Chapter 1

    To hell with it.   Life is not a novel.  Things don’t work out like they do in the books.  Life is hard and painful and cannot be adequately described on the pages of books.  Everything does not just come into play at the perfect times.  Ever afters and happy endings are things people can dream about but sometimes never occur.  Why do we sit around and hope something perfect and magical will happen?  Why do we choose to believe the best of people when it is rarely seen in reality?  People are cruel and hateful and do not contain the understanding they are given credit for on page.  Everything does not come wrapped up with a big red bow.  I will not wallow or shed tears because the truth of it is, it gets you nowhere.  Shedding tears does nothing but make you face puffy and cause a ruckus with those around you.  So what is a person to do when life simply is not working out.
    Jobless, loveless, lifeless: all three could describe my present state.  I look around and see the good things happening.  Good things can happen to people. I am not so dense that I can’t look around and see that.  But, what about the others?  The ones who have always been used, walked on, not cared for; where are their happy endings?   Why is it that happy endings seem just out of reach?
    I have spent my life helping other people get their endings.  I have listened, helped, gave advice, loved, cherished, been there when people needed me and now they are all gone.  They have found their loves and settled down in happiness while I am left to stew in my misery.   Stewing does not set well with me.  Even my grandmothers precious trinkets she was gracious enough to give me seem like reasonable objects to hurl across the room.  I have always wished people would have the decency to fall apart quietly.  To keep it hidden inside so the world is not clued in to their misery and frustration but recently I am leaning toward outward displays of fiery emotions because they are just so much more satisfying...in the short run.  I secretly wish I could be the type of person who could go off the deep side but the truth is I just can’t do it.  
    In truth, I have always been the, I can’t believe I am actually using this to describe me, the goody-two shoe.  I have never been capable of doing anything truly horrific enough to bear credence to.  I have seen my share of friends who don’t exactly have a problem with it, but I just can’t seem to do it.  I can’t drink my sorrows away because I know the consequence of it.  Not personally of course, but I have seen first hand what drinking results in.  I can’t get high because I value my mind.  I can’t lash out at everyone I know because I want everyone to like me.  I can’t fall apart wildly and chaotically.  The only witness to my inner turmoil is myself.
    I don’t understand how it works.  Why is it, the good do not always get the happy ending?  Why is it even when I try so hard, nothing ever seems to work out?  I want the wonderful job, the quaint house with children running and screaming.  I want the man who comes home everyday and treasures me like no other.  I want the ending and I am not afraid of it having flaws.  Life is not perfect and therefore, I do not expect everything in my life to be perfect.  I do not expect everything to just fall into place but I do expect something, anything, to happen to show that my happy ending is on the way.  I want proof I have not been forgotten.  I want evidence to show I will not be an old maid, who has never experienced love or true happiness.  Where is the starting plot of my story?  
    A story never begun is one without an ending. …
    
