This morning, at 8:02AM, Jan woke up and decided she didn’t want to live anymore.
She looked around her childhood room, although different than it was growing up, still simmered in the memories of her jaded past. The Crayola green and blue and white polka-dotted hippie wallpaper that once lined her walls was now replaced by a drab white-ish paint that didn’t really conceal the little ticks and bumps in the wall. On top of that were posters and paintings of foreign countries Jan had visited (and some that she hadn’t but her mom thought she might like anyway). There were too many plants, as if her mother not-so-secretly would rather have her room be a greenhouse rather than house the being who actually grew up there. The furniture was all brown, some of it interesting like the Chinese cabinet with the fish lock or the writing desk that looked like it was from the early 1900s. Some of it was the least interesting furniture there could be. All of it brown, yet none of it matched.
Her daybed with the rolly-bed underneath for her friends to sleep over on was the same: comfy, albeit too small after having expanded to twin and queen-sized ones while living in the city. Surely there would be no friends sleeping over again anytime soon.
However, this particular morning, the thing that felt the most questionable was the white and gold plastic Jesus-on-the-cross that hung above her bed like a dreamcatcher. No wonder she’d been having weird dreams lately.
What, are you catching them through your stigmata and spitting them back into my brain?
I’m 35 and I just moved back in with my parents. Jesus. I want to die.