∆•Faulty Potlines•∆

∆• Part Une •∆

Part Une | Short story from English class

You can close your eyes to things you don't want to see, but you cannot close your heart to things you do not want to feel.

-Johny Depp
•••

    It suddenly grew darker. The lights were off and my own two feet sat lazily on the brown coffee table, with two pencils and multiple pieces of scattered blank white paper. An empty coffee cup resumes lying on the floor just like it had been several hours ago, with coffee spilt staining the white living-room carpet. The air became cold, the street lights started flickering, and the windows fogged up; all was quiet until an obnoxious sound was heard coming from the kitchen. My cell phone began to ring, vibrating upon the hard granite counter, and finally stopped after five minutes of inactivity.

    I look up to the clock that is hanging on the blue living-room wall, and come to realize it's now five-thirty in the morning. I slid my feet across the table and forcibly stomped them on the floor due to frustration. Taking a quick glance at the mess that lay before me, I begin to walk away from the couch. Not noticing the coffee cup, I trip with weak legs falling directly into the spilt coffee. I get up in agony and slowly walk over to the counter to pick up my phone. I redial the number shown and within three dial tones my writing instructor answers his phone and simply says "Hey." The crackling of Mr. Oxford's voice made me realize he was calling me because he had found a new project for me to work on, and wanted me to retrace the steps of two individual young writers. "Would you mind coming in early this morning to discuss this project a little?" He said with a tired voice. I calmly accepted.

    I turn my bedroom light on ignoring the floor littered with clothes, and walk over to my closet grabbing a simple pair of skinny jeans with my dress shirt and black high heeled boots. After getting dressed, I spot a green towel in the kitchen, grab it thinking of the spilt coffee and lay it sloppily on the mess. I grab my cup, set it in the sink, walk out to the garage and jump in my 69' Dodge Charger. Thinking about the new project, I realize it won't be the same as any other projects I have done recently. This has to do with something of my sort, but for once I am interviewing others rather than them interviewing me. It is an opportunity I am sure looking forward to, and a note to self: Try not to screw it up.

    The streets are packed with people trying to find a way through all of Chicago's commotion and peacefully settle at their given destinations. Taxis are not always available when needed to be, matter of fact, barely any of them do what they are instructed to do. I laugh to myself while realizing some people don't know what they are doing and how ridiculous they look trying to accomplish something they know they can't. I am referring to the juggler that is standing outside my car window. In addition to, I adjust my review mirror noticing it was crooked, and turn on my radio.

Two blocks away from my instructor's office, I sit patiently at a red light. In front of me was a blue semi-truck followed by a line of miscellaneous cars. I grabbed my phone out of my right pocket, and called Mr. Oxford to inform him that I will be a few minutes late due to traffic. "It will be fine." He said blankly. "Thank you for calling me and letting me know. I truly appreciate it. And I have the documents sitting on th..."
"Jackie?."
"Jackie what's wrong, are you okay??"
Jackie.

It was suddenly quiet. I heard voices in my head, and children laughing. I see pictures that seemed more than realistic and non-stop words that I never thought would replay through my head. My body felt numb and I had lost all of my senses, it felt as if I had drowned. No words could ever describe it, but it defiantly ranked way above the thought of pain.

[A few days pass by.]

    I was cold, tired, and my body felt weak. It was a world full of light and dark, black and white, and separating the good thoughts from the bad, but I was cautious. I felt multiple wires strapped throughout my body, and an uncomfortable surface underneath me. It hurt that I remember metal like sounds, people screaming, I heard sirens in the distance, and People dramatically honking their horn. Not being able to open my eyes or communicate, I visualized my surroundings based upon sounds.

    I heard a door open, and footsteps grew louder as they approached my bed side. A small mellow voice muttered, and then another louder yet deeper voice asked after. "Can she continue writing?" I knew this voice, I remember it ever so clearly. If it was anyone I knew, it would belong to Mr. Oxford. The mellow voice muttered again. "In the condition she is in, it is possible she won't be able to do anything of that sort." I suddenly felt pain grow throughout my body, like I had been dropped in the ocean again but with twenty-four great whites, and all were itching for food. By now you would think I should know what had happened, but I don't remember very much.

    I thought a lot on the details I clearly remembered. My empty coffee cup was lying on the floor with coffee spilt staining my white living-room carpet. There had been multiple scattered blank white pieces of paper, and two #2 pencils sitting by my feet which sat lazily on the brown coffee table. It caught my attention, I had been writing a book for my instructor, and based on my attitude towards writing he said he would publish my first book. Not only being a fact checker or an interviewer, I would finally get to pursue my life long goal, but not one open thought was given to how my book should have ended. I remember I had left my house to go elsewhere, for another project which consisted of interviewing two individual young writers, and it was a case I had been looking forward to for two years tops. I never did interview them, matter of fact, I heard they were pretty devastated that I wasn't stable enough to do so.

    After a few months, I became aware of my surroundings, my senses have grown and my body didn't feel as numb. It took about two months to comfortably adjust back within the real world. As I was leaving the hospital, I had been told what happened, and that I was very lucky to see the day I would write again. I drove head on into the semi-truck, my black 69' Dodge Charger was totaled and upside down with me still in the driver's seat, as the blue semi-truck had been carrying oil and flipped over due to his weight completely emptying its cargo into the well-known streets of Chicago. As for all of that, I sit here today writing on the blank white pieces of scattered paper as they sit in their original place, finally finishing the last few pages of my book.