The cars grumble and scream at each other in the dirty street as night drips down like ink into the pale gray sky. My feet bite the ground as I storm down the sidewalk -- a thundering, thrashing rage of rain. But on the inside -- I’m shattered. Into a million pieces that no amount of superglue could ever hold together. I can’t do this anymore. I just can’t.
Can I be a kid again? Can I go back to kindergarten, a boy with dirty knees and a clean conscience, whose only worries are what there is for dessert? Can I wake up from like, like it’s a dream? Can I just fall asleep, so I can wake up?
No. I can’t. Because I’m not in kindergarten anymore. I’m not six years old. I have kids I need to feed. I have rent I need to pay. I have bills, piling up on our doorstep, a doorstep that won’t be ours soon. But how the hell am I supposed to pay for it without a job?
They say when life hands you lemons, you’re supposed to make lemonade. But what those retards forgot to mention is that you need SUGAR, too. And I’m buried up to my neck in sour citrus with no sugar in sight. There’s no way I can make lemonade out of this.
Because stupid Mr. Velasquez had to go and make stupid executive business decisions and fire all of his stupid workers. Which includes me. So, of course, I told him how stupid he was right to his face. Except I didn’t say “stupid”, I’d said something a little harsher. But it didn’t faze Mr. Velasquez. No, he was utterly undaunted. Like a placid sea as the thunderstorm howled above.
“I’m just going to have to let you go. Times are changing, and not for the better. You are no longer a worker at this company.”
“You can’t do this to me! What about my family?!”
“I’m sorry,” he’d said, in a sorrowless voice, “We are all affected by the recession. I’m going broke.”
“I couldn’t look him in the heartless eyes, or lying mouth. So instead, I’d focused on his bushy black moustache, quivering slightly with each word he spoke.
“ARGH! I’m SICK of this. ALL of it. Mr. Velasquez, I am sick of YOU!”
“Then you’ll have no problem leaving. I wish you and your daughters only the best.”
He’d turned and exited the room as I’d exploded, whipping cardboard boxes and expletives around.
Furiously, I shove my hands into my pockets, and kick a dented garbage can. A scraggly cat leaps out, hisses at me, and stalks down the damp alley.
Ah, life, you dirty bastard.
YOU ARE READING
Lemons
Short StoryThis was for a school assignment a few months back, consisting of each student receiving a character and a problem, and then being unchained and letting our creativity run free. Mine was a 36-year-old-male who lost his job. I think it's rather sweet...
