I’m not sure if I have posted this one before and I decided I would post it for people to give it a look. Its no where near being finished.
All I could do was stare at the screen. I wanted to force my hands to move, to will my fingers to start typing, my mind to start working but I couldn’t. The writer, the woman who spent her life typing away at a computer, couldn’t find the right words to start her most important piece. I couldn’t get past the feeling that this all was a great waste of time.
Days before I sat in the therapist’s office listening to the woman drone on and on about a new therapy technique. Never quite sure why I even bothered to make the appointments. Maybe it was because deep down I felt I needed the therapy, I needed the help, I was doing it for my daughter or maybe I had nothing else to do. Everyday the answer changed. “It’s remarkable, a way to make everything better.” The therapist stated, I tried to pay attention to his words, to consider what she was saying but it just sounded like a way to make more money off the depressed.
“Nothing in the world could make any of this better.” Struggling to contain the loathing for the therapist, out of my response. The contempt I held for the man I had hired to help, I felt my fingers tighten and curl, causing my nails to dig into the fake leather of the couch. What a waste of an hour. Pushing myself from the chair, I didn’t bother to acknowledge the man before moving silently from his office.
“Mrs. Burkes, would you like to make another appointment?” The receptionist called out from behind the cheap desk. I couldn’t bring myself to respond. What was the point? I wasn’t known for my pleasant goodbyes.
Thoughts of the session tormented me on the way home. Always pushing their way past the mundane thoughts I tried to cover them with. Why was I so obsessed with what the therapist had said? I knew it wouldn’t help, I knew it was just another way for him to keep me coming back.
So why was I stuck in front of this computer? Why was I actually listening to the advice the quack had given? More then likely the half empty bottle of vodka and the three vicodin were to blame. The vodka had become my best friend and the pills were like family to me. Dropping my daughter off with my Mother became a weekly ritual for me and gave me the space to hate my life in privacy.
I didn’t try to hide it anymore, the pain, at first I tried to keep it quiet. I would hide in my room and cry myself to sleep or punch my pillow to try to release the anger I held inside. I would smile when required and answer with “Everything will be okay, it just takes time,” when questioned. I had given up that act a long time ago. So I sat there, thinking to myself about a way to make it all ‘better.’ I placed my hands against the keys, once more feeling the warm, welcoming of the plastic buttons below my flesh. Speaking to no one but myself, “The one way to make it all better is to rewrite it all, from the beginning.” For the first time all night, my fingers began to move.
It was the sun that woke her, its light warming her face. She sat up, realizing she had fallen asleep on the keyboard again. She could only imagine what key would be imprinted on her cheek this time. Today was the day, she had been waiting for it her whole life.
Her hand moved to her eyes, rubbing away the numbness of her sleep as she stood and moved to the closet. She pulled out the wrapped outfit, carefully moving over to place it on her bed. She still couldn’t believe she had made it this far. She barely heard the knocking on her door, as she turned the knob moved and her mother peaked in from the hall. “Oh you’re awake. Stay up late typing?” Her mother’s voice soft as she slid the rest of the way inside the room.
“How could you tell?”
“Well, you either got a new tattoo with the letters ‘asdfg’ or you fell asleep on your keyboard. I wonder if we can cover that with makeup?” Her mother’s sense of humor was something Shiloh had gotten used to over the years. Not a lot of people understood her mother, they couldn’t figure out if she was mocking them or trying to be their friends. Sometimes Shiloh wasn’t sure if her mother knew the answer to that either.
Shiloh picked up the outfit, carefully tearing the plastic from the dry cleaning company. She felt herself sigh as her eyes closed, she couldn’t believe this was happening. “Would you hurry it up? Your father is waiting and I don’t know how long he can keep your grandparents apart. Grandpa Harry and Grandpa Stan are comparing war scars again and neither one of them can agree as to whose hurt worse.” Her mother flashed Shiloh a smile as she moved back out of the room and shut the door behind her.
“Guess its now or never.” She spoke to herself as she pulled the clothes out. She barely remembered getting dressed, constantly checking in the mirror to make sure she got everything right. When she finished she looked to the mirror. The black gown hung to her ankles, the cap held in her hand. The blue and silver tassels of her school tickled her fingers as she took a deep breath and heading out into the hallway. She was greeted by the flashing of lights, almost knocking her back in the room. She heard her Grandma crying and her mother’s excited voice as she repeatedly to her grandparents all of Shiloh’s achievements. “I’m just graduating college, I didn’t win the Academy Awards.”
“Not yet you haven’t. At least wait until we get this roll of film developed.” Her father exclaimed. Her parents rushed her down the hallway and out to the car before she was able to breathe. She half listened to the conversation as she watched the houses and trees breeze by as her father drove them to the ceremony.