The Mundane

The human mind prepares us for events that we simply know will happen. Eventually—everything is a big fucking eventually. We’re all waiting for the next thing to happen. And as I sit there and listen to the sirens in my old sweater with my knees tucked in towards my chest, I don’t think I can possibly think a cohesive thought in the silence of my mind. It’s all big blank within the confines of my head, which is really anomalous. Each second is killing me and these damn curtains keep blowing in my face because of the autumn breeze blowing them from the window sill that is chipping with paint. It was supposedly going to get fixed this summer, but my old man never got around to it. No wonder she’s gone, this place is one fucking disappointment after another.

She called me right before she did it too, they say. Had my number on a speed dial and everything. Our last conversation wasn’t all too bad; we talked about the football game and mundane stuff. You just had to talk about mundane stuff after a while; I can’t even begin to wade in her deep pool of emotions, because I just know that I’d drown a quarter ways into the long, weedy lake. I believe her seventeen years to be a great accomplishment because I would’ve killed myself too if I felt so intensely about every little fucking detail that doesn’t matter.

As the days go on, I have to pretend that I never saw it coming. It’s all bullshit I tell you, people’s sympathy is about as real as acrylic nails. I knew that Sylvia was going to die, eventually. Apparently I’m not allowed to say that to people because they don’t want to know the truth. I’ve deduced that people only seek to cover their own tracks. They consistently babble with a fake anxious tone about how “… if someone had gotten Sylvia help, than she would still be here…”

It was quite obvious to everyone that Sylvia was going to die, I mean, Jesus. It seems as if you’re not suicidal nowadays you’re the crazy one. Everyone’s jumping off of bridges the first chance they get. If you’re not jumping off a bridge, you’re being pushed off the goddamn bridge. It’s a sick world we live in, a world full of this forged flattery with these masks to hide our true intentions: self advancement and money.

I just want to bash my head against the wall of my room I’m becoming accustomed to sitting in the middle of, staring at the corkboard on the wall. It’s dinner time, but I honestly can’t remember what, or if, I’ve had a mere morsel to eat since the incident. My parents aren’t pressuring me too much; they’re afraid I’m suicidal too, that I’m going to jump off some bridge to be poetic or something. It would make a headline, that’s for damn sure.

My mother’s gentle voice comes through the door, “Dinner’s ready.”

“I was trying to go to sleep.” I answered her, attempting to sound nice. It was hard to pretend to be nice when you’re so angry all of the time.

“You have a visitor and your father and I are going out tonight.” ‘Going out tonight’ meant they were probably going to gossip with the parents in the neighborhood about the suicide under the guise of discussing what to do for the children. It made me queasy.

Sighing, I would hate to be rude, so I trudged down the steps into the shanty living and dining area. It was really shitty, but it served the purpose I presume. I threw myself haphazardly into the dining chair, figuring whoever it was wouldn’t really care and would be some stiff adult keeping a watch over me so I didn’t commit suicide or anything. My parents are these caring, but entirely uptight and sociable people. But people always seem to surprise you, whether by jumping off bridges or something else less drastic.

Across the table sat our best friend, Lizzie. Lizzie was this curly haired blonde that everyone loved and was probably going to go to Harvard or some other prestigious school her parents would pay for. Her lips were always painted this red that was far too unnatural, just like the hue of her hair. “Hey,” she managed, a gravelly voice filling the room.

My parents waved goodbye. I didn’t want them to leave. In all honesty, after seeing all of the exceptionally fake Facebook statuses from Lizzie, I was disgusted by her presence. With the tongs of my fork, I swirled mashed potatoes in an even spiral, mixing in the peas I probably wouldn’t have eaten anyways. The point of this gimmick was to avoid eye contact. If one tear ruined her perfectly drawn eye makeup, I’m sure I would’ve convulsed in heaps of laughter. “Hey,” I muttered.

“What do you want to talk about?” Lizzie sighed. You could tell she was trying to milk this moment for all it was worth.

“I want to talk about goddamned flowers, Lizzie. I want to talk about irises, peonies, and calla lilies.”

Lizzie shoved a spoonful of mashed potatoes in her mouth in the cutest, most delicate way a girl could muster. “I ordered some calla lilies to put on the casket,” she said in the most goddamned polite way, her eyelashes fluttered too.

“Well, aren’t you great?” I remarked, bring my head up to see her reaction. Red flushed into her cheeks. That’s the fun thing about us humans; we don’t like being told we’re horrible. I had to bite my lip to contain my horribleness that manifested in bellowing laughter. It really was the best thing that ever had left my lips and I swore I could physically taste the salt that the statement was dripping in sting my chapped lips.

“You know.” She began dabbing her eyes with the napkin. The goddamned napkin. Oh god, it was killing me. I was bursting at the seams with this provocative, jovial enigma. “I’m tired of your cynical attitude. I really am. I need someone supportive, okay?” This perfect little tear plopped down on her perfect blush that matched her nearly perfectly red lips, or maybe it was the anger that made her cheeks flush that tomato red, I don’t know and I don’t care.

