Eyes open. A long stretch. A glance at the clock.
She sits up, peel back the layers upon layers of covers and sets her feet on the wooden floors. She scratches her head, as if to make sure that she is indeed awake, and makes her way to the kitchen.
Fear. Misery. Loneliness. Sickness.
She opens up the refrigerator door and peers in. She’s got one last Seagram’s left. Flavored beer always tastes the best at this time of the morning. It’s the Strawberry Daiquiri one. She cracks it open (using the hem of her nightgown for some assistance) and takes a long gulp…
Sadness. Paranoia. Bankruptcy. Anxiety.
She suddenly stumbles back and spits the drink out of her mouth. The beer bottle escapes her grip, but she recovers it before it shattered in a million pieces on the floor. She walks backwards until she gets to he sink basin and spins around, looking out of the window. It’s a full moon out. A gentle breeze. She can hear some pigeons cooing somewhere in the trees. This brings her peace almost instantly, and as a result, finally makes her way to find the mop to clean the spill.
She could see one big moon, but really wanted to see the millions of little stars. There were none tonight…
Anger. Confusion. Heartbreak. Betrayal.
When she’s finished, she grabs an apple and a knife and some napkins. She drags herself back into bed, grabs her journal from the nightstand beside her and she writes for a little. She doesn’t want to read. Tonight isn’t a night to read words belonging to others, but to have her words read for once. With the knife, she chips away at the apple; she never ever bit directly into an apple. The napkin of course, was for her tears. She cried tears of longing, tears of suffering, tears of misunderstanding. It wasn’t a wail, but it was a moan, a moan of dissatisfaction… surely, she hoped that one of the stars would come from hiding and pay her a little visit tonight…
Shame. Torment. Deception. Depression.
But none ever came.