Short Stories

9.| Nice Things

9.| Nice Things

The door shut with a quiet bang, and Chris walked in while he released a long, weary sigh. He heard the TV in the other room, an announcer was talking loudly and—to him—very obnoxiously.

"I'm home." He mumbled to himself, thinking wistfully to the times it actually mattered. He headed to the kitchen and placed his bag down beside the door while he put the remainder of the bags on the counter. As he loaded the groceries where they needed to go, he tried to ignore all of the filth, he tried to ignore the horrid smell and the disgusting sight before him. . . everywhere.

"And it hits, it's going to. . ."

The house was dark, just like Mitchell liked it. The television-screen's glare flashed lights into the kitchen, colors that somehow made Chris feel lonely. Does he even care? He thought to himself. Does he even try?

Chris leaned against the counter and closed his eyes. He thought back to the time when things were easier, when things were nicer. The great time of youth... he sighed. Why did I let it slip away?

He wished he could take it back. He wished he could go back in time, just to feel good again. To him, living in that dump was horrible, he could hardly manage. Waking up every day to the nightmare, returning home from work every night. Sometimes he'd rather be working than return back there, and his job wasn't even that good.

Every day he thought about going back to his parents, but he didn't want to trouble them. They knew nothing of the mess they were in, they knew nothing about their close bankruptcy. He felt like he would disappoint them. He figured they'd force themselves to help them, and they wouldn't actually care or want to.

They were rational concerns, but deep down, Chris knew they would never do either of them. They'd support him and Mitchell if they both weren't so stubborn and kept it from them. They wore their best clothes when they went over and they never let them come to their apartment. They might have thought they weren't trying, but everything was so difficult.

Chris looked around. He should clean soon, things were getting out of hand. He just wished Mitchell would help him, then maybe the apartment wouldn't be so horrible. Working all the time, it was exhausting for the both of them. When he got home, he slept, and that was all he really had time for. Working and sleeping. He never had any time to himself, so how would he have time to clean?

Something seemed to move, and it could just be that in the dim light he was imagining things, but Chris swore he saw something. He leant a little closer and stared at the floor, and he saw it move again. He jumped in fright when he realized it was a cockroach. A hand placed over his heart, he closed his eyes and tried to relax. Everything just kept getting worse and worse.

Chris stood there for a while, keeping his eyes shut and wishing-actually wishing that it would just disappear. He wished everything would disappear. But he took in a deep breath and turned around, staring at wall above the sink. The sink was a disaster too—who knew how many disease-carrying cockroaches were hiding in there. The very thought made Chris shudder.

With courage, he grabbed a paper towel from the paper towel roll holder attached to the cabinet, and tried to ignore that they were out of them again. He turned around and tiredly looked for the little devil, and when he saw it hiding under the dishwasher he sauntered to it and caught it in the paper towel. He rushed it to the trashcan and dropped it in, shuddering once again. If there was one thing he hated, it was those nasty things. He kind of wished Mitchell would've been his Prince Charming, swept him off his feet, and took care of the cockroach on his own.

It was Mitchell's one day of the week that he was off. Couldn't he do something? Yeah, he was stressed, but so was Chris. At least Chris was trying to be productive and actually wanted to be productive. Chris just wanted Mitchell to help him.