Untitled (3rd Person, Original)

Untitled

 Pretend you're happy when you're blue

It isn't very hard to do

And you'll find happiness without an end

Whenever you pretend

Smoke from numerous cigars clashed together to mix and fill the room; newspapers were scattered on every table with yesterday's stories. Glasses, whether the contents be a Manhattan or a Tom Collins, were placed to everyone's lips. It was a bar filled with lonely and quiet men thinking they could drink their troubles away, whatever they might be. In the back of the cloudy room, a young writer's pen swayed to the sound of Nat King Cole's gentle baritone voice. His dark green eyes, a near carbon copy of his mother’s, scanned over the nearly empty page before him, uncertainty filling them. A young waitress came his way with a pitcher of coffee, only shaking her head when she realized the bright face past the smoke.

Remember, anyone can dream

And nothing's bad as it may seem

The little things you haven't got

Could be a lot if you pretend

"You know, I didn't expect to find Winthrop's son in here." She smiled sadly and poured him another cup of coffee. "These men are such bad news; they only focus on what was, should haves, or could haves. It's depressing really." The waitress sat next to the writer, her smile still upon her lips. "Come on, what's got you, Shelton?" The writer soon took his eyes away from the hopeless paper and towards a more hopeful waitress.

"Oh nothing Nancy, I've just got a big day tomorrow; you know the story I've been writing, right?"

Her brows furrowed a bit. "That one that had something to do with a wizard and a king?"

"Na, trashed that one, but I'm pretty sure I've got this one all figured out. Picture this: a man accidentally wanders into what seems to be an abandoned home. He is seeking shelter from a terrible storm and is offered by the owner of the old house to stay the night. The man agrees, not realizing that the home is actually a mental institution. From then on, horrors rain down on him as he is constantly attacked by the insane."

"Seems a little dark for my tastes, Mr. Morris," Nancy gripped the edge of the table tightly. Her whole body shuddered at the thought of the idea. "You might give your audience nightmares if you do it right."

"That’s the whole point, Nancy. I’m aiming to make my audience left mildly disturbed.”

Mildly disturbed? Nancy held tightly onto the table, nearly knocking down Shelton’s cup of midnight energy. The man just gave a slight eye roll and smiled.

“Anyway, I'm going to a mental institution tomorrow, to see what I'm actually doing my story on. Who knows, it could be an amazing experience."

"If you think so," The woman got up and grabbed the pitcher. "See you around?"

"Yeah, probably the day after tomorrow." The writer said before taking a sip of coffee. He watched as the waitress disappeared back into the smoky air; and before he knew it, his voice was singing along to the soft song:

And if you sing this melody

You'll be pretending just like me

The world is mine; it can be yours, my friend

So why don't you pretend?

~~~

The cab dropped Shelton off at St. Lawrence's the next day. It was like a village within itself; soft red brick buildings that had perhaps could have once been a series of identical mansions were surrounded by neatly trimmed grass. It contrasted wildly against the image of the hospital he had in his mind; even little rodents were scattered across the lawn. He considered changing his story setting to look like this, give the audience more of a surprise...or so he hoped. He entered the place, messenger bag strapped around him. The lobby when he entered was already occupied by one person at the moment, and that was a curly haired woman. She was too busy picking at her nails to notice the young man walking over to her. When she finally noticed, her eyes widened.