Three Styles of Writing

A bored 52 year-old housewife: The dull grey of the steel appliances is too familiar. I have spent most of my married life here, freezing my feet on the floor till they themselves have become as hard as the tiles I step on. I refuse to believe that my life has been wasted. The neighbors seem to think that with the application of women’s rights fifty years ago I should be out working a desk job or even a profession, and that’s the problem. I want to. 

A 23 year-old hipster: The yellow of the streetlamps outside burn through the night and into my kitchen. The light reflects off of the glass of the black and white picture frames littering my walls gently, continuing to bathe the room and all of it’s appliances in a dim hue. The old lightbulb in the lamp above my head doesn’t do much for lighting the entire room anymore, but it does help with letting me see my typewriter’s keys as I sit at the breakfast table working. The stack of paper beside my coffee mug is two years of my life put into print, and I’m not going to stop any time soon. 

A 35 year-old PTSD widower: The paint above the stove is unwashed and thick with grease as I sit by the breakfast table, immovable. I stare across from me to the seat once filled by my wife as I remember that I have to take my pills. The cat-shaped breadbox and the rooster-print tea towels watch me with apathy as I breathe in the dusty air, catching a subtle hint of perfume and blood. I open the drawer beside the fridge to grab my pill box, but without thinking I pick up the bottle of pill box refills along with it. I sit back down again, and in staring at my wife’s chair for the last time I dry-swallow my pills and half of the refills before collapsing beside my wife’s body, sprawled face-down on the floor.    


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