Chapter 1

Nonchalantly shaking my eyeliner, I notice the sunrise peeking through the window, cheery streaks molesting my hand. Glancing at the mirror I notice it’s also touching my cheeks. I stalk over to the window and close the blinds tightly. I don’t feel like being irritated this morning. The ebony liner glistens on the applicator as I unscrewed the tube. Brushing it on both my upper and lower lids in four exquisitely thick strokes, I admire my work, then reach for the mascara. Initially debating on whether or not to use eye shadow, I decide that less will be more on such a morbid day. “You’re ravishing, my friend,” I flirt with the reflection.

My jet black combat boots comforted themselves in the cushy, wet grass. At least it was beginning to drizzle outside; maybe it won’t be such a bad day after all. I know that this is likely just wishful thinking, but a little bit of rain has always been a good omen in one form or another. Heh, or maybe it’s just my twisted thought process that seems to believe so.

As I walked across my yard to the garage, my boots sinking into the grass reminded me of the dumb memory foam mattresses everyone raves about. The only people that actually have the money to blow on that shit (and also lack a life to talk about) take pleasure in filling a void with overpriced merchandise like that. I roll my eyes to myself. Chill out, you haven't even left the premises and you’re already in the mood to beat someone’s ass. Slipping the key out of the lock, I lift the rusty garage door then patiently lower into my beaux. “I may have a shanty, little house with an unkempt yard, and I may not have your fancy ass mattress, but I do have a nice ride,” I say, as if any of those losers can actually hear me.

The sweet engine thundered and I instantly felt myself smiling throughout my body. I eased the mint Chevelle out of the drive. Finally reaching the main road, I let it wide open. I crank my window down and invite the moist wind to parade through my hair. The radio even seems to be playing my jam this morning. All is right in the world, except for the world itself. Not a single soul to be seen meandering in their yards or near the road, which only pleases me more. I guess people don’t get up before seven on a Saturday anymore.

I knew I’d have a taxing day so I decided to exit my retreat of a home a bit earlier this weekend and enjoy some coffee I didn’t have to brew myself. Pulling up to a chic, hipster coffee chain, I sit in my car for a moment letting my quirky music come to a stopping point. Watching the few people bustling around the vicinity of the coffee shop, my eye is caught by a particularly interesting spectacle.

A pompous, overweight woman carrying a Pomeranian in an oversized designer handbag, walked tiredly to the door spewing loud profanities on her phone. She wore the most hideous, floral top. I mean I’m not one for floral prints anyway so maybe I’m just being harsh, but it seemed far from flattering. That and her ragged jeans didn’t seem to go with her expensive persona she clearly wanted to put off. Which was easily detected based on her loud conversation that I could hear even after I’d already rolled my window up. It was evident that she enjoys the finer things because she was screaming at a poor soul on the other end for not delivering her monogrammed, vacuum-sealed, insulated cup in time for her daughter’s trip to Universal Studios. “Ha. The coffee can wait a bit,” I turn the knob of the radio up. My morning has been swell, I’m not about to squander it with this memory foam bitch.

Once the coast was clear, I strolled into the coffee shop and ordered the least polluted coffee I could find. Additional pumps of caramel and a spoonful of sugar are for the weak. If you can’t drink coffee without that junk, then you don’t really like it. “What’s the name?” asked barista boy cheerily. “Does it matter? I’m the only one in here,” I look at him with a slightly raised eyebrow and a side smirk. Clearly uncomfortable, he tries once more. “I don’t come here to take pictures of a paper cup, with a mythical creature and my misspelled name on it, for all of my nonexistent Twitter followers to see,” I say in a playfully aggressive tone.

I laugh aloud, strolling toward a table and slide into a chair with unused napkins littered all over the table. Patting all of my jacket pockets, I find a cheap, old pen from when I flew out-of-state last winter. Then I began stroking the napkin with the point of the pen; connecting shapes and lines, I was entirely entranced. Eventually I hear the skittish barista boy chirp the name of my drink, and I raise myself up still staring at the image I’d scrawled in only a few minutes. It’s unsatisfactory at best. I need to touch up a few things on the left of its head. Eh, plus, it looks disproportionate, somehow. Standing at the table, I add a few more details to the hopeless picture. I can’t let go of my pen as I feel it testing the grains of the napkin; I feel addicted to the struggle. It’s bittersweet torture as I walk away from my work to snatch up the coffee.

After many gulps of caffeine and intense concentration, the giant squid challenges me to a stare-down. Its threatening eye seems to glare right back at me from the tabletop. I like it. I’ll be adding this to the portfolio as soon as I get home tonight. I pick up the new piece of art and examine it between my fingers. I toss the paper cup in the trash bin with my non-dominant hand and slowly make my way to the black Chevy farthest from the entrance. Placing my drawing on the bench seat, I lower into the driver’s side with a devastated sigh. Now to the dreaded deed. I put the car in reverse as if I’m hesitantly loading a rifle, about to trudge into a war zone.