Run-On

Chapter 3, The One With The Roommates

My heart is racing. I am almost done with my masterpiece.

She is not the center of it; surprise, but she is the core of it. I have found a conclusion. I have but maybe weeks left before I will have a completed work on my hands, unless, of course, I deviate completely off course, which is more likely than not. Writing is a spontaneous thing. The words are already there. It is my job to tell their story. J.K. Rowling once said that Harry Potter just strolled into her head, fully formed. It is exactly like that. It feels like I have been entrusted with a delicately crafted, intricately woven story; and I have been trusted to verbalize it exactly the way it should be born. I am not the author. I am the artist.

Someday they will call me back and everything will be okay. I'm currently paying the rent with what little work I can get; small jobs, summer jobs, you get the idea. But at least I'm not mercilessly taking them from some college student living off of Top Ramen; because I am the college student living off Top Ramen or whatever I can get. Oh, I can't wait for someday to get here already. Right now, I'm in the car on the way to the a deli downtown, one of those Mom-n-Pop stores that were born and raised here. They're leaving their own legacy and they are happy. Which is interesting, even if this city did remember my name someday, I will still be hungry for more. My ego is like a rabid lion, bloodthirsty for an inheritance. Fearful of only oblivion. It's terrifying; my ego is.

My phone rings and I don't even have to look to know that it's her. I smile and answer on the first ring, even though apparently that's a big no-no. I don't care. Rules do not apply when it comes to Us. I say her name and it feels like feathers falling off my lips. What a time in my life. I love the sound of my name drifting past her mouth. This is going to be a good day. She wants to go to some concert tonight with her friends; just wanted to let me know that's where she is if I text her later and she doesn't reply. I smile and tell her to have fun. She is considerate. She is bright. She is lovely. She is everything that I am not.

I am nearing the 200 page mark. It is a good feeling. I haven't stuck to a story so closely in a long time. I've only committed so deeply to this one, I have no side projects at the moment. I think she might have done that.

I am sitting at the bench in the deli, whistling at my notebook. I'm currently translating my sloppy scribbles into my laptop, where they will be stored in nice little sentences with perfectly legible fonts before I get the nerve up to send samples out. I don't even realize four hours pass until they do. A waitress comes by, her name tag reads Amanda, and although she is beautiful and if I were here with any of my otherwise classy roommates, they would be whooping and shouting and I would laugh at them, I am not paying attention. At this point, I can notice when there are beautiful women. I just don't care anymore. She could be Miss Universe, Heidi Klum, Angelina Jolie, I don't care, and I would still have the most beautiful girl in the world tugging at my mind. Her.

Somehow, as if on cue, my phone vibrates twice quickly. I excitedly pull out my phone as the waitress skips away with my assurance that I am doing just fine, and it's my mom. I am slightly disappointed. She's just checking on me, being motherly like that. I appreciate the gesture. She tells me to come home at any time, and I laugh. She doesn't know I've made a home here quite yet. I don't know that she'll ever adjust to the idea, either. I wonder if she tells my brother these things, too. Whenever we do talk, heaven forbid it be about our mother.

I drive back to my apartment when the September sun is setting and the golden hairs of sunlight are streaming through our front windows. I should tell my roommates to close those so it doesn't warm up the apartment, but I'm too buzzed on my project to even think about it. I step through the door, not really noticing that I didn't need to unlock it. The belching roommate is in the front room, watching TV and undoubtedly drinking our shared stash of beer that we technically don't have, if anyone asks. We don't like sharing. Our resident nerd is also undoubtedly locked up in his room, running our electric bill while trying to design whatever software he's come up with this time, probably something that only appeals to two percent of the world. Also, our number one meathead is out on the cement, makeshift basketball court in the backyard practicing his shots. Last but not least, I am here, and I am going to the smallest bedroom (which really isn't all that small) and I will be writing or going for a walk. We all know that about each other. We are all kids in this school, living in a sizeable house off campus, somehow managing to pay the bills with what little we have. We are the most predictable people in the world. I am suffocating in the mundane world of consistence.

