This House Stands Empty

    Greetings and Felicitations! It's been a month or so since I've written anything. Oy! I tell you what though, I've been beating myself up for it. I was like, "How am I supposed to be a writer when I don't even write stuff!" But finally, an idea came to me out of a line from a Paramore song. While I was thinking about my book, I realized that inspiration doesn't just come on it's own. We have to prime the pump, so to speak. I had to be thinking about stuff. Go figure. Anyway, this is what came out. Love it or leave it, but let it simmer for a while, and maybe do some thinking of your own. 

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     Up nine stairs to the off-white door. Flip the light on the wall. Pain ignites behind my ears. Eyes revolt against the sudden light. Flip the switch back off. Phone light out to check the thermostat. Seventy-five. Walk to the kitchen for water from the fridge. I slowly take in the small apartment embedded in cold linoleum and tan stain-masking carpet. Bland liquid slides down my throat. That hard edged, not-quite-tingle prickles my arms as the heater drags the cold out of the room. Stomach growling. Fridge is empty. Sit down at the too-small-to-be-dining-room-to-big-to-be-coffee table, and boot up my laptop. Wan blue light shows that, unlike me, the world outside of that dual pane, second story window is tripping by under the neon lit night. Slapping the lid closed and flopping onto the small wants-to-be-but-isn't-quite couch, I stare blankly at the eggshell popcorn ceiling.

This house stands empty.

     Bass throbbing. Lights flashing. Booze flowing. Girls dancing. It's all here and it's all now. A hazed stupor fills the air of the downtown condo. A late night retreat from the doldrums of the nine to five. The couches, occupied by couples I wish had stayed home, are blinking through the colors of the rainbow, their paisley florals flashing like a bad acid trip. Claustrophobia cloys in my mouth as I look at the mass of anonymous flesh undulating to the cacophonous beat of the latest pop sensation. Every Brad seems to have an Angelina. Some have two. Me? I'm leaning against the bar, in the corner, where it meets the living room wall. Yep, in the décor of college night life, I am an electrical outlet.

This house stands empty.

     Behind me, the screen door slams shut and I drop my keys on the table. The television warbles out a show tune as I head to the bathroom. Business finished, I holler into the living room as I head to the kitchen. Noodles on the stove and meatballs in the oven. Spaghetti again? Well, I guess it's easy. Grabbing a Heineken from the fridge, I step in to the living room. How was school, kids? Nothing. Jen and Casey sit enthralled, reality TV holding their gaze. A break comes, commercials and channel surfing. I repeat. Eric, the littlest, gives a shrug over his left shoulder. Eh, it was school. He sprawls out again on the floor. Judy? Oh yes, dear, they went to school, same as always. The show's back on. Right. Dinner. Spaghetti, Heiniken, the Tribune, and me, at the little table in the kitchen. The Sox lost again, well, Andy'll be mad at work tomorrow, but he'll get over it. Laughter and light burst from the living room, quickly hushed by the murmur of the next scene. As the noodles slip from my fork for the umpteenth time, I realize that it's funny how silence can be devoid of actual quiet.

This house stands empty.

Alone. Forgotten. Discarded.

Aimless. Hopeless. Stagnant.

Wishing. Longing. Desperate.

This house stands empty.