T. F. Chisholm
His bedroom’s a mess. The trash from this week and last week’s MacDonald’s remain on the floor beside the desk. It’s to-go bags; along with the meal’s empty soda cups have become makeshift trash containers for cigarette butts, potato chip bags, and unwanted receipts. The bed’s unmade, its flannel sheets twisted in a log on the left side of the bed expose half of the king sized mattress. It’s a small room and the enormous bed takes up most of its space, leaving only room for a glass desk—covered in ashen-dust and syrupy soda stains, with a leather computer chair tucked into it. The chair is fairly new and in good shape, as is the computer and monitor on the desk. Situated just in front of the desk, playing the newest first-person shooter is Y, a young neglectful man idling away from his fears, running out of space to store them. Just last winter he was living in the basement bedroom, until the spring showers brought flooding and instead of cleaning the basement, he let the mold grow, moved his belongings upstairs into the spare room, and shut the door to the basement not opening it since. His fear funnels mostly into failure, resulting in his negligence and remarkable laziness. Y’s been gaming for most of the night and hasn’t looked away from the screen in over an hour; he starts to blink and realizes his eyes have gone dry. He has been so immersed in the game that he’s forgotten to blink. He can no longer avoid it, he needs to close his eyes and moisten them. He pauses the game, turns away from the computer and faces the bedroom door.