Alright boys and girls, enough of this silly shit around these parts. God, you’d think someone else stepped in for me these last few posts with how happy and positive things have been. Gross eh!? So, since I happen to be home today and with nothing better to do than post to WordPress, I thought I’d send you a little classic angst in the form of a fiction short snippet story that is lovingly depressive. It’s JUST what the doctor ordered around here. Enjoy! (FYI, harsh language and adult topics to follow)
Loud voices, a burst of raucous laughter, drug references, finally the distinct shattering sound of glass smashing on the floor in the kitchen. In the next room, I cringe, head down, hand furiously jotting across the page, messy and hard, flying with my anger, my all consuming rage. Fuck him. Fuck them. Music begins to play, booming throughout the small apartment, old walls thinner than paper, and immediately I think of the horrible old man who lives downstairs. I’m sure the bastard has hawk ears, listening to everything, gathering information, his fury growing like a deadly tumor. For God’s fuckin sake, I think, looking at the clock, it’s 12:37 am on a Thursday night.
I stiffly get up off the bed, quivering with nerves, my tightly coiled anger making it hard to breathe. My cat is scratching at the door, claws raking against wood. As soon as I crack the door he scoots inside, tail stiff like a flag. My orange fluff-ball hates being locked in or out of any room, so I have to leave the door open a crack, letting in the sounds from the other room, letting in the panic. Now everything is louder, mumblings, stumbling, a chair being dragged across the floor, smoke drifting, smells distinct and earthy, slurred conversation punctuated with words like cocaine, marijuana, grass. Each word like the crack of a gunshot, reverberating through the apartment. I crash back onto the bed, yanking my composition notebook closer, the words leaping off the page. Dirty fuckers. Assholes.
My hand begins to fly again, smearing black ink, my breathing ragged, fingers, claw- like around my pen. I want to yell and scream, throw a fit. I’m paranoid. I want to go to sleep. I’m tired as all hell. But I can’t relax, I can’t get ready for bed because I have to go through them to get to the bathroom. So I’m a prisoner in my own apartment, trapped in my bedroom by drunk, high, partying mother fuckers. And the best part, the part that makes me bare my teeth in a sarcastic insane grin, my darling boyfriend is the ring leader of the group.
Suddenly something else smashes in the kitchen like tinkling glass and then I hear a loud crunching sound. I whip toward the door, listening closely. Someone laughs again and a male voice says, “It’s my bump next you fucker!” I glare, my heart thudding in my chest and then return to my writing, laying down words like a scribbled road map to my anger explosion.
Oh shit I’m so fucking livid! I want to leave, I want out before something bad happens, before a cop knocks on my door asking me what that white powder is on the kitchen counter. I can hear him now, his eyes mean, his tone threatening, “ it’s not flour honey, cause I know you haven’t been baking,” and then the cuffs come out. Holy Fuck.
Finally I can stand it no longer, listening to the sounds, wondering if the old man is hearing all of this, wondering when he will pick up the phone and tell the cops about hearing drug references and loud music. My fists clench into tight little balls as I get up off the bed, body wired tense, pulse pounding in my ears. I am a towering inferno of paranoid bitch. I stalk down the short hallway.
“Can you please shut the fuck up and keep it down,” I shriek, bursting into the tiny living room like an avenging, buzz-killing goddess. I could kill them all right now. I glare around the room, seeing their surprise, their mockery, their drug and alcohol indulgence. Finally my eyes snap to my boyfriend, watching as instantaneously his eyes grow wide and lips compress into a tight unyielding line. Someone on the couch coughs, breathing out a puff of marijuana smoke and before it dissipates, my boyfriend is across the room to take me aside, lightening fast for a stumbling drunk. I know he wants to stop my words, to shut me up.
His grip is burning hot on my upper arm and I can feel the anger in him, his body rigid, embarrassed that I would dare to yell at his friends, the people who mean everything to him.
“I’m leaving,” I state, my voice steel, trying to tug my arm out of my boyfriend’s sweaty grasp, moving to rip my coat from the hook near the door. Before I can get anywhere, he pulls me back, his grip on my arm so tight it pinches, his eyes bloodshot and weaving, trying to focus on mine.
