"Um, yes." I muttered, "No chiropractor."
"Yes. Let's hope it doesn't come to that." He wrote something incomprehensible on his medical record paper. I wondered, again, if the whole MD-scribbles was still kept alive because of some cybersecurity reason or the sentiment of authenticity.
"What are you going to prescribe me, then?" I asked.
He looked up from the paper and answered, "Nothing. But I'm going to give you a list of exercises you can do at home. You can come back again in a week if nothing changes."
The third consultation I had over the span of this week with different doctors, and none of them gave me what I wanted. The little white coins I could swallow and made my head spun a bit before shifting into focus. I sighed as I put on my jacket to walk outside, one hand stealthily crumpling the written list inside the sleeve. I passed a trash bin and tossed it quickly.
---
"Why are you such a drama queen?" She asked nonchalantly. She didn't mean to offend, I guess she was just curious and 'drama queen' happened to be the word she came up with to describe my situation in her head.
"Amplifying emotions seem to bode well for my writing," I continued brushing the blue hair dye on my fringe, "I wish I could explain it to you better, but you know, we're kinda different."
"Yeah, sometimes I find it hard to understand you-" She went back to scrolling her phone. I knew a few ways she could resume her sentence- 'not that I cared that much though', 'I didn't even want to know what you're talking about', 'but we can still hang out anyway'. Why did I even think of resuming her sentence, and why did it even matter anyway?
"Do you want bento takeout for tonight?" She asked again.
"Sure."
---
I suck at world building. Description, narration, coherent timeline, they're not really my strong suit. My specialization is in creating dialogue based on strong emotions and self-thought. There's no flow, no plot, just redundant exercise of interaction exchange, not supported by non-verbal gestures at all. I stick with writing because it's been easy. Only thirty percents of communication is deliberately delivered, so I thought I could get away with hiding the rest of it behind linguistic barrier.
I haven't even explained who I am, who she was, what situation I was in, and why it all happened. I tend to avoid these things because it meant objective assessment of myself, my roommate, my condition, and it's a pain to be honest. I'd rather present myself as a bundle of negativity with human physical embodiment, and leave it at that.
My relationship with my roommate isn't all that fabulous. We didn't exactly start up as some kind of dynamic duo with lifelong pledge to conquer the world or something equally touching. We just happened to be in the same thermodynamics class and she was looking for roommate while I was seeking new air. There was nothing remotely similar about us, be it appearance, music taste, or life principle, but she was eager, and I was willing to try.
Our roommate-ship is basically a business-only relationship.
I munched the sweet and spicy shrimp rice as I listened to her going on about her day at work. I nodded and responded only briefly, hiding my unemployed shameful face behind the chopstick and bento box.
---
I always thought of her as a straightforward, normal person. She always said what she wanted to say, did what she wanted to do, and so bright and cheery as far as I knew. She often avoided deep conversation, and wanted nothing to do with my negative talks.
Until I found a pack of these at the very bottom of her purse.
Prescribed for [redacted].
I took a couple and wrapped them underneath a tissue paper, stashing it in my stationery drawer. I wanted to see how these things might work for me. Just a little experiment.
"Here's your eyeliner." I handed her the only thing she asked, which she promptly responded with an expected 'thanks'.
That night I stayed at another friend's place. The night after, I stayed in a 24-hours cafe. And I took the wrapped pills with me.
"When are you coming home?" Her text gleamed from my phone screen. My surroundings were dark; I turned down the brightness. I couldn't answer. I put the device on the table, face down, and resumed typing. I never felt this calm and focused before.
I didn't know if she noticed or not, but she made no indication of confronting me upon the disappearance of her two pills. I brought her croissant and coffee for breakfast as I went home in the morning, ready to hit the hay. I reckoned she was still in the shower, so I wrote a note to put on the table.
Breakfast for you. Good luck with work today. -Tay
---
Back to the present, though. I didn't know how much I needed the pills, I just knew how badly I wanted the desired effect to work again to me. I sent my last manuscript three months ago and I still hadn't heard back from the publisher.
I haven't written in two months, and I didn't feel the urgency to do so.
I was already discouraged with my last piece. I knew deep down that I needed to get my gears going and come up with another writing if I still wanted to establish my self-actualisation, published or not. It was the only thing I wanted to do in life, and the only thing I knew how.
But my muse was gone. I barely left my room if not for piss or butter and toast, and a few household chores I agreed to do.
She didn't really intervene. Like I said, it was almost a business-only relationship. I got my secrets, and she got hers. She'd listen if I wanted to vent about my problem, but until then, she wouldn't try to breach my vault. I did the same.
---
I once asked her to go through one of my fiction writing. She commented something along the lines of 'using too many metaphors and big words that only makes sense for you', and that she found it difficult to follow the flow of my narration, jumping from one thought to a different one in a short period of time, without allowing the reader to get immersed first.
That was a lie, of course. That was my own criticism from her brief comment of 'this is difficult to read', which I was highly aware of. She didn't care much about fiction, per her life principle of 'more experience, less fret'. I was the drama queen, she was basically the go-getter prime minister. She bravely made decisions without much fuss, although not immune to annoyingly everchanging second-thoughts.
Maybe that's one reason I got so easily attached to her.
Not emotionally, but domestically. I could always wake up and rely on her being there. At the very least, I knew I wasn't alone at that moment. I hated to admit that I would dread the time she would decide to move out.
---
It was dark outside- inside too. Dusk had far from passed, and I still didn't think to turn on the lights in my room, save for the one study lamp I used to stare at the small box atop my desk. An early birthday present. A semi-parting gift. An unexpected one, at the very least. I took off the wrapping paper minutes ago.
She was going out of town for work for a few weeks.
"I want you to take care of yourself, okay?" I recalled our interaction a couple of hours ago. She stood before the doorway, suitcase packed and ready to haul near our shared shoeracks. Her face was made in a natural manner, fine plum-colored lipstick clung to her thin lips. I saw a hint of sadness in her smile as she faced me with an intense expression, but that might be just my imagination.
She took the small gift-wrapped box from her totebag, and handed it to me.
"I'm gonna miss your birthday, so here's an early present."
I was appalled she remembered at all, let alone getting a gift for me. Unsure, I received the box, "Thank you."
"Open it when I'm already away." She opened the door as she grabbed the handle of her suitcase, then turned to me for a brief moment. I felt her breath as her face leaned towards mine and landed her soft lips on my cheek.
"Wha-"
"See you." She walked out before I could respond the surprising interaction.
I looked at the open box once again, which was just the size of a newly purchased phone package. Instead of smartphone, inside was one tosca-yellow colored stress ball, mini chocolate bar of my favorite brand, and a sealed pack of white pills.
The same one I stole a few months ago. The same prescription. The same label.
Prescribed for [redacted].
With an additional note, a purple-ink curvy handwriting on an ivory card with a doodle of birthday cake and her face. Happy birthday! