Year of Oblivion [On Hold]

Chapter 2: Get Gritty

                                                                                    -2-

            When I awake from my stint in Oblivion it’s a Friday night in December. Around here December means ostentatious and overbearing Christmas decorations on every single oversized home on the streets. It means cold, rainy weather that sends all the Suburbanites running, tails between their legs, to Starbucks for their new coffee creation. What ever happened to real coffee anyway? It means a bad time to ask others for money, and charities that do so anyway. It means family angst and clashing with relatives. Occasionally it means packing up and going to somewhere exotic in order to battle the winter blues, but more often than not it means boredom. And when there’s boredom, sure enough, there’s bound to be underage drinking.

            The green, luminescent numbers of the egg-shaped Phillips clock tell me that its 8:23. Why did I fall asleep so early? Next to the clock, on my bed side table, my iPhone is having a seizure, the scratched screen constantly transforming between the notification that I have a text message and a picture of unnaturally red lips biting a cherry. It’s an album cover; thanks Wild Cherry, maybe I will play some funky music tonight. Rolling over on my stomach, I realized I’d been sleeping on my arm, cutting off blood flow and lulling it to sleep. It felt like ants were invading my body; it's as if there were holes in the tips of my fingers and the little black ants come in hordes, emptying in, crawling, bumping into one another, desecrating, killing. My phantom arm reached over to the table and tried to grab the phone; it missed. Tried again, success.

            Text message from Atwood, comma, Janelle at 8:15:

            Who the hell falls asleep at 7’o clock anyway? Outside on the drive, broke up with Danny (I’m free!), get out here, I’ve got some ideas…smiley face.

            Ideas? Janelle had been my best friend since pre-K, so by now I knew her more than well enough to know exactly what that meant. She’d just blown out the candles of her eighteenth cake last week, so it goes without saying that she wanted to buy her first lottery ticket. She’d also just broken up with her boyfriend of a few months Carmichael, comma, Danny. Poor kid, he was head over heels in love with her. They’d had a thing going on since the summer before, but hadn’t officially started dating until a few months ago, but in the end he never really had a fighting chance. I knew it was coming, it was how she worked, Janelle. The constant flirt would chase a guy down, make him crazy for her, but once she had him in her grip, she would feel “trapped” and break it off. Claiming she had commitment issues, I knew better; I know what she really is. Because I am apparently her best friend. Because I have known her for so long. Because in the end, I know she’ll treat me the same way. This path will only lead to desertion, and that desertion will be of me, only I refuse to admit that to myself, let alone confront Janelle about it.

            After reading the message, I slipped out of bed, no, stumbled is the right word and looked around for my jeans and boots. Hastily, I pulled them onto my legs, the boots onto my icicle feet. A black tank flowed over my black bra and a purple plaid vest over that was my mother’s from the 70’s, most likely. I wouldn’t know, I never bothered to ask, even if I had, she wouldn’t have noticed anyway. My navy style coat and black purse were flung on a chair, the silver piece of metal on the bag engraved with elephants barely distinguishable in the dark. I grabbed them quickly, opened the door a crack, and really this time, slipped out. The white hallway looked depressingly empty in the dark, devoid of any color, paintings or photos- just empty. There was no need for me to be quiet; my mother’s room is across the expanse of the house and she wouldn’t have heard me. It’s not as if I’m sneaking out, it’s not as if anyone in the house would care or notice if I were gone, except perhaps the house itself. Perhaps it misses me. Does a jailhouse miss an inmate after he or she leaves? Or, maybe it knows that more likely than not that inmate will return to them in time. The omniscient place sees that the world, often so cruel and unforgiving, only becomes more so after one begins their downward spiral. Sometimes, even then, jail seems welcoming.