“I don’t really need everyone’s mellow dramatic bullshit either.” I echoed without thinking. “I mean, she was depressed for fuck’s sake! What do we fucking expect her to do?!” I raised my voice, becoming more and more impassioned to the argument occurring. It felt so good to make Lizzie my punching bag, because I was so angry and alone all of the time about the dumbest things that shouldn’t have affected me in the first place.

As it does take two to tango, Lizzie fell into my trap. She began to audibly grind her teeth, probably the only thing that wasn’t fucking perfect about her, as she had braces and a gap between the two front teeth. Lizzie leaned to her left and grabbed her black leather handbag, hauling it violently over her shoulder as she nearly chucked the chair back under the table. She was even wearing all black, some kind of statement for public mourning or some attempt to be ‘deep’. Nevertheless, I found the clothing to be excessive and utterly disrespectful to our best friend.

“It really should’ve been you that jumped off the bridge.”

She looked me dead in the eyes as she told me, too.

It’s easy to lie to someone if you look away, and she didn’t look away for a few minutes. Lizzie kept her head up with her quivering chin jutted high in the air in some sort of pompous, but brutally honest, manner. The notions slaughtered my already mangled hope.

And as she walked out of that door, I realized just how right she was. Suddenly, the heart that was beating with adrenaline only a few seconds ago turned into this inconceivable mush that left me paralyzed. God, it might’ve been Sylvia’s choice, but Sylvia deserved to live more than I did.

So, I did something very logical; I threw the plates on the tile floor, watching the food scatter all over the tiles and listening to the pleasurable sound of the ceramic splitting into a thousand little pieces. Jesus Christ, it might’ve been dramatic and unnecessary, but those plates were the tears that I couldn’t create. Oh god, it was lovely. And, oh god, I was lonely. I felt so desolate and abandoned; I felt a lot of things that I had never felt. Sinking my teeth into a throw pillow nestled on the couch, I screamed into the fabric, biting it, thrashing my head back and forth as I let go of all the frustrations. When this wasn’t enough, I resorted to banging the wall with my fist and shrieking, “Damn you, Sylvia! Go straight to hell for leaving me like this. Go straight to hell!” I screeched, striking hole after hole in the plaster. Those tears had finally kicked in, and god, they soaked my shirt they were so abundant.

And eventually, I collapsed, shriveling up into nothing on the floor under the table. I’m pretty sure I fell asleep or something, I’m not too sure. I honestly can’t care anymore.



My life has come a long way since that evening I was reduced to nothing. I stayed at a lovely facility known as the Westchester Youth Psychiatric Hospital. They took away my shoelaces even though I didn’t really want to die. After taking it easy there for a couple of days, they realized that too. It wasn’t a farfetched hypothesis for my parent to create, with all of the fragments of fine china and thick glass discarded onto the floor like a monster had prowled through their home, the sheet rock resembling the moon with its many oblong craters, and then me, curled up under the table dry heaving. It must’ve been quite an experience.

Youth Psychiatric Hospitals really suck, but I won’t go into that. I hated every single moment I was in there, but I’m still glad I went. It gave me a week or two to become a composed individual, to be able to think again, and to make plans for the future. It was a nice feeling, to have some kind of foundation once more. I’m just waiting to have some kind of direction in my life, something to make me appreciate each day or something lyrical like that. I notice that I’m less overwhelmingly pessimistic, but I can’t eradicate the trait entirely—and I’ve stopped trying. That’s just something I’ll have to learn to live with, or I’ll be at the bottom of some river dead. I don’t want that for myself. I don’t think Sylvia really wanted that for herself either, it was just a 'better by comparison' deal; I won’t dwell on Sylvia much longer, it makes me sad.

But, if there is anything I learned from Sylvia and this journey, it was probably the importance of taking some kind of responsibility for the stuff that happens. Some politician or celebrity making some phony speech at some brainless event gala with some smiling blonde making a trite toast isn’t going to solve problems. Jumping off a bridge isn’t going to solve problems. Hating everything and developing an overpowering attitude of cynical nihilism isn’t going to solve problems. I think we like to believe these things solve problems because they're easier to deal with than the root of the issue. With that being said, I guess the only way to really solve problems is to take responsibility and solve the damn problem. Call it a simple realization of life, but remember that I haven’t had the best examples. Always pass judgment accordingly.

With a solo cup full of white paint, I ascend the stairs to my room, now a light blue in order to promote calmness. I like that. With the painter’s tape lining the trim of the window, I shiver as the cool October blows into my room, enveloping the white gossamer curtains on the reverse wall in some sort of ghostly dance. Dipping the brush into the liquid, I start over. I am taking control of my life and reversing the disappointments, even if they’re as small as the trim on the goddamned window.

I may not know what this life has in store, but I’m pretty sure I’m going to stick around and see what the buzz is all about. And while I’m here, I might as well enjoy it.