Aren't I? What was my life before this?
It wasn't as good. And it is good, right now. Maybe I think writing these stories has something to do with it. Maybe the greatest and oldest fear is fear of the unknown, and this is my attempt to know.
Or an attempt to be known?
I wonder if I could get paid by the question mark? I wonder if it's still a story if it's all questions.
Is this some struggle for control? I doubt it because I don't really believe in control, except as a concept, like absolute zero. I accidentally wrote "perfect zero" but fixed it just now, and no one will ever know.
This was supposed to be a story about being trapped in a coffin.
Am I trapped in a coffin? No that's stupid; with a working cell phone? Maybe I didn't pay my bill, and it's one of those monthly ones. But all cell phones have emergency service functionality so that doesn't work either. A cursed cell phone? What's the point of a cursed anything; is there mysterious shortage of horrible shit all of a sudden now that we have to resort to cursed objects? Nothing against cursed objects. The Monkey's Paw is one of my favorite short stories.
Oh shit.
I did make a wish earlier today on that old monkey's paw that my abuela left me when she died.
I wished for some peace and quiet.
I guess I forget to specify when.
This just goes to prove that the real monster is...the monkey's paw. No, wait. Abuelita Estrada? I doubt it. She probably just wanted to get rid of it.
Hey wait I gave her this exact paw for Mother's Day.
Maybe she wished I would be sorry one day.
This story should have ended 7 lines ago. But it's too late now. Or is it? Which version do I want?
No villains. All villains. That poor 3-legged monkey. He's the real victim here.
But wait! This is two stories in one night. I could take tomorrow night off. I'll set this one to publish tomorrow evening so it looks like I just wrote it. It's the perfect alibi. Everyone will think I'm home writing awkwardly meta stories instead of where I really am: buried alive, trapped in a coffin.
I guess my greatest fear is people worrying. I used to stay out past curfew and my poor mother would be up waiting and she'd scold me saying "What if you were lying dead in a ditch somewhere?!" And I'd say "If I was dead in a ditch, would it really matter when you found out?"
But it does matter, everything matters, when you love someone. Let me love you, let me grieve you, let me hold you, let me tell you again and again how much I love you and I'm so sorry and I can be better and I will be better and even if it's not with me you'll see that I am better because that's how much I love you that I don't even need you to know it.
There's a way out of here; I know it. There has to be. And I will find it. And if there's not, I will make one.
I'm not buried in the ground; you're all stuck up there without me and I have to get back so you don't worry.
I would hate for you to worry.
So don't worry! I'm not worried.
There's no time to worry because I am fucking digging.
THE END?
Author's Note: I'm okay, really. This was just supposed to be about a guy who got buried alive, but it turns out there's not a lot to do in that situation. Goodnight, and I love you all.
you probably don't need to know what i'm thinking. but it's a comment with only full stops. maybe you want to trade your question marks with my full stops. oh wait, that won't work. 2 reasons: 1 you are being paid by the question mark service, or in short, the QMS. 2: you don't say full stops, you say period. you don't want periods bwahahaha!
ReplyDeleteTBH the fact that your protagonist is digging, up, hopefully, is symbolic of the human stupidity, also called hope.