My room is a mess, chocolate wraps and balled papers everywhere. There’s something sad about the litter, perhaps it depicts my life at the moment. Slivers of sunlight streak through the curtain opening, like stage lights, not shining on me. I could have been a superstar, a bestselling author, basking in the limelight, but here I am, unworthy, fat, and sweaty. I hate these clothes I’m in, I hate my armpit, I hate my fat. But this isn’t the first time I’m hating myself, I started hating myself when my bingeing brought this unwelcome fat. Now I feel like the balled papers on the floor, symbols of my purposelessness.
Write your story ideas, they said, but here they are, on the floor, lost forever in the squeeze, crushed under the gravity of uneventful palms.
I don’t feel like cleaning up. I won’t clean up. I just want to sit on the bed and be sad and not change anything.
“Who’s that?” I ask.
“I can’t talk right now, B.”
“Just want to know if you’re okay, that’s all.”
“I’m okay, go away.”
I strain to hear if she’s still at the door. She’s not. Perks of living with friends. I just want to be left alone right now. Is that too much to ask? I just want to be in the room and not get out like forever.
I pull off my sweaty top and lay on the bed, head facing the ceiling. I wish I could see the universe through these walls, like superwoman. But I can’t be superwoman, can I? Superheroes are not fat. I imagine a pot bellied superman. The thoughts almost get me to smile. It’s been ages since I last smiled. I do smile at Bibi’s jokes and at Cynthia’s million dollar smile, but it’s mostly fake.
Yea, Cynthia has the kind of smile you can’t help but smile back at. I envy her perfect dentition. No wonder all the guys are after her. I can say little for myself, no guy wants a fat girl. Guys look at me like for a while then chuckle. Obviously my situation makes them laugh, well, if that’s the only thing I do for them.
Mum says I should not use the word fat. She says I’m big. But she’s just being nice, she’s just being a mother.
I should tidy up my room, but I think I’ll leave it this way. What’s even the point tidying when things just get messy again?
My sheets stink of booze and sweat. I should wash it, but I’m too tired for that. No, I’m too lazy for that. Yea, I’m fat and lazy, what could be worse?
Sometimes I wonder why Cynthia and Bibi haven’t driven me away from the house. I mean, I’m practically useless in this house. I don’t tidy up the dishes, I never cook, I never do anything.
Dad said I should move into the family house, but I think he knows that’s not going to happen. There’s a reason I left, I just want my space and freedom. Freedom to buy booze, freedom to sleep all day, freedom to do nothing.
I think I should write. Yea, I feel this is the moment to open my deserted laptop. I feel ideas flowing in, they flow in faster when I’m sad.
I open up my lappy. It’s just really reoccurring to me that I haven’t opened my laptop in months, months! My heart beats as I hear the chime from the laptop. What am I really going to write? I haven’t written in ages and I’m rusty.
I skim through the icons on my desktop. A particular Word document hits my eye. It’s titled The Man In A Hat. I check the word count, 6382. I really gave this a shot, didn’t I.
The Man In A Hat is about a man, obviously. He’s a magician that comes across two orphaned kids playing football on the streets. He becomes intrigued by them. He takes them in under his tutelage and they become lifelong apprentices. The boys grow in skill and later find out a devastating truth about their late parents’ demise.
Well, that’s the way the story is suppose to go, but I really don’t know. You don’t really know what your characters are on about, at least that’s the way I see it.
I read a few paragraphs to know how to continue the story. I know it’s going to be a herculean task because of how long I’ve abandoned the story. Maybe I should take a gulp of whisky to stir things up. I hid a bottle in the wardrobe so that Cynthia and Bibi don’t find out.
I make sure the door is locked. I pull the mini bottle from the rumble of dirty clothes overdue for laundry. I open it up and take a drag, then a long drag, until I caution myself not to finish the bottle.
To be continued. Thanks for reading, as always. Much love. You guys make the world a better place.