The sound of heavy raindrops echo throughout the room as my eyes discreetly glance up to the wooden clock. It's now 3:36 pm, an hour and half past the time my shift was originally supposed to end. Then again, I can't really complain. I'm lucky enough to have even scored this job as an architect. I stroll around the classy living room, wondering to myself what it would be like to own a house this big and expensive. I'm quite taken aback by some of the scenery.
There's a chandelier hanging from above, along with a granite table just below. The two leather couches are positioned before the wall's flat-screen television, which rests above the crackling fireplace. I suppose it's cozy, especially with the harsh wind whistling outside.
My boss, Anthony—sixty-three and nearly retired—stares out of the balcony window, phone in hand.
"Alright...yeah...okay," he says, listening in between breaths. "We'll have the patio measured out...sure...bye."
He hangs up, before saying to me, "We're good to go. I'll give you a call later in the week."
I don't get a word out before he's gone, just like always. Anthony always seems to be one step ahead of me.
I take one more look around, before grabbing my rain jacket off the coat rack and head for the front door. I make sure to zip it all the way up, so it covers the lower half of my pointed chin.
Once outside, I quickly make my way past the tarped-up pool, feeling the rain bounce off my head and body. The numbers along the side deck for how deep the pool is gradually increase: three feet...six feet...nine feet.
I grab the keys out of my pocket and unlock my 1997 Toyota Camry. The front lights flash before me as I enter the driver's seat. Realistically, I could afford a nicer and more modern vehicle, but truth be told I'm just too lazy to invest in it. The engine starts up and I place the gearshift in reverse, backing my way out of the driveway. It's not easy—the side mirrors are fogged from the cold weather—and the car's back windows are flooded.
However, I manage, and proceed down the wet road.
I'm now making my way home, and will be there shortly.
. . . . .
Later that same night, while observing the pot of boiling water now coming to a sizzling peak, I lean myself up against the counter. It's now quarter to five, and the grey clouds cover the murky January sky. Heavy raindrops continue to fall, pelting upon the small rooftop.
My name is Bradley Marinez. I turned twenty-six last September, and have been living here alone at 3689 Dawson Crescent for two years now. There are a few other houses in the area, but for the most part it's a rather isolated property, near the edge of the forest.
I also suffer from depression from time to time, which has been a battle on and off my whole life. know depression is so fucking promoted to talk about in our society, but I'm just so unmotivated lately, I don't know what to do.
Sadly, I'm missing my cousin, Randy, who's been my best friend for the last few challenging years. He's always there for me, helping out wherever I'm struggling. Unfortunately, he had to move back west for his current job situation. I really miss him, like a lot.
My left hand slowly stirs the second pot of tomato sauce, smelling the fresh pepper I added last second to the spaghetti I'll be eating tonight. There's also a half-empty bottle of Sriracha Hot Sauce to my right. A little bit of that may go in, too. I haven't had anything to eat the entire day. My appetite has been really low as of late, and when I do consume food, it tastes flavourless for the most part.
