Over It

I wrote this as homework for a writing class in college. All of the kids in my class (being a single mom I was the oldest one there) honestly thought it was real and told me to "get help" repeatedly. It was based on a true situation, yes, but these kids needed to remember that it was... a story. One written for enjoyment.

Anyway, this is an excerpt from my book "It's Never Romantic to Wash the Dishes". I hope you enjoy.

Over It

Sometimes when faced with your evil stepmother, leaving bread- crumbs on the trail is not enough. You may have to cross a troll bridge to the other side of your conclusion.

***

Y

ou detest bridges. One the way home from school at night, you try to avoid them but there are only three roads you know. They each have bridges with metal grating and a daunting gap to the water below. So you drive over them as carefully (or quickly) as you can. Behind you, other cars practically ride on your bumper. You think maybe they hate bridges, too.

The worst is when traffic backs up, and you have to creep over that bridge. You have no car radio. At least the air conditioner works, except the heater is broken. Winter will be coming soon, and jackets are uncomfortable. You glance often at the useless heater lever, wondering what it takes to fix it.

Around you, buildings twinkle like some fairy tale city. There are flashing lights and a siren coming up the bridge behind you. The other cars are already edging aside. Cursing, you veer the steering wheel to the left. Closer to the edge, you eye your rear view mirror to watch the ambulance move past. It finally does, but only after the car in front of you moves up an inch.

Sometimes when driving alone, you fantasize turning your car sharply to the side. You picture the lurch as momentum pushes your vehicle into the clear air. The water would hit with severe brutality, but the car would save you from instant death. Then you would sit, trapped, as water rushes in. Your last moments would be spent gasping with your nose at the roof.

You hate bridges, but you are strangely fond of breathing so you don’t take the invisible side road. The traffic finally begins to edge forward until you slide down the other side. Ambulances and police cars are parked at the bottom and up the highway a little ways. There is an accordion which used to be a black truck pulled onto the grass. Several paramedics are clustered around a pale lump of flesh, which does not move.

Trying not to stare, you wonder if it might be someone you know. Speculation takes grip in your mind. What if it’s your landlord’s bookkeeper? Wouldn’t that be nice? You would love to see that b***h prostrate on the side of the road with paramedics futilely trying to keep her alive. Then you wouldn’t have to worry about her coming into the house while you’re gone. Your belongings would stay put, and she would never again say, “The house is a mess!” because you left a textbook on the table.

Then, if you had something to say to the landlord, you could email him and say it yourself. It would be okay if you occasionally came home too tired to straighten the couch cushions. You grind your teeth as you think about that; how the woman just walks into the house and accuses you constantly of never getting any housework done, even when the only mess is a dirty glass in the kitchen. You hate her for being your landlord’s friend, as well as his bookkeeper, and a meddling a*****e.

You wonder what it would take to just shove her off of the bridge and be done with.

The flow of traffic speeds up, and your exit ramp comes into view. You take it, going ten miles faster than you should, and glide onto an empty highway. You are eager to get home because your underwear is riding your crotch. Your toes are twisted in a cotton wrinkle of discomfort because your socks are drooping around your ankles. Behind you, the bridge looms forgotten in the night sky.

The next morning, you hit the snooze button as many times as you can. Finally, you throw a pillow at the alarm clock. The clock smashes to the floor, cracking the faceplate and making a continuous, sick sound. If you had super powers, you would throw a fireball at the bloody thing. It would not be a big fireball, of course, because that would burn the house down.

What the hell. You live in Springfield, which burned to the ground at the turn of the 19^th century. Your creaky house was built in 1913, after that famous fire. What harm is a little fire going to do, anyway? Maybe Springfield would burn down twice, taking your job and your landlord’s bookkeeper with it.

In the mad rush to get away, you are caught in the scramble of panicked citizens as you flee towards the water. Flames are hot on your back while women scream. Idiots jump into the river, which sweeps them away in a swirling current. The bridge is so overloaded with fleeing people, it succumbs and crumbles. Falling bodies tumble downward, pushing each other deep under the water with fatal splashes.

Just as you feel yourself slip downward, you open your eyes and stare at the ceiling. The alarm clock is still screaming, even though you have overslept by two hours. This is the fifth time you have missed work, so you don’t even bother to call.

After crushing the alarm clock with your dictionary, the one that was a gift from your ex, you sweep up the pieces to put in the trash. They never make it there, because on the way into the kitchen you notice your homework on the floor. Without a job, you will finally have time to get things done on time.

Ignoring your homework and the clock pieces now set by the wall, you go back upstairs. You throw away the worn out socks, put on some sandals, and brush your hair. The doorbell rings, but you don’t answer the door. The bookkeeper lets herself in, earrings jingling and fingers winking from ridiculous amounts of gold. “Hello?” she carols into the empty front room.

