I’m a writing amateur…

by jlolb

So occasionally, I dabble in a little bit of writing. Sometimes it’s hopeful, sometimes it’s even on the verge of happy, there is a little bit of comedy, and a nice chunk of Plath-esque writing in there. I don’t often share much of it, but for lack of anything better to blog about today, I have decided to share the following piece with all of you. I wrote it about 8 months ago, then let it sit on my laptop for about six months, and have been tinkering around with it every so often now. I’m not sure I’m done with it, but I think it’s ready enough to share…my only disclaimer–this one falls into the Plath-esque category! Enjoy…

Eleven Days.
The cool breeze of a fall evening danced through the champagne colored curtains lightly hanging across the open window–the glass, rippled with age, projected brilliant shapes across the Van Gogh print hanging on the white wall as the street light poured the only illumination in to the room. She looked at the shapes, twice distorted due to the tears nestled comfortably in her bright green eyes.


She continued to think about the events of the past eleven days. She sighed. And then she cracked a bottle of her favorite merlot; as the glass shook in her hand, she lifted it to her lips to take a drink. The warmth of the liquid soothed her throat, scratchy from the efforts of long nights of crying. She felt that sip line her soul, and once again, she was comforted…She sat there, wrapped beneath her shall, and tapped what was left of her bitten fingernails against the rim of glass.

She wondered how it had come to this. She’s young–barely 23, a college graduate who works a mind-numbing job, and in the process pays her bills. She spends much of her time in the company of great friends, and occasionally a nice man comes into her life, only before slipping right back out, too soon. On paper, it didn’t appear as though she really had anything to be depressed about–so why was she so blue? Hereditary–that’s what the doctors said–a disease that has plagued the women in her family for generations–obviously, it was more severe in her case.

She lightly ran her index finger along the uneven ridges of the eleven day old red-brown flaking scab which was evolving into a pink fleshy scar that would be forever tattooed along her fragile wrist… something like those Chinese symbols or stars that the other girls tattooed on themselves. Hers wasn’t nearly as trendy, but it was just as permanent.

After “they” agreed that she was stable, they handed her the bottle of pills –“take three pills once daily for depression.” She now twirled the bottle in her hand and listened to the melodic fall of each of the pills as they made their way around the inside surface of that plastic orange bottle.

She opened the child resistant cap and spilled them into the palm of her hand, one by one until the entire contents sat there in a small pile. Blue pills. Little blue pills. They were all she needed to accomplish what she had originally intended… At least she had a good drink to wash them down with…

I’ll post something happier for you all to read at a later date. In response to my sister’s question–no, no need to worry, this is FICTION! 🙂

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