Deal With It

He quietly walked up the dark steps of the dead apartment, the night air wrapping itself around him tightly, and humidity invading his lungs. Sweat hung at his brow and a tie around his neck. His suit was soiled, his hair was matted, and his frown dug a trench in his face.

He approached the door of the apartment, opened widely to allow the humid air inside. He walked in, the key in his pocket losing its purpose.

The sight was a sad one. The whole apartment was dark, but as his eyes adjusted to the darker room, he was able to see that the whole abode was torn apart. The noisy air conditioning unit in the window continued to run, but it was puffing with exhaust. Broken glass, pictures, and dishes laid strewn across the floor, evidence that something had happened in the apartment. All the lamps toppled over and the couch had a giant rip in the side.

He stood, examining the place with his stoic look. He listened to a dog barking in the distance, the air conditioner, the silence. He wasn’t sure what he should do here.

He walked over to another door, also ajar. One glance inside made his stomach flip. The room was also torn apart, but the large amount of blood on the bed made him sick. He quickly turned back to the living room, ran to the bathroom, and vomited.

He decided that he couldn’t stay here. There was no way in hell that he could go on living in the desolate home and not remember. His mind would always be invaded with the memories, with the smells, with the laughs. He had to go.

He walked outside, closing the door behind him, and he sat on the top step of the stairs, letting his body take in the humidity once again. Abandoning his suit coat and tie, he rolled up his sleeves, and stared off into the night. He wasn’t sure where he would go, but as long as he wasn’t in that apartment, he was fine.

How could he go on living? The police had investigated all they could, his family had consoled him as much as he would allow, but it wasn’t enough. She was gone.

He thought about her smile; the way she would light up when he came home and she gleamed with pride over her new recipe she had prepared. He remembered her laugh; the way she would topple over in joy when he impersonated her father. He remembered her imagination; the way she would dream of worlds beyond our own. He remembered her.

A single tear ran down his cheek and landed on his thigh. The movement startled him out of his nostalgia and he quickly grew angry with himself for getting emotional, yet again.

He looked over to his right to see a pile of newspapers, uncollected from the past few days. He reached over and grabbed the one on top, his stomach once again flipping at the sight of the cover.

“Local woman mysteriously murdered. No motive or suspects are known at this time.”

He balled up the newspaper and threw it back over in the pile. He couldn’t deal with this. But that was the problem; he had to deal with this. There was no getting around the fact that she was gone and that it was over. He had to accept it and move on with life.

Realizing that the humidity seemed to be rising, he stood up and grabbing his coat, he walked off into the night, ready to accept his new life.

Pathetic

With my blood-shot eyes and freshly showered skin,
I’ve got the cockroach in the kitchen on the back of my mind.
Exhaustion has seemed to become my greatest enemy.
I’m kind of a pathetic human being;
I’ll connect to anyone who will connect to me.
I’m on an eighteen-hour roll of being awake.
Exhaustion and I seem to be connecting real well.
I’m so pathetic; my enemy has become my friend.
Oh, well - we all have our quirks.
Another one of mine: I can't kill roaches.


You know, I'm really starting to wonder what these things are. They're not really poems or anything - I guess they're just spiels. Yea, that's exactly what. :)

I am Sarah.

I am Sarah.
I am a pair of shorts and a t-shirt.
I am a short story, I have been pondered on for hours.
I am a dream of a boat off the coast of Australia.
I am an argument.
I am a feeling of determination, don’t get in my way.
I am 18 years of impatient.
I am a family, continually growing.
I am a romance, married but still dating.
I am a size 12 flip-flop, worn down by wear.
I am a song sung from the heart.
I am a temper.
I am a dislocated shoulder.
I am a joke that gets everyone laughing.
I am a future of life and happiness.
I am a thought that people wish they had.
I am me.