Ruby Red Marionette

twentytwo | gin

"I think that's too much. Fifty percent? You're giving too much leverage. Ask for forty-nine."

Isaiah's voice, a once moderately pleasant sound, now made me want to pack a bag and go very, very far away from him.

"Alright, call me back and tell me what they say." He hung up his new flip phone, which he bought yesterday to avoid being 'tracked down'.

I was curled up in one of his two kitchen chairs. In my thirty minutes of sitting there since I woke up, I found that balling myself up into a tight space was increasingly difficult now that I had my grandmother's thighs, and that when someday, if a miracle occurred and I managed to live in a place of my own, I would have chairs in my kitchen that didn't leave imprints on one's buttcheeks.

"That was my brother," Isaiah said. "He's talking to investors for his business, but they all want fifty percent."

"And, as an unemployed citizen, how are you qualified to be a business advisor?" I twirled my breakfast, a piece of red licorice, around my middle finger. I was full of the low-fat candy and could already feel a cavity forming.

"I'm not. But the simple man gives the wisest advice."

"Source of your quote?"

"A simple, wise man."

I sighed. The clock on his oven read nine-thirty, which meant that I got at least eight hours of sleep last night. This would be good news in another person's world, but in a former insomniac's universe where there was a vital decision pending and the best (or worst, but resolved nonetheless) of her decisions were made in the wee hours of the morning, a good night's sleep was a horrible mistake.

I took time in peeling myself off of the chair. The pain was minimal, but only because I was numb (for now). It was now 9:31. I had twenty-nine minutes until the next hour, until I was even more late for an appointment that I hadn't even set. It was an appointment that, on one hand, I had no intention to set. Sometimes, my heart told me not to do it, but the logic of my brain told me it was the best choice. Other times, it was vice versa.

Right now, I had no feelings.

"I'm going out for a while. Here's a tip, though: keep your accidentally philosophical comebacks to yourself during job interviews, okay?"

Isaiah gave me a deadpan expression. "As an unemployed, unambitious roommate, how are you qualified to be a job interview expert?"

I walked halfway out of the kitchen and, without turning around, gave him his answer. "I'm not an interview expert; I'm a conversational analyst."

~~~

The easiest way to do this was to force it.

I took my half-shower and left Isaiah's house in a window of time that didn't allow for second thoughts. If I stayed in the house and thought too long about my options, it would only make things harder for me. I had to propel myself into motion. Making a plan, contrary to its true purpose, encouraged stagnancy. My only plan was to think about things on my way to the clinic; that way, if I changed my mind, I could just turn back.

I'd been walking for ten minutes when I realized that I spent no time thinking about what to do.

My brain was exhausted of the topic. It was a merry-go-round of redundancy and lack of evidence. If I made a Venn Diagram, all three circles would be full with the same amount of equally impactful information. I only knew this because I made a mental one two days ago, which again supports the fact that there was no more pondering to do. Every possible method had already been used. Now, after looking at this from all sides and having incessant debates against myself, the matter had been reduced to a yes or no question. A blue, friendly sign that read 'Pregnancy Resource Center' was right in front of me. The words seemed to quiver the longer I looked at them, and so did my knees. I stood staring at the sign, and the establishment behind it, for a few moments. Three teenagers who each were at least five months pregnant held hands while they walked inside. A tall, burly man pushed past me and through the doors after them. Then it was just me, standing ten feet away from the entrance to my destiny, completely dumbfounded. I couldn't tell how much time was passing, but I felt myself going deaf. Everything around me was spinning, leaving behind a sharp, crisp wind. I knew I wasn't completely deaf when I heard the janitor to my right sweeping up cardboard signs and crumbled pieces of paper - the remnants of an anti-abortion protest, probably.