Creative Writing Collection

Secrets

       It was a boring day. It was raining, but boring nonetheless. I held an old book I used to love, but even now, I held no interest in it. With a cup of warm tea, I watched the windows cry, the house trembling as soft grumbles filled the darkened sky. Music played in the nearby kitchen — some old country song I didn’t even like. I switched the radio off with the edge of my book, then tossed it onto the glass tabletop.

       I have been living here for the past year, and I am alone. I haven’t made any friends, just a small handful of acquaintances. I was a lonely, lonesome person; but I didn’t pay any mind to it. I sipped at my tea, eyes gazing at old pictures of family; a combination of my dad, mama, my four siblings, and I. the picture of myself was me posing alone on a portrait scale. Sort of like how I am now.

       When they call me, I say: Yes, everything’s fine… Yes, I’ve made a couple of friends… Oh, just from work… Jenny, Marcus, Oscar, Amy… Ok, love you, too… Bye.

       I couldn’t bear to tell the truth that I’ve actually made no friends. It would prove that I’m “still not social enough” or that “maybe Los Angeles just wasn’t the right place.” But I didn’t want to go. I enjoyed this place, this was my home now. I had food, money, a roof over my head, a job — friends were the least of my priorities.

       I laid down on the couch against a cushion. I stared at the TV for some time, eyes flickering from the black screen to the glass sliding door that led to the small porch in the back. Outside, there was a few meters of grass before the sidewalk began, then ended, and the street began. There weren’t many cars out today. I took a long drink from my tea now, then picked up the book I had tossed.

       Maybe I could read it just one more time…