It starts with my teeth.
Always,
Nothing too suspicious,
After all
How often to you look at someone’s teeth?
Next, its my room.
I don’t bother with the cups,
Or making the bed.
And do I really need to throw away my mail?
As long as my clothes don’t stink,
What’s the point?
Besides there’s always perfume
Deodorant stains only
Inside the shirts,
And no one knows about your socks.
Skipping shower’s not that
Big a deal.
There’s dry shampoo,
No one notices until it starts to
Stick to your hair like chalk
Coloring it like cheap Halloween hair spray.
Sleeps a hard thing to master.
Too much or
Too little
Either way I’m exhausted
And that’s what people seem to notice.
Yawning too often,
Working slower.
We laugh it off as a
Hangover
Partying too much.
Even though I haven’t
So much as
Talked to my friends in
Months.
I will laugh along.
Then maybe one day,
I’ll text a friend.
I’ll shower because
Even if it’s draining
I am absolutely
Disgusted
With myself at that time.
The next I’ll throw the cups.
Cleaning them after so long
Would be impossible.
It’ll just be easier to throw them
With my unopened mail.
Then I’ll wash my bedding,
It definitely has a smell.
And the clothes laying around.
I won’t be really sure of what’s clean or not.
Then I’ll brush my teeth.
Where it all started going down hill.
There will be plaque
And possibly blood
Depending on how long it took me
To pull myself up.
Flossing’s the worst
After it, the utter disgust
And disappointment it brings.
And last, the mouth wash will
Burn from lack of use.
And last I’ll stare at my teeth.
Clean finally but I know,
When it begins that’s where it’ll start.
That’s always where it starts.
A/N: This is kind of a longer short story. Just a heads up it hints very lightly at child abuse and racism- very very lightly implied. This is a literary fiction so it doesn’t have an obvious plot it’s written more like day to day life whoops.
“It’s too cold to snow.” He sighed bitterly. His breath fogged the air around him blocking his dark eyes. He cupped his reddened fingers around his mouth letting out a great huff in attempt to warm them. He didn’t bother to look at his drab surroundings. He knew the grey clouds reflected on the tinted windows making them match the cold sky. He knew there were many faceless people passing him with their monochromatic suits and dress coats. He was sure they wore hats and ear muffs to warm their ears- his own was blue with a white puff ball on the top, it was one he got for his nineteenth birthday- the faceless people- he was sure- still would have red noses under their grey eyes. He found himself wondering how many of them worked in the tall grey buildings that lined bother sides of the street. Probably all. His thoughts turned from wonder back to the bitterness he’d found in the cold.
He hated himself for giving his resume to many of those mind numbing buildings. He was sure working in one of those buildings would drain him of the last bit of his sanity and the uniqueness life had been trying to pound out of him since his father sent him to private school. He hated that school. Everyone who went to that school hated that school- even his mom who’d only set foot in it twice a year hated it. He was sure that was when the lead started to grow in his heart and now . . . now it was so heavy it was constantly pulling his insides down and forcing twice the weight on each of his feet. He was sure that one day the lead was going to pull the guts from inside his chest down and out his feet that’s why the socks were so important. The blue striped socks his mom had given him to wear under the manufactured uniform had become the last line of defense that held all his guts inside.
His leaded feet dragged along the side walk through the crowd towards his apartment building. He hated this track everyday, he was always dejected and alone and now it was freezing outside. He’d handed out resumes until his fingers were shaking with the nervousness of seeing that many people. People weren’t exactly his forte, plus he hadn’t really wanted the jobs they had. His life wasn’t going exactly how he planned; he moved to a new city to escape his father and now he knew no one, he had no money, no job, and his apartment wasn’t that great. He was lucky enough that his mom had paid for the next three months in the place without letting his father know.
The apartment building only stood out in the street for one reason- unlike the other buildings it was an older style building with white painted bricks. The door had an intercom and a keypad for security but with just the right wiggle from the left on the knob and it’d pop open. The entrance of the building was the mail boxes and an old fashioned elevator. He wondered over to the mail boxes; the old women who lived across the hall from him, she had white curly hair and always wore floral print dresses. She was eyeing the boy as he approached the metal boxes close to where she was, her liver-spotted hands grasped her envelopes tightly to her chest, her lavender purse held into her chest.
