Nuzzled under the covers there is only one wish, to stay. She feels a need arise, where she has to leave her comfort. She gets up, walks over to the door in a rush. As she opens the door the bottom frame caresses her toes scraping them. She complaints and a faint crying begins. She stands very still in hopes that stillness would still prevail. She hears nothing, so she continues. She arrives at the bathroom simply to slip on the hand towel dropped behind the night before. As she drops to the wet floor, she hears another faint cry. Holding her rage she gets up, drops a towel on the floor to dry the floor. She finishes in the bathroom and begins her walk back to her cozy covers when the faint cry becomes a scream. She rescues the poor baby from his crib to change his diaper. As would be expected, she now has to clean his cute bottom from the monstrous poop which he celebrates by placing his hand and foot in the diaper. After cleaning the child, herself and the changing table, the diaper drops to the floor. Falling at the right angle the diaper decides to spread its joy. Quickening her steps she meets the demand and washes her hands. The baby boy missing her follows his mommy to drop his toy in the toilet. His smile could melt her grinding teeth. On the way to the kitchen she meets up with her husband, who stands staring at her. His pants have muddy paws over them. His shirt soaked in the rain with stains of grass while two tail wagging and muddy dogs stand by his side. They agree this is one of those days.
There is no privacy in my world, no understanding. You can certainly imagine the cruelty of my life if you saw it through my eyes. First, I have no rights. I am given what I can use or work with, but I never get praise for being truly creative with those objects. I strongly believe some objects are better at tasting than others. Whenever I reach for something new or attempt at a new goal, someone pulls me away from my new discovery. My allowances are very few indeed. I am on a strict schedule, theirs not mine. To complete my misery these days I am sick. I smile often and try to push through the discomfort, yet I am still not free. Liquids seem to lunge at me, tissues and napkins fly in formation to attack me. They pull on my nose which already aches. They squeeze on it every time I sneeze. I fight with all my might their advances, I protect the substances that fall from my body. My arms are ready for hit or a slap to those that invade my precious space. However, I am not even mentioning the worst of my tale. A hideous bulbous tool seeks to avenge my freedom. It comes at me when I am at my weakest. They hold me down, my arms I cannot move, I shake my head side to side, but still I lose. The tool forces itself up my nostrils to suck the joyous life still remaining in me. My endless shame in a tool they call the “snotsucker.”
She lifts the shotgun, trying not to complain of its weight. She tries to follow directions of where to drop the shell and which button to push to load it. Her gun loaded, she makes her stance and waits her turn. She tries to practice the key word that will unleash her target. Placing the gun on her shoulder, she tries to aim with her neck twisted to the side, her cheek touching the gun.
“Down the barrel, aim down the barrel,” she reminds herself.
She speaks out, “pull.”
Out goes the orange and black trap, she misses her chance and does not pull the trigger.
She tries again, “pull.” She shoots, completely missing the target, but she smiles anyways.
After twenty rounds, the group celebrates their accomplishments, though she missed every target. The next day a new bruise makes it home on her upper arm, but she walks proudly. She held her stance on every kickback and hopes in her life to do the same.
A ballad of ins and outs begins, while all look at their watch and attempt to time whose turn it is to use the coveted room. Some are quick to the draw and can sneak in a split second, others busy in their conversations miss their opportunity. Once an opportunity passes, few get wise enough to wait right outside the door, so another chance does not pass by. Finally the door opens and I rush to it to set all my things but forgot one single too important item. I slid out hoping to make it back in time, simply to wait again behind a closed-door. Last chance comes and when I finally arrive to take control, the atmosphere changed. The fan set at full blast and though my things intact a new aroma filled the room. The scent left of another who arrived at the bathroom first.