Behind doors


I’m going to get out of here.

Some day.

I’m working on it.

Spurred by the voices in conflict next door, I look at the ads in the paper.

Not now.

Maybe, not ever.

I butter my stale bread while I look at the television screen that has random colourful lines dancing onscreen.

Green/Red/Blue/ and yellow.

Not necessarily in that order.

I can’t taste the butter, or the bread.

I long for the fish that’s frying next door.

How do I know?

Look at the photograph.

It’s all about diffusion. Molecular movement.

Where else can I put my education to good use?

The couple next door are certainly not on their honeymoon, the pots and pans being hurled into the sink with unnecessary force.

Maybe projecting necessary mass into acceleration, anything to prevent a breakdown.

I sit at my desk that wobbles, on a chair that creaks, balancing my cheque book, a miracle that I even have one, considering that a minimum balance is required.

Scouring my account cleaner than the brand new detergent that promises miracles, getting by is getting harder.

Keeping body and soul together, hiding from prying eyes, behind a locked door.

It’s going to happen.


[200 words]

Written for the Sunday Photo Fiction, hosted by Al Forbes. Thank you Al! The photo prompt is by J Hardy Carroll.