The door shuts; the b***h is inside now, looking at the broken clock pieces and neglected homework. She has a fist on each hip, and her bushy eyebrows are lowered into a straight line. You just know it. She is thinking about calling your landlord to complain. Maybe she will take a picture of the clutter and insist that she can find someone else to house sit while he’s on vacation. You want to stomp on the floor hard enough to make the chandelier fall on her head.

She goes into the bathroom, closing the door behind her. Taking this marvelous opportunity, you sneak out the back door and nearly run to your car. Another car almost hits you as you pull out. “A*****e!” you scream, but with the windows up so no one can hear.

There is not much traffic going over the bridge today, so you take it at your own speed. Blue skies span around you, and sunlight glitters on the water like a thousand drowning, burning men. Once you reach the other side, you park your car along the side of the road. That is where you sit for an hour, watching the water. Police cars drive by on the highway, but no one disturbs you.

You wonder what it’s like to dance on the water with the sunlight. The bridge, looming, has no answers for your philosophical query. After a while, you get out of your car and begin to walk. Your feet pass each other, and you are filled with anticipation. Deliberately, you mount the bridge. Your heart begins to pound and you want to turn back, but you keep going.

After a while, your legs tire. The water grows ever more distant, and although you are terrified you continue to walk. Cars sweep by, shaking your foothold. A scream homesteads in your throat, but you don’t make a sound. When you finally reach the top, you look down at the water, the dancing lights, and gauge the distance.

If you had three wishes, you would fly. You would turn the bridge into chocolate, or create a working car radio out of thin air. You take a deep breath, leaning over the railing.

“YOU F*****G B***H, I HATE YOU!” you shout. Around you, the echo dances with the lights. You stare at the buildings where you stand, defying gravity. The city stands with you, without pushing back. This is where you stay while the sun moves slowly across the sky.

Finally, you start your descent back to the silent cab of your car. A truck pulls up, and the passenger side window rolls down. Inside, an old woman blinks with bovine eyes. “Are you alright?” she asks. “Did you break down?”

“Nah,” you say with a mouth full of teeth. “I just felt like taking a walk.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yep,” you say while your feet keep moving. The truck crawls alongside of you. “Thanks for your concern, though.”

The woman nods after a moment, rolls up the window, and the truck moves away. If you were magic, you would give her a golden goose. Maybe she has a gruff old man at home. Maybe he makes her bring him beer while he farts and burps in front of the television.

When you finally reach your car, you slip inside and lean back in the seat. There is nothing else you want to do today, but you crank the engine and get back on the highway. The bookkeeper is still at the house when you get home. “Hello!” she says with a smile on her face, thinking about the clock pieces and the homework. Your textbooks and folders are now stacked neatly in a corner, and the pieces are gone. You would have liked to keep those pieces, you decide. “I was just leaving. It looks like the bathroom is finished.”

“Awesome,” you say, returning her smile with the enthusiasm of an aardvark. “I have to get going to work, or I’d stay to chat. Sorry.”

She doesn’t mind, in fact she seems relieved. You change clothes in your bedroom, being careful to fold your dirty underwear into a neat triangle and lay it on the pillow of your bed. You hear the door slam, and the house settles back into isolated feeling of emptiness.

For a while, you stand at the window and watch the neighborhood. A dark man pushes a shopping cart down the road. His clothes are murky with filth, and he keeps his eyes to the ground as he walks. You recognize him; he begs for money outside of the emergency room at the local hospital. His cart is empty, but his hands are gripped tightly on the handle as he travels out of your line of sight.

The mattress gives just a little when you sit on your bed. The blankets are rumpled in mountainous heaps, and the pillows need fluffing. You curl between the valleys, your hair becoming a silken river. The phone rings, and you think about your ex. You remember those bottomless brown eyes, dancing as you finished your beer to say, “Lay me another.”

You can’t remember if you two had sex that night.

The phone stops ringing just before you get up to tear it out of the wall. Once again, things in the house stand still. Outside, someone blows their car horn. The sound manages to get past the window pane, but it’s faint when it reaches your ears.

You close your eyes.

Reviews

[LylaCrystal]

I love how everything is seen in the minutest details. I'm a huge fan of second person perspective. It's a wonderful story with a nice flowing.

[Sara Lufrano]

Hi hi! Very fun and interesting read! Second person is difficult but you nailed it here. Great flow of events and discovery of character I'll be looking forward to more!

[K. J. Joyner]

I am completely thrilled by the wonderful response in this place. Thank you so much! I don't normally write in second person, so I hope I don't disappoint in the future.

[Sami Khalil]

A professional writer I can see and tell. Very detailed and situational...:)..............

[K. J. Joyner]

Aw.. thanks! What a wonderful first review!

[Sami Khalil]

You are welcome...:)....................