    I stretched my fingers away from the keyboard and looked at what my fingers had done without supervision.  My hands were starting to cramp, my back hurt from being bent over the computer, and I was hungry.  It smells like they have chili going downstairs.  I thought about moseying on down and sneaking a bowl.  It was unnerving writing about how I felt in my own life.  I still was not exactly sure what set my fingers into such a furious pace. I normally preferred to write the romantic fictions where everything did work out perfectly.  Not this…this was too real, raw.  It was just what I liked to avoid. I got enough of real life and did not want to continue reading about it in my own words on paper.  Why couldn’t I keep writing what I normally wrote: harmless satire and cheesy romantic fictions?  I needed growth as a writer.  Oh well, it is impossible to grow without nourishment and with that I got up to go get some food.  The aroma of chili was more enticing then the words I read in front of me.  With that I left, being sure to close the computer before I walked out the door.  
    As I walked out of the room I pulled at the blanket which was made into a makeshift door so I could slide through to the mess on the other side.  The construction on my brother’s house was not quite finished but my family had made sure I had a place to stay.  They finished the upstairs room in record time.  I still could not quite figure out how they had turned all the spare, tattered materials into something beautiful but I would always be perplexed by such things.   The construction genes definitely passed me and went to my younger siblings.  I was not completely inept but when it came down to it I would rather avoid the process of building all together.  Even though the bedroom was almost finished, the outside game room was still half way done, exposing my clumsy feet to loose nails, and my allergies to dust , sheet rock, and insulation.  I could see the potential in my father’s design.  They had installed a circular window about 6ft in diameter to be the focal point of the room.  From it, a person could see the neighboring houses in  the small town.  
    I had not always lived here but this is where my parents decided to move back to when they left the Texas panhandle.  I turned on the light in the big room, mainly to avoid the dreadful thought of fumbling my way across the floor, tripping, and crashing through the window, becoming a reality.  I had never been particularly clumsy but apparently in my 20s, the klutz fairy decided to pay me a late and extended visit.  I stood at the top of the staircase thinking about how many times I would probably fall down them before I moved out.  
    As I ambled down the staircase, I started to hear voices from the next room. I couldn’t hear anything when I was up in my cave, which is what I liked to think of my bedroom as.  I had to give credit to my brother for that; the added insulation provided for a completely soundproof room.  As I opened the back door that lead to the main part of my brother’s house, I was greeted by loud shouts and angry calls.  There must be a football game on.  Football games meant all the family gathered in the same room choosing to shout at the tv instead of each other.  Sports were the one thing they could all agree on being fanatical about.  I could care less most of the time.  I could enjoy watching a good close game like any of them but preferred being on the sidelines taking pictures of the action.  I also enjoyed hockey more than the rest of my family which brought teasing from my two older brothers.  Sure enough as I rounded the corner I took in the view of half my family members seated around the living room watching the final quarter of a Cowboys game.  I looked around, Joseph, Russell and Ash, Faith, Charity, Thomas, Elinor, Mom and Dad.  Everyone was here but Michael.  I could hear my nieces and nephew playing in the next room.  
    Unlike the rest of them, I had no interest in the game, I was eager to grab a bowl of chili and make a fresh cup of coffee.  
    “Well, hello there Mel-O-dy….I see your finally coming down to visit.  How do you like your new place?”
My dad had this endearing habit of putting the emphasis on the middle syllable of my name.  I loved hearing it because it meant he was in a good mood and was not stressing.  
    “It is wonderful. I can’t believe you were able to finish it so quickly.  I figured I would be on the couch for a month or so before I would be able to move in.  It stinks not having a bathroom.”
    I was getting sick of having to stop what I was doing to make the forever long hike all the way to the bathroom.  This had its advantages though.  I had not been drinking as much coffee at night.  Well, except for tonight.  
    My dad soon became disinterested with me as a bad play was made in the game. I took this as my cue to sneak some chili.  As I looked at the empty coffee pot, I decided I would not have the patience to wait on a fresh pot. I was also taking the risk of getting involved in a tedious sports argument if I stayed near the living room any longer.  With that, I sauntered upstairs making sure to use the bathroom while I was near it.  Going up to my room was kind of like taking a long trip, it was really annoying to have to stop and go all the way to a bathroom.  When did everything become so different?
    Up till now, I had been working at what I thought was my dream job.  Right after college, I had joined a publishing house and had slowly been making my way up through the ranks.  This however conflicted with God’s plan for my life. The company was not immune to the economic crisis and I had been laid off.  Without the job at the publishing house, I was forced to give up my apartment which I could no longer afford.  So finding myself homeless, I turned to the people I knew I could always rely on the most.  My father had been remodeling my brothers house which had a large spacious upstairs they were planning on turning into a game room. When I turned to my family for help, they immediately decided to turn it into a small apartment that I could move into immediately.  Russell, my brother, had given me permission to stay for as long as I needed.   Who knew how long that would be?  But, tomorrow was a new day and hopefully the day I would find a new job.

Author's Note

First draft. Need feedback. Harsh criticism is always welcome.