On Your Own

4A

Your doubts are groundless, surely. The painfully pleading placards gives everything a bright sheen of pathetic greed. The idea that someone could possibly find this sort of thing fun without winning is beyond you. Your phone goes off. On the other side there is begrudging mumuring.

"Appreciate it, B."

He hangs up on you.

As you reap your rewards, you find your mind drifting over to Evelyn. As always. God. What sort of person has that sort attention-capturing power? What kind of human has the ability to keep a man coming back to her, time and time again? Oh that's right. A terrible one.

She had come to you the other day with a problem. A very personal problem, if you recall correctly. Now what was it... She was mad at you about something...

Oh yeah. Some dramatic bullshit.

She had been to your apartment every day, pestering you about some friend's boyfriend's aunt's dog's psychologist or other, and you couldn't think of a way to get rid of her. That is, politely. You could think of a million and a half impolite ways to make sure she never speaks again.

You consider an apology might be in order. Of course, not a standard apology. An apology that somehow says "You're still wrong, but I'll be a better person than you." After some paradoxically uneventful events, you knock on her door. A weary face that gives you the distinct impression of an animated witch with clown makeup answers the door.

"You're still wrong, but I'll be a better person than you."

She blinks.

You don't.

You try again.

"I'm sorry."

She folds her arms and manages to fold the rest of herself along with it. Her flat, rotten-strawberry hair doesn't lend itself to expressions of disdain, but she manages best she can.

"Hm," she bitterly sounds.

"Hm, indeed. Look can we just get this over with? We both know you'll get over it eventually."

Evelyn's fists clench.

"What do you even think this is about? What do you even..." she spats, "How can you possibly think that this has anything to do with-"

Her pause is roaring with contempt. Your relaxed certainty wavers. She's never had those eyes, has she? Her laughter is a flicker of motion in a solitary cabin of darkness.

"What does it matter?" She pulls something out from behind the doorway. It is a corkscrew the color of blue ink and impossible eyes. "I have a million times to get this right."

Before you run, you notice in the shadowy home a cheesy, smiling wall decoration. It reads, "It doesn't matter how hard you fall, as long as you get back up." Yeah? Must not've fallen hard enough?

The corkscrew plunges into your chest and your mind leaves you.

??? - Consider the following.