive. At least, that is what I used to tell myself. Now I just sit, frustrated enough to not eat but not to go back to sleep. I boil in this irritation for hours, mind numb to where I can’t paint or write. Sometimes, I still enjoy the city, but without the horns and sirens, life is distant, a memory of the past. My mother always said that I would regret staying in such a large place with “all the stone and no grass to calm your anxiety.” She’s right. Never am I satisfied with what I am given, but I’m not much different from the rest of the country. I consume until I’m full, and then I consume some more, always of the bad, distasteful trash of the world and never the wholesome truth that I ran from. I’m always scampering from something. If it’s not the past or the present, it’s the future that I hope for. I can’t grasp a heart to save my life, much less expect one from someone else, and even if I’m given the option to leave this nasty, roach-infested complex, I won’t. I’ve moved around my whole life, a wonderer of a military family and a stroke of imagination. Leaving won’t do me any favors, and I’m tired of thinking about it. The man is a few blocks from my sight, and the wind blows the clothes on the roses, weighing them until it falls back in place. I stuff another Cheeto in my lips, waiting for the couple across my window’s view to begin their ritual of love for the third time today. They haven’t noticed me yet. ~~~ Written during the start of the lockdown March 2020. While this is not a personal experience, I often enjoy putting my head to the test by writing what I don't know even if it requires research. Hope you have enjoyed.
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#WeeklyWritingContest @danielandangel DEATH BED by me “I’m going to die.” “Like everyone else,” was my first thought, but I hugged her instead, a morning routine. Five years, four months, seven days, three minutes, and twenty-two seconds, we had known each other, and I hated every moment. But I couldn’t leave. She had no one, shoving all those who cared away by the time she was thirty-five, and here I was, her only slave. “I know,” I muttered, clapping in my brain, but I didn’t blink. “Should I call them?” She rolled her eyes, the crows’ feet cracking. “Oh, no. What’s the point? They hadn’t seen me in two months.” The cancer ran from her lungs to her liver in a few weeks. No chemo was going to bring her back from this cliff again. We had been here four different times, but now she let death walk among us, giving up this fight. I sat in the green chair away from her in the bland, cold hospital, even though I had other patients to attend, but they had families. Hers hated her. She coughed, a sound so guttural that I thought I would vomit as she gagged—the one noise I couldn’t handle medically. She huffed hard, eyeing the ceiling like she could see heaven. “Do you think there’s a God?” she asked. “Maybe,” I lied. Never did I care for God or gods. “Do you?” She groaned, her joints aching. “I didn’t, but I wonder about the other side—who was right. Me or my mother?” This lady would find out soon, but I said nothing. “I wonder if she would care to see me.” If this lady treated her mother the way she screeched at her own son, then probably not. I switched legs, shaking my knee and debating on going for a cigarette. She was boring me again, but yet I stayed out of pity. I tried not to be a crude, rude person even if I felt like it most days since the last situation I wanted to be in was hers. “You know, someone told me when I was twenty that this would happen,” she said in a dark tone, a tear slipping down her cheek. “I laughed in his face.” “He?” She moaned, adjusting uncomfortably. “My former husband. He left in ’85 because I wouldn’t wait for him to get it together. He told me that never being satisfied would kill me, that I only deserved what I gave.” I didn’t see how he was wrong. She faced me quickly with blood shot eyes. “I need you to kill me.” I glared, stunned in the seat. “What? Are you insane?” “I don’t want to waste away like this. No one is coming for me, and I’m not—” She sniffled. “I’m not going to heaven. Please. You know how to do it.” I walked out before she could continue. The monitors sounded off two minutes later, and nurses flooded her room. They came back covered in blood, holding my pocketknife.
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If a weirdo comes on here and starts trashing people in order to provoke a negative response from Minders then assume that the comments will be screenshot and used to trash this platform because that’s what I would do if I was a woke agent provocateur.
2.24k views · Mar 17th

More from BrittLee

#WeeklyWritingContest @danielandangel DEATH BED by me “I’m going to die.” “Like everyone else,” was my first thought, but I hugged her instead, a morning routine. Five years, four months, seven days, three minutes, and twenty-two seconds, we had known each other, and I hated every moment. But I couldn’t leave. She had no one, shoving all those who cared away by the time she was thirty-five, and here I was, her only slave. “I know,” I muttered, clapping in my brain, but I didn’t blink. “Should I call them?” She rolled her eyes, the crows’ feet cracking. “Oh, no. What’s the point? They hadn’t seen me in two months.” The cancer ran from her lungs to her liver in a few weeks. No chemo was going to bring her back from this cliff again. We had been here four different times, but now she let death walk among us, giving up this fight. I sat in the green chair away from her in the bland, cold hospital, even though I had other patients to attend, but they had families. Hers hated her. She coughed, a sound so guttural that I thought I would vomit as she gagged—the one noise I couldn’t handle medically. She huffed hard, eyeing the ceiling like she could see heaven. “Do you think there’s a God?” she asked. “Maybe,” I lied. Never did I care for God or gods. “Do you?” She groaned, her joints aching. “I didn’t, but I wonder about the other side—who was right. Me or my mother?” This lady would find out soon, but I said nothing. “I wonder if she would care to see me.” If this lady treated her mother the way she screeched at her own son, then probably not. I switched legs, shaking my knee and debating on going for a cigarette. She was boring me again, but yet I stayed out of pity. I tried not to be a crude, rude person even if I felt like it most days since the last situation I wanted to be in was hers. “You know, someone told me when I was twenty that this would happen,” she said in a dark tone, a tear slipping down her cheek. “I laughed in his face.” “He?” She moaned, adjusting uncomfortably. “My former husband. He left in ’85 because I wouldn’t wait for him to get it together. He told me that never being satisfied would kill me, that I only deserved what I gave.” I didn’t see how he was wrong. She faced me quickly with blood shot eyes. “I need you to kill me.” I glared, stunned in the seat. “What? Are you insane?” “I don’t want to waste away like this. No one is coming for me, and I’m not—” She sniffled. “I’m not going to heaven. Please. You know how to do it.” I walked out before she could continue. The monitors sounded off two minutes later, and nurses flooded her room. They came back covered in blood, holding my pocketknife.
3.05k views · Mar 17th
If a weirdo comes on here and starts trashing people in order to provoke a negative response from Minders then assume that the comments will be screenshot and used to trash this platform because that’s what I would do if I was a woke agent provocateur.
2.24k views · Mar 17th