The Lost One
The Lost One
She shuffles along with her bare, heavy feet crinkling the trash debris on the un-vacuumed floor. The living-room is dark like the rest of the house; as the curtains are drawn shut. The light outside keeps begging to come in to bring an ounce of joy, but standing firm are the dark curtains, and the owner found inside. She finds the television remote and light sneaks into the void. Heedless of the mess she sits down on top of it and begins to flick the channels. The dusty trash covered chair groans under the weight of her being and plugs its nose at disgust. The stench of her unwashed body penetrates the very fibers, rotting the chair inside out. The woman sits here for hours watching nothing but mindless dribble, and smoking cigarette after cigarette. Finally, she is bored with this heads for the computer; and leaves a trail of stench and a stain on the chair. She does not hear its coughing or hacking, like it is on its last breath. Her girth sits on the chair firing up the computer. Fingerprint upon fingerprint is left in the inch thick dust on the keyboard and mouse. She picks at the dead skin on her feet, eating it like some kind of treat. The woman continues her smoking sending more smoke up to the ceiling turning yellow day by day. Her eyes focus only on the computer screen they fail to see the mounds of chocolate milk bottles her body has consumed. Inside the bottles lay her cigarette ashes, where she places them every day. The smell of rotten milk and ashes hits her nostrils, but she seems not to care. Swollen hands type on the keyboard, as she swallows her last med. Five bottles of prescriptions, to be taken everyday, lie amid the mess, hoping to be remembered. She remembers her Ambien, her entranceway to sleep. The computer screen flashes her instant messages on the screen, as she is on as her fifth identity. She staggers to the kitchen to grab an unhealthy snack. Flies hovering near the mound of dishes in the sink say “thank you for the food we are about to eat.” Her eyes glance briefly into the sink, for perhaps the dish that is the least dirty then settles upon a prepackaged meal; so she won’t need one. She eats her food without feeling, throws the remains into the full trash. It bounces off and lets gravity take it to the floor. She smiles at some inward joke, then moves into the bathroom. Her eyes are getting heavy as her medicine is taking effect. Her shambling feet, take her to the bacteria infested toilet. Quickly she drops her stained sweat pants and does her bathroom business. Her foggy mind registers the smell coming from her between her legs, from within her sweaty folds, and the crusties in her underwear; but her mind does not connect the dots, and so she flushes. Her feet narrowly miss the shards of broken glass that had traces of her blood.
Her wrists have and arms have scabbed over in the places where the glass shards and been used. She passes by the mirror, looks into its reflection; where a greasy haired, yellow toothed woman smiles at her. “I know that woman!” she replies totally in denial. How can she recognize what she has become, if she doesn’t come out of her mind? Into the bedroom she is next, with more trash obstacles for her to ignore. Her Ambien starts putting her into sleepy land, as she collapses on the bed. The blankets wrap around her and their stench hits her nose; the stench of old sweat; cigarettes, crotch rot, and mold. She inhales the smells intimately as if they were some cologne. Quickly, she goes into sleep and the pillow catches her dreams. She dreams of sexual things; and reminisces about her mouth doing dirty deeds to men. She dreams her daughter will grow up to be just like her and they can be friends. The woman is living in the land of the depression, may God help her soul.
She shuffles along with her bare, heavy feet crinkling the trash debris on the un-vacuumed floor. The living-room is dark like the rest of the house; as the curtains are drawn shut. The light outside keeps begging to come in to bring an ounce of joy, but standing firm are the dark curtains, and the owner found inside. She finds the television remote and light sneaks into the void. Heedless of the mess she sits down on top of it and begins to flick the channels. The dusty trash covered chair groans under the weight of her being and plugs its nose at disgust. The stench of her unwashed body penetrates the very fibers, rotting the chair inside out. The woman sits here for hours watching nothing but mindless dribble, and smoking cigarette after cigarette. Finally, she is bored with this heads for the computer; and leaves a trail of stench and a stain on the chair. She does not hear its coughing or hacking, like it is on its last breath. Her girth sits on the chair firing up the computer. Fingerprint upon fingerprint is left in the inch thick dust on the keyboard and mouse. She picks at the dead skin on her feet, eating it like some kind of treat. The woman continues her smoking sending more smoke up to the ceiling turning yellow day by day. Her eyes focus only on the computer screen they fail to see the mounds of chocolate milk bottles her body has consumed. Inside the bottles lay her cigarette ashes, where she places them every day. The smell of rotten milk and ashes hits her nostrils, but she seems not to care. Swollen hands type on the keyboard, as she swallows her last med. Five bottles of prescriptions, to be taken everyday, lie amid the mess, hoping to be remembered. She remembers her Ambien, her entranceway to sleep. The computer screen flashes her instant messages on the screen, as she is on as her fifth identity. She staggers to the kitchen to grab an unhealthy snack. Flies hovering near the mound of dishes in the sink say “thank you for the food we are about to eat.” Her eyes glance briefly into the sink, for perhaps the dish that is the least dirty then settles upon a prepackaged meal; so she won’t need one. She eats her food without feeling, throws the remains into the full trash. It bounces off and lets gravity take it to the floor. She smiles at some inward joke, then moves into the bathroom. Her eyes are getting heavy as her medicine is taking effect. Her shambling feet, take her to the bacteria infested toilet. Quickly she drops her stained sweat pants and does her bathroom business. Her foggy mind registers the smell coming from her between her legs, from within her sweaty folds, and the crusties in her underwear; but her mind does not connect the dots, and so she flushes. Her feet narrowly miss the shards of broken glass that had traces of her blood.
Her wrists have and arms have scabbed over in the places where the glass shards and been used. She passes by the mirror, looks into its reflection; where a greasy haired, yellow toothed woman smiles at her. “I know that woman!” she replies totally in denial. How can she recognize what she has become, if she doesn’t come out of her mind? Into the bedroom she is next, with more trash obstacles for her to ignore. Her Ambien starts putting her into sleepy land, as she collapses on the bed. The blankets wrap around her and their stench hits her nose; the stench of old sweat; cigarettes, crotch rot, and mold. She inhales the smells intimately as if they were some cologne. Quickly, she goes into sleep and the pillow catches her dreams. She dreams of sexual things; and reminisces about her mouth doing dirty deeds to men. She dreams her daughter will grow up to be just like her and they can be friends. The woman is living in the land of the depression, may God help her soul.