the one where I show my art

please hang it on your fridge

So while this form of writing is a bit new to me (liar, you have about three journals where you just talk to yourself, like a totally (in)sane person), I have always dabbled in ficticious (thats a big word for elmo) storytelling.

Now this ficticious storytelling is one I don’t share openly. I mean I did have the first one I started, passed around my classmates, in secondary school, and my jotter was a public commodity for the short scenes there, but for some reason, after leaving secondary school, I stopped showing people my writing.

That being said, imagine me as a three year old coming in with my colouring of a house that looks like a crayon vomited on the page, or a five year old with a drawing of their family with looks like a bunch of colourful ameoba. Their parents hang it on a fridge and give good comments (do that for me, thanks)

This art that I’m about to give y’all was written in 2021 (I have multiple written in this timeframe and one from 2018 that I love so much). I’m half ecstatic and half terrified to do this but without further ado (in a dramatic voice while curtains open), THE WRITEUP.

I stood in front of him.

I watched him excuse himself from his conversation with her. He picked up the phone.

I watched his face move from joy to confusion to distraught then urgency.

I watched him talk to her. Both packed their things and quickly left the restaurant. I followed them.

I watched him grip the steering wheel, his hands shaking, all the way to the hospital. He parked the car and got off, not fully paying attention to her but still waiting until she got off the car before he locked it.

I watched him walk into the hospital and up to the receptionist. He started yelling. His date tried to calm him down. The receptionist gave him a piece of paper to fill. He did that. She said something inaudible and he walked off. His date followed him. He was stopped by a doctor who mentioned something to him.

I watched a tear fall down his cheek. He didn't wipe it away. He stopped by a door.

I watched him take a deep breath before he opened the door. A girl lay in the room. Her skin was deathly pale. She wasn't breathing. A body bag lay at the side of the room.

I watched him break down into tears. He crumpled to the ground at the side of the room. His face was in his hands and his frame shook. His date left the room.

It was just me and him. He couldn't see me and he wasn't even aware that I could see him.

Afterall, it was my dead body he was crying over.

So what did y’all think? This is a genuine question, I really want to know.

Another Monday morning after a two minute weekend (shey I said it in my last post). And I’m supposed to do this corporate shit for the rest of my adulthood? Sigh..

Upside, its salary week (I would say Detty December don set, but I don’t go anywhere).

Sha sha, have a great week guys. Go out, have fun, be happy and listen to kpop.