“No, you’re not leaving. Get in the bedroom and stay there if you don’t like this,” he spits, face twisted in anger, drunk and sloppy. I jerk my arm out of his grasp, glaring at him. Damn him. Damn! I’m on fire with rage right now, my own mind controlling illegal drug, potent and physical.
I stamp back into our tiny bedroom, rigid with rage, throwing myself across the bed, writing irately in my journal, cursing out him, his friends, everyone in the next room. All I can do is focus on every word, every loud sound, ever drug reference, every white powdery line of coke on our kitchen counter, every bowl of grass that sends smoke billowing into the air.
I’m obsessed with the old man right now, that old fucker who lives downstairs. The man who parked behind my car, blocking me in, the day I did laundry and needed to park close to my front door. I remember him standing there, arms crossed, as I walked down the stairs, clearly waiting for me, lips pursed in wrinkly displeasure and then he launched into a lecture at me for parking in his “parking spot”. I said I wasn’t aware of assigned parking and he said I’d find it in my lease. Really? Sure it is you crazy old asshole! My temper was boiling. I mean how dare he talk to me like that? Later I checked, there wasn’t anything about assigned parking in my lease.
Then he started shouting at me about how I must have done something to my toilet to make it so noisy. Hmm…yes, I certainly went into the toilet and the piping and fucked with it so that it would be louder. That is certainly what I did. I’m a plumber on the side. I fuck with toilets to annoy old men. It’s like my job. And then the worst offense, as he got into his car to pull back so I could move my car to another spot, just a tiny movement forward, just enough to tap my bumper, just enough to tell me that this old fucker meant business. My blood still simmers at the thought.
So, what must he be thinking about tonight? Does he hear every sound I do? Does he want to call the police? I’m paranoid as all sweet hell. I want to escape, I don’t want to be here when shit goes down. But there is no reasoning with drunk people. My boyfriend doesn’t care. He’s having a good time with his friends, drinking, living it up. Right now they are more important to him than me. He’s pissed that I yelled at them, embarrassing him with my bitchy attitude. Well, I’m fuckin pissed. I know his friends are going to puke on my floor/carpet/couch. I know he’s told a few of them they can spend the night. I don’t want them here. I want them gone, out the door so quick it would make your head spin.
Lying there, writing out my fury, the sounds continue. Loud conversation, thumping music, bumps and crashes, an ear splitting hoot of laughter and I want to scream at my boyfriend, thrash him, slap his face so hard that he’ll get sober. But I know that won’t work. I know what will happen because it’s happened before. He’ll stumble in to bed eventually, piss drunk, falling onto the bed like the living dead, splayed out, arms and legs akimbo. Then I’ll be squished up on my side unable to sleep, hot, annoyed, silently fuming. And there’s no waking him, no moving him once he’s asleep like that. Next the snoring starts and I really get angry, clenching my fists under the covers, wanting to beat him senseless, needing to break up with him now, to literally crush his slimy heart into smithereens with my bare hands.
I want to leave, now, before any of this can happen. Except I have nowhere else to go. I’m stuck because I left mommy and daddy to live with him. Even my bed is here, the one underneath me, so I can’t go home to them. No place to sleep.
I grit my teeth, hand aching fiercely from my frantic rant writing. I lean over the page again, forcing my hand on, through my anger, pressing each word deeply into the page. I know soon I’ll be staring into the darkness, wide awake, but exhausted, thinking about the things I have to do in the coming days. I’m not the one partying all night, yet I’ll be the one paying for it tomorrow. After he comes to bed there will be no turning him over, no waking him up. I’ve tried all these things before and nothing works. Where can I go? There will be drunks on my couch, drunks lying on the floor in pools of their own vomit in my kitchen, drug residue on the counter. The bathroom is tiny. It’s cold outside and I can’t sleep in my car. There is nowhere else to go. So I will lie here. Hatred living in my heart, wondering why I put up with this shit, wondering if I can ever fall in love with him again.