He didn’t notice Mrs. Davidson at all really, he was focused on himself and hoping that his mom sent him a care package. He sighed as he opened it to nothing but his reflection, he was really tired of eating instant ramen packages. He laid his head against the cool metal for a moment before his eyes finally noticed the old women heading up the stairs and a forgotten package on the ground. He knew that Mrs. Davidson had bad knees and a fear of elevators, especially the old one present in their building.
He wordlessly picked up the package. “Wait.” He called out to the old woman, instead of turning as he had predicted, she gripped her things tighter and continued up the stairs at a faster pace. He sighed and started up the stairs behind her.
“Wait! Mrs. Davidson.” He tried again gaining on her by skipping a few steps up.
She hurried up the stairs making him briefly wonder how a women in her eighties could maneuver like that. “Wait! You-“ He reached out to grab her shoulder to catch her attention. With her purse gripped in her fist as if they were brass knuckles, she spun around and greeted her neighbor with her weapon across his face.
He hadn’t expected it. Just about all of it. He didn’t expect her to have such strength. He didn’t expect the box to fall to the steps with the sound of breaking glass. He didn’t expect the aggressive greeting. And he sure didn’t expect it to be that heavy. His cold hands cradled the side of his face that her weapon had met, his glasses were askew but not broken. “What? Do you have a brick in there?”
Mrs. Davidson had almost immediately recognized her mistake upon her package crashing to the ground. She felt her wrinkles deepen in shame as her jaw fell slack. “Oh dear.” She sighed letting her purse slack in her hand. “I am so sorry. Come, we’ll get some ice on that.” She gently grasped his forearm to lead him.
She felt silly listening to the rumors about the young man. One look into his dark eyes and she was sure he was an innocent person without one ounce of malice. No, if anything he seemed awkward, perhaps shy but why would a bad person bother to bring an old lady with bad knees her package. Ms. Robertson from apartment twenty-three clearly had no idea what she was talking about. She shook her head and lead the boy, who had bothered to pick up her now damaged package.
Once they reach the second floor the young man pulled gently from her grip and took a step back from her for good measure. He stretched his arms out offering her the package that’d gotten him into all this trouble. “You don’t have to take care of me.” His voice was barely more than a whisper but there was an unsaid promise. I know you’re scared of me. You don’t have to do this. It said and it made the lead inside him heavier.
Mrs. Davidson shook her head at the both of them. “Do you have any ice in that apartment of yours?” She asked raising her silver eyebrow.
His eyes met hers briefly before looking down. “Well, no, but I can make some . . .” He trailed off remembering that he didn’t have any ice cube trays.
“So you have trays then?”
“Well, no but-“
“Do you have any frozen things to place on your eye?” He didn’t have the courage to answer with his voice, only a subtle head shake. “Come on then. I’ll make you some tea.” She offered unlocking her apartment and ushering him in.
Her apartment smelt of Avon perfume and, like his, it was a studio. The kitchen was to the right upon entering, the floral couch that he guessed folded out into a bed was to the left. Little white lace pillows were delicately placed on the sofa along with a large doily. A fat white cat slept on the wooden rocking chair facing the small television set from the early 2000′s. A light teal rug was groaning under the corner of the chair. The kitchen was white without much on the counter save a fancy espresso machine and the teal tea kettle on the stove.
“Sit down here.” Mrs. Davidson lead him to one of the two seats on a small white table just in the kitchen area in front of her only window. From there he could see his reflection in her tiny antique cabinet as it held her fine china. His eye had began to take the colors to which he could only describe as the cotton candy he’d eaten at the fair when he was eight and it’d been thrown up twenty minutes later.
His eyes wondered to the old women who had been making herself busy with the tea kettle and getting two cups down from her white cabinets. “What should I do with this?” He asked raising the package.
“Oh! Right!” She recalled hurriedly pulling out a package of frozen peas and wrapping them in a dish towel. She grabbed her sewing scissors with her other hand and hurried over to the young man. She handed him the peas and grasped the package. He removed his glasses to place the peas on his wounded eye and watch her as she opened the package skillfully with the scissors. “Oh.” Her eyes softened as she saw what was inside the box. “I do believe Mr. Davidson would be very disappointed in me.” She smiled pulling the picture from the broken frame and admiring it more closely.
He had to admit he was horribly curious but before he could even attempt a question the kettle began to scream pulling her away. She quickly began making the tea, the aroma of earl grey consumed the tiny apartment. “So, you moved in about a month ago, right?” She asked.
