Disclaimer-I own a Burritto, Janine, and the drama, nothing else. Hopefully, you can comprehend that.
A/N
I'm seriously sick in the head, or else I wouldn't torture my characters so. But anyway, I was just thinking what would it be like for the main character if they didn't even look at the newspaper article. What their life was like and all that good stuff. The main character, I have deemed "Janine" I don't know why, I just liked the name for some reason and it just...popped into my head.
Well, goodbye, I have an essay due tommorow, and I seriously need to stop procrastinating.
The-music-of-hands
Cliché
When I was just a little kid I always wanted to be a princess, I always dreamed that someday, I would have my prince, have mounds of gold, and, live happily ever after. When I was just a teenager, I was convinced that my life was like a giant play. Five scenes, five stages, one huge twisted plot….One: The Crush, Two: The Dating Crisis, Three: The Drama of Breakup, Four: The "Just Friends", Five: Getting Back Together. Life…isn't a romance novel, or a three hour showing of "The Loves of Our Lives"…This, is real.
So here I am, twenty-five years old, shoved into reality like some sardine into a tin lidded box. I'm no princess; there is no happy ending, and no handsome prince taking me away on a brilliant bleached stallion. Nope, instead, I'm the modern princess, the underground actor. The Taxi Cab is my horse; the character in my novel is my prince, the rainy day fund hidden away in the washed out applesauce jar, my gold. The dull rain echoes against the thin dirty splotched glass window, the only source of light besides the yellow stingy light bulb illuminating everything that stands three feet away. The beads of water still linger on my clammy skin as I drape my shabby windbreaker across one of the two metal folding chairs in my kitchen. The yellow light filters into the kitchen and if you look closely, you can see the tiny particles of dust floating in shimmery waves, free to explore. I drag my wet feet over to my one toilet, one shower, and one sink bathroom. Mildew grows in the corners of the shower stall while streaks of rust gather against the mesh drain. Brown tiles with yellow flowers decorate the grimy bathroom floor, and soon, my thrift store worthy dress shirt and ragged pants accompany the faded petals.
Snatching a sweatshirt from a hook on the door, I slip that and a pair of over sized sweats on. The drawstring is barely enough to fit my skinny frame, and I end up having to pin the extra folds of cloth with a dull safety pin found under the counter. I leave the bathroom, and just realize that I didn't buy the few groceries with the twenty dollars I was hoarding under my mattress. The threadbare carpet rubs against my bare feet as I shuffle over to the stained brown couch, my too flat stomach growling in pleas for food. As I flick on the TV, I mouth a silent apology to my stomach, 'sorry, no food tonight for the both of us…'
The lights are turned out, and I don't have to bother with the sheet hanging over my window, as it always just hangs there collecting dust and past memories, just like me, stale, dusty, dull, and boring. Lights flicker against the pale drab walls, and reflect against my red blotched skin, and for one moment, I feel aware of my complexion and wonder for one moment if they will be disgusted. Voices fill the room, and for a half hour, I can lose myself to another universe of dramatic situation.
"Why did you leave without telling me? I thought we had something…"
Her voice is desperate, clogged with tears as she confronts him in the rain, the water pouring down her neck in small streams, matting her fine blonde hair to her head in a stringy mess. She's crying and he's standing there in a black jeans and a dark green coat, staring hard at her, his eyes filled with confusion and something else.
"But that's it Sally Mae, we had something, it was in the past. We both need to move on…"
The sadness in her voice draws me in, as he starts to walk away from her, a single tear slipping down his wet face. My chapped lips mouth the words, repeating the same line, every night. "Please…don't leave…"
"Please… Don't leave!"
She runs up to him, puddles of water drowning her ankles in muddy ripples. He stops and then embraces her—he's crying full force now—while she buries her head deep into his soaked jacket. The music cues a sad, bitter piano symphony, the memories filling the murky air, while the couple embraces, all alone in the middle of the street. I can feel my heart beat; I can practically feel my forehead sweating, the salt seeping out of my pores. Soon, it'll be soon, and then, all will be right, all will be okay. Because, that's how it ends, every night, at seven-o-clock, the familiar tears, the familiar heartbreak, and then, the all too familiar Cliché ending.
"I can't leave Sally Mae; I can't just walk away and see your heart break."
He lifts her chin up, tears streaming down both of their faces—as it always is—and then he softy gives her a feather down supermodel kiss, a simple brush of lips. The music clashes, and the credits roll, while they walk down the street, the rain softening into a slight misting. A tear runs down my face, as I walk down the street with him, our hands held together. We smile, and we know, that we were supposed to be together. Then a flash of lightening erupts, brightening the room, illuminating all the stains and cracks, the TV shuts off, the yellowish light blinks, and it's dark. And then I'm back, back into the world, back into the darkness, back into my harsh reality. I'm not beautiful blonde Sally Mae, I'm not kissing Danny under a sheet of bluish hued rain, and I'm definitely not in the happy ending.
I'm just plain, thrift store, Janine, the poor lifeless girl who is just a bystander, watching the perfect ending, while sitting in the dark curled up on her couch, crying. I'm just the girl without the life, the girl, who lives in the same picture everyday. The music plays, a dramatic soprano, and the credits roll. Janine, the unhappy, main character, staring into space, staring into darkness, waits until the next day when, at seven-o-clock, she can have the happy ending once more.
The Ending is always too…
Cliché