She sits poised, pulled in close to the light brown wooden slab conveniently placed before her. Laptop open, keys illuminated, blank document excited and ready to become her bitch. Scratch that, she means masterpiece. Her right pointer finger taps the wood impatiently. A single, shorter strand of bright blonde hair dances with her left index finger to a symphony much faster than most. Her foot bounces to the beat of the Talking Heads, but her thoughts don’t have enough fire to even ignite a match, let alone keep that flame alive to cook her dinner and burn down her house to keep her family warm.
“Breaker, breaker. This is Maddog, about ready to hit the road. Come in, can you read me? Over..”.
Static air. It comes in waves, much like his snoring at 6 a.m. His adam’s apple wavers with every breath, his chin moving slightly. Bugs fly in and land on his arid tongue.
“Testing, breaker 1-9, we need to get this train out of the station, do you copy?” she waits. “Seems you left the faucet on there breaker. Flip that patty, pull up the shades and read me like a book. Come in, do you copy? Over.”
The static stops. Silence fills everything, even the crevice between her toes. She can feel how
thick the tension is with a quick
wiggle and flex of her piggies.
“This little piggy went to the bar, and this little piggy stayed home. This little piggy had 6 beers and 4 shots. This little piggy had none. And this little piggy went…” she looks at the ceiling. “This little piggy went insane and shoved a ruler in her eye in a blatant, but poor attempt to see straight.”
The slurp of coffee, loud, obnoxious and too hot for tastebuds to remember. The Talking Head’s are back again burning down her esophagus, settling in her stomach like a rock meant to drown her intelligence. And she was intelligent, right?
“I’m certainly a psycho, but even my killer instincts have been thrown to the chopping block,” she sighs as her shaky fingers run through greasy hair and she notices the back of her hand painted eloquently with a muse of smudged mascara.
Her brain is mashed like corn beef hash on a cast iron skillet.
Eggs over hard, no room for the sunny side on her plate.
There it is, the break. Not the big break she’s looking for. Not the award-winning piece that receives accolades and endorsements. Not the 80 yard run to the end-zone, celebratory spike of the ball against the turf. The break. The break of consciousness. The break of thought.
The document, not blank anymore, only possesses a single smile emoticon. She did it to make herself feel better, now the innocent smile is taunting. So what if she lost her innocence to bad choices and life long mistakes? You need an actual brain for this job anyway, and not a coddled one, over easy and cooked only slightly. You need firm yolks, ready for a dirty joke and maybe a lawsuit.
“Byrne, stop dancing with that lamp, the shadows keep moving in circles, the rhythm of the room keeps making me dizzy.”
“That’s the whiskey, sweetheart.” Byrne whispers back, seductively into her left ear.
“Shut up. I know my limit you sonofabitch.” She hurls the quickly emptied glass. She aimed for his ego but it shatters against the wall. Blood pooling everywhere, dripping down her temple, her eyes widen before they clamp shut to shield herself from fear and paranoia.
“It’s not real. It’s not real. It’s not real,” she reassures herself, but only manages to convince herself that she’s, in fact, not real. Her whole life she has been the lamp, but her lamp shade has never been eccentric. She's been danced with by strangers, plugged in and unplugged with unfamiliar control, blown lightbulbs never bothered to be replaced. She’s wrapped up in the attic now, her only friends being David Byrne and
Echo and the (dust) Bunnymen.
Lips like sugar drip with disdain and she’ll never get out of this tangled up bubble wrap again.
Until she uses her switchblade, specifically hidden in her black denim waistband to pop her personal space bubble and escape into life during wartime.
Her brain cells drown in boredom, unable to swim, considering
they have no arms or legs, and their breathing mechanism is labelled as neurology.
Overwhelmed by the lack of oxygen, they die in agony on a blank page with a fucking smiling emoticon laughing in their faces.
“I don’t even recognize her,” she screams to the mirror, ornate with it’s haunting background. They pulled it out of the attic and nailed it to the wall like scriptures. Unaware of the background, the spirit trapped behind the one way glass weeps with sorrow. The connection between real life and fantasy is only used to paint on mascara that will wind up scribbled on the back of some messy tramps hand. Vanity is the name of the game for the reflective blank page, nailed to the wall, illuminating her tired face and, now, brain cell-less mind.
“Better run, run, run, run, run, run, run away from this miracle gift shoved in the attic treasure chest,” she bellows as she shatters the mirror with an open palm. She clenches her fist full of shards, see’s her face go white, whiter than the blank page and then–
The smile emoticon won, and with no train of thought
leaving the station, breaker has come in, read your message,
and was over and out before you could ask his real name.
“But. I’m a writer...” she thought.