A story I started writing when I was bored at work one day. I've never been able to get passed the first chapter of anything I've written:
The dream always begins
the same way: Trapped. I’m in a dark
room. It’s cold and damp. I can hear the drip of water from what I can
only suppose is a leaky pipe. I’m
sitting on the hard cement floor straining my eyes and ears, trying to sense
something. Anything. I can’t move except to shiver. My breath is labored and terrified. My heart is pounding in my chest, threatening
to break into pieces. And still I sit
there. Nothing happens. No one comes.
There is absolute nothingness.
And then I wake
up. My eyes flutter open on their own
and I lay there trying to make sense of it all.
I listen to the ticking of the clock in the bathroom. I stare at the soft flow of light filtering
in through the cracks of the blinds. And
I wonder. Why do I dream such
blackness? Why is the world so empty in
my heart?
I sigh and turn over,
adjusting myself more comfortably into my bed.
I shut my eyes and wait for sleep to take me again.
My waking life is far
less worth mentioning. I spend my days
forcing myself through a job that I hate only to come home and collapse on the
couch to watch TV. Too lazy to do
anything else. Half the time I go to bed
realizing I’ve forgotten to eat again.
Occasionally, when forced, I’ll spend the evening with a friend or on a
date. I’ve become very good at
pretending I’m normal and happy. I
remember to smile and laugh when appropriate.
I pay enough attention to conversations to answer questions when
asked. I even make eye contact. But really it is just an act. I don’t remember what it feels like to
actually be happy. I’m just glad no one
recognizes the fake. I hate questions.
It was on one of those
boring nights home alone that my story really begins. I had remembered that I was hungry and put
some water on to boil. The only things I
ever learned how to make were pasta and frozen pizza – very pathetic, I know,
but pathetic was the definition of my existence at the time. The TV was playing in the living room. It was loud enough to hear from the
kitchen. I was singing along to whatever
stupid, annoying commercial was playing as I drained the pasta into the
sink.
In a careless moment I
spilled some of the steaming water onto my hand. It burned!
I dropped the pot into the sink and turned the cold water from the tap
onto my hand. It was red and throbbing
and the water didn’t seem to be doing any good.
I turned to the freezer instead.
It was empty of anything useful.
Why had I not gone grocery shopping in over a month? Normally I’m the type to ignore sickness and
pain and just deal with it, but this was hurting too much to be ignored. I finally resolved myself to dare the grocery
store for some burn ointment….I hate the grocery store. I hate anywhere with crowds. I reasoned with myself that at 8:00 in the
evening not very many people would be there.
So I grabbed my keys, threw on some shoes, and was on my way.
After the ten minute
drive, I eased into a parking place. I
took two deep breaths and made my way into the store. I had been right. It was nearly deserted. I remembered to be polite to anyone who
smiled or spoke a greeting to me, but otherwise plowed my way through to my
destination. I tried to scan the shelves
quickly, but I had never bought burn medicine before. I had no idea what would be best. I was considering two boxes when I heard a
voice behind me.
“Do you need some help
finding something?”
I glanced up. He was about my age. He had a fit body, dark brown hair, blue
eyes, and a friendly smile. Over all he
was very attractive.
“No thanks, I’m just
looking,” I smiled my well-practiced fake smile back at him and looked back
down.
“That’s a pretty nasty
burn you have there.”
I looked up again. So he was going to be one of those people who
liked to try to make conversation…why can’t they just leave me alone?
“Yeah, it’s not so
pretty,” I answered him.
“He walked over stand
next to me and grabbed a box off the shelf.
“I’d go with this one,” he said. I took the box from his hand. It couldn’t hurt to take his suggestion.
“Thank you.” I replaced the other boxes and smiled at him
again. He was still watching me. He was tall.
I couldn’t look him full in the face without putting my head back. I dropped my gaze, absent-mindedly brushing a
hair behind my ear.
“Well thanks again,” I
slowly started to turn away.
“My name is
Andrew.” He held out his hand.
“Lydia.” I touched my uninjured hand lightly to his
for just a moment. I hated
handshakes. I never did them properly.
“I don’t think I’ve
seen you here before. Do you shop here a
lot?”
“Umm…I guess so. I don’t really like grocery shopping so I
come as little as I can.”
“That’s too bad. You should make it over here more often.”
I laughed forcedly and
wondered if it would be too obvious if I started to inch away. I longed for my empty apartment.
“No, I’m serious. My job might not be so boring if I got to see
your pretty face more often.” He
winked. I hate it when people wink. It’s such a strange thing to do.
Again I laughed because
I knew I should. “Well, I’d better get
going.”
He was still
smiling. It was a very nice smile, I
noticed. “I was very nice to meet you
Lydia.”
“You, too.” I turned and began walking away, sure it
would be rude to break into a run. And
then:
“Lydia?”
I stopped and closed my
eyes. I had been so close! I turned to look at him again.
“This might be kind of
forward, but I’d really love to be able to talk to you more….Do you mind if I
get your phone number?”
I had to admit it was
the most polite request for my phone number I had ever received. But still….I had never learned to say no to
that question and giving a fake number to a nice man at my age seemed too
juvenile. I waited for him to save my
number in his phone and then broke free.
Thirty minutes later I
was safe in my apartment, my hand shiny with ointment. I felt tired.
Too tired to even move. I fell
asleep on the couch without even turning off the lights.
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