Fiction

I sat atop the cold porcelin of a toliet that hadn't worked for atleast a decade. The small room smelled of a lurking dampness. Across from me was a tub, rusted circles sat decidingly where its tapered feet met the dust covered floor. Behind it, a window seemed to hang. Haphazardly covered by cheap aluminum blinds that ocassionaly let stripes of sunlight paint themselves on the faded wall paper. The paint chipped, peeled, and scratched around the window revealing the different colored layers that it had once been.

Tears formed inside my eyelids in a manner that if I were to look down, they would precariously begin to proceed down the slopes of my cheeks, maybe never stopping. I did my best to look constantly upwards towards the plaster ceiling that in probably a few years would be skylighted, allowing this space to become one with the outdoors. I fought hard to think of something else to trick myself into feeling something other than utterly alone. I imagined determined footsteps marching up the stairs, invading my space and convincing me that I was indeed wrong about everything.

I could sit here for days. No one would come and I would still be very right about everything, even if they did come. And while my predicament isn't accuratley my very own, it belongs very much to someone else, I feel like the way out is only mine to find. I'm paralyzed, pretending that by sitting in this place will prevent me from having to make a decision. For a few moments I let myself believe that.