“Uh, yeah a little over.” He shrugged even though she couldn’t see.
“Do you work?”
“No, I’ve been handing out resumes everyday but . . .” He sighed looking down to his hands.
She looked over her shoulder to see the dejected boy in his black jumper, worn jeans and runners, and lastly the stained and ripped blue striped socks. “Dressing like that wont help. And those socks are falling apart.”
He shook his head quickly. “I have to wear these socks.” She found it curious but didn’t press.
“I have some of Mr. Davidson’s suits still, you can use one. And when you’re ready to take those socks off I’ll show you how to fix the wholes in them.” She offered carrying the cups over to the table, she sat across from him and slid him a cup. “It won’t be a good story on how you got a black eye I’m afraid.” She smiled patting his arm.
The lead in his heart felt a little lighter as the corners of his mouth twitched upward. “None of the stories I have on how I got a black eye are cool.” It was true, the only decent story about a black eye he had that made him sound cool was the one from his father but he never told that to anyone.
“The only shiner I’d ever gotten was from a snowball.” Mrs. Davidson smiled with a far away look in her eye. “I am sorry for hitting you.”
He waved it off and shrugged. The pair was silent for a moment. “Why are you scared of me?”
Mrs. Davidson let out a sigh and retrieved the picture. “I’d broken a promise I’m afraid.”
He examined her curiously. “The old women of this building love to gossip and the latest has been the young quiet man on the second floor who keeps to himself.” She shook her head dismissively. “The last time I let rumors scare me I almost didn’t dance with the man I’d fall in love with.” She smiled at the picture before offering it to the young man.
His eyes landed on the picture and suddenly he understood what she meant. “He passed away four years ago yesterday and everyday I miss him more.” He nodded and looked back to the picture. “My daughter must’ve found our wedding picture when she was cleaning the attic. We had to travel two states over to elope.” She smiled fondly out the window gripping the ring on the chain around her neck. She seemed to be thinking about something as she sipped on her tea. "It was a day like today when that picture was taken. Oh how Daddy hated him." She smiled had a mischievous look in her eyes. The troubled boy watched her curiously as she chuckled to herself at the unsaid memory. "Although, back then everyone hated men like my Richard." She sighed.
"What was it like?" She looked at him with wide eyes hearing his timid voice. He was looking at the tea instead of her with lightly flushed cheeks.
Her cheeks wrinkled with a small smile admiring the familiar timid nature she hadn't seen in four years. "There were many rumors when we started courting." She sighed wistfully. "Some said he was threatening my family." There was something bitter in her voice as she looked out the window. "They painted him awful colors and no one wanted to hire him." Her arthritic hands gripped the fine teacup as she shook her head as if wishing away all the bad thoughts. "Not a word of it was true, of course." The found smile over took her face once again and the boy found his insides feeling lighter once again. "He was the kindest man I ever knew. We had to move up here when we married." Her smile didn't waver, the boy ran his finger over the old picture. The peas on his eye had numbed the pain. "Richard liked the snow. It's become my favorite since he's passed." Her smiled faltered as a silence pulled on the room.
The boys heart didn’t feel like lead was pulling at it for the first time in months. “Oh it’s snowing.” Mrs. Davidson said taking a sip from her tea. He turned to look out the window. Large white flakes were falling passed the window at a soothing pace. He smiled looking to the happy couple in the grey scale photo.
I hate “Brown Eyed Girl” by Van Morison
He
Used to call me his brown eyed girl
Every chance he got.
He
Used to sing it to me at the top of his lungs
Every day in his beat up truck.
And as I broke his heart.
He
Looked me in the eyes and said
“Your eyes aren’t brown.”
A/N: I hate who this poem is about. Anyway, I will hopefully start posting more.
#LIKE A TIRED MIDDLE AGED SUBURBAN DAD THAT HAS TO RAISE FIVE CHILDREN ON HIS OWN #AND LITERALLY NOTHING THEY SAY OR DO SURPRISES HIM ANYMORE HE IS JUST LIVING IN A CONSTANT STATE OF ANNOYANCE AND DEEP RESIGNATION #I’M A CENTURY OLD FOR FUCK’S SAKE #I’M TIRED AND DONE
like right now I’m trying to remember if I have ever bought anything for 10 cents or even seen anything that was only worth 10 cents. What century did they crawl out of
