This is so unedited and pretty unfinished, but I think that is sometimes that is what makes writing (and any sort of art) cool. Not to mention that unanswered questions are sometimes more intriguing tHan finished works
Anyway, criticisms are welcome, this was literally wrote in about 15 minutes and I guess I just wanted to share to see what people think/something to read.
Happy Monday! Have a quote!
She woke up and she wasn’t sure where she was, or even exactly what happened last night. Scrambling for her phone and bag in the wine soaked room, full of people she has no recollection of from the night before; a plastic cup of what she can only comprehend is some kind of dark liquor and coke spills over on the floor next to where she fell asleep. She wriggled to the side to avoid the spill, rolling onto some guy that was passed out next to her. Everything feels sticky as she moves around slightly, light tapering in through broken and bent window shades, the whole room filled with the stench of opened alcohol and stale cigarettes from the night before.
What is her name? It doesn’t matter who she is. She sometimes feels like she matters, but other times she just feels like a waste of time. A waste of space. But she knows that she isn’t. It’s everyone else that makes her feel like that. It’s the people who are afraid to commit to her. Is she scary? She fucking is. She’s scary because she is brave enough to make choices. To remain on her own. That frightens people. She can’t stand it when people call her amazing, incredible. She doesn’t feel amazing and incredible right now.
Why was she thinking this now? Game plan: get up, get your stuff, get the fuck out. She wasn’t sure what happened the night before but she was eager to piece together the events from the previous night sooner rather than later. It’s difficult to love someone who knows her place, who strives for more, who wants to be better. It was easier to be drunk, she could get with whoever she wanted. She wasn’t totally sure that’s what she really wanted though, but it will do for now, she thought.
Where was she? Still trying to search for her bag and phone, rolling around as silently as she could, making every effort not to wake the people still asleep in the room. It was an old house, the floorboards creaked as she moved around searching desperately for her belongings. The musky smell of the stained wooden floors combined with the spilt alcohol lingered throughout the room as she picked herself up, slowly. Through the fuzziness of her morning post alcohol head spin, she was getting desperate. If she could find her stuff, then she could get the fuck out of wherever it was that she was.
Remembering snippets of the night before, she tiptoed, heels in hand, down the hallway. She was the perfect mix of self doubt and achievement; but it’s not what people are after. “I really want to be with you, but I can’t”. That’s fine, but then why did you say that you wanted her in the first place?
Looking at the photos on the wall, she tried to make out who the people in the pictures were, searching for some indication of where she had ended up; who were these people?A fine layer of dust covered the photos hung on the hallway walls. She was walking towards what she imagined may have been the kitchen, the haze of the morning sun illuminating the space between the door and the floor and she could faintly here inaudible muffling through to the next room. She opened the door cautiously, concerned about the make up that was probably smeered all over her face. It creaked so much that she was sure it made the house shake, maybe it was just because she still felt a little bit drunk. She opened the large wooden door of the musky hallway into a bright luminous kitchen. The kitchen was empty. But it looked perfect, clean, comparable to the rest of the house littered with the previous night. The bright yellow paint of the walls illuminated the sun even further and she squinted intensely as she walked into the room. She didn’t know where she was, who she was with but in the space, she at least felt like she could finally breathe again.
The thing about reality; it’s always still there waiting for you the next morning.