But what happens tonight is not quite like other nights.

I hear a shout coming from the backyard, not a celebratory shout that sometimes emerges from whatever corner of the house it may be, but more like a mixture of pain and fear. Immediately, I look out my door to see what's going on. Jonathan (resident nerd)'s door is open, no one inside. My heart rate picks up. I half jump, half jog down the stairs to the front rooms. The TV is muted and Reggie (belcher) is not sitting in his usual spot on the couch. I am now running to the other side of the house, sliding open the back door. Trevor (meathead) is on his side, bracing his midsection. I fall to my knees in front of him, pushing down on his shoulders to keep him from rocking back and forth. His face is beading up with sweat around his hairline and tears are squeezing their way out from the corners of his eyes. I remind him to breathe and gently pull his arms away. There is a blade stuck in his palm, it looks like a shard of glass or a mirror. Blood is pooling around him. I think I say stay calm about eighteen times until I realize I'm doing that more to remind me than him. Jonathan, good man, is doing the smart thing and telling us to carry him into his car. From out of nowhere, Reggie produces a few towels. Reggie leans down to my level on the other side of Trevor.

"Okay, Trev, this is gonna hurt-" I see him reach for the side of the blade sticking out.

"Wait!" I shout, having a sudden burst of memory from my First Aid class I have no idea why I took in senior year. Well, I guess for situations like this. "You can't pull it out. That'll just tear at it more."

"But it hurts," Trevor growls through clenched teeth. What a tough guy.

"I know it hurts, you moron," I roll my eyes. Insulting him is the only way to keep him from completely giving out on us right now. "But the doctors can remove it cleaner than Reggie ever could." I add. Trevor gives Reggie a glance over, probably judging his stained T-shirt and shorts that are not to be worn in public, they are far too short. The grimace on his face says I convinced him. None of us are preps, but of us all, Trevor is the closest.

We ease him into Jonathan's car, blood continuing to soak into Reggie's towels. Color is draining from his cheeks once he sees how much blood his hand is emitting. I demand of them how this came about and since they are all nervous wrecks and terrible friends, they all try to yell over each other. Their words are clashing, their volume is escalating, and it is screeching on my ears. I almost miss Trevor somehow straining out. I shout above them to shut up and they listen, for the first time really. They are nervous. They are good friends, really. They are just working on how that whole thing works.

Trevor ekes out that he was practicing, and when he purposefully dropped the ball off of the court (after making a perfect half-court shot) into a small moat-like thing that Reggie dug around the court and no one knows why, he reached his hand down into the dirt and pressed down where he saw the ball, but ended up impaling his hand. We act like we buy it. Kid's in pain, we can call him a liar later.

I call her when we reach the hospital. I don't know why, but it felt like the right thing to do. It goes to voicemail. I remember she's seeing Kanye West and so I mention it in my voicemail, as if it'll make me a better boyfriend or something, I tell her to have fun and just to let her know everything that happened. She calls me back almost immediately, asking with a slight sense of urgency if I'm okay, if everyone's okay, how is Trevor, do I want her to come home, all the good things a concerned girlfriend would say. I insist she should stay, I can hear the bass pounding so I know she's standing outside the stadium. She'd go through security again just to call me back. A little part inside of me smiles. She agrees and thanks me before she hangs up. The space between the thank you and the end is somewhat pregnant; just extensive enough to feel like something else should've been said, but not enough to actually mean anything. I put my phone in my pocket and go back to sitting next to the room, where Reggie has fallen asleep on Jonathan's shoulder and Jonathan looks like he'd rather be anywhere but here.

Since Jonathan is a trooper and the solid ground that holds us all together, I lean my head on his shoulder and he lets out a frustrated sigh. I pull my hood over my head and a smile teases at my cheeks. We must look absolutely ridiculous to the other people in here, with broken bones and sudden heart attacks. Our friend came in here with a shard of glass in his hand, and now an aspiring writer with his hood pulled over his eyes and a redneck too young to have a beer belly like that are falling asleep on a straight haired, button-downed programmer. Three stupid college kids with too much happiness for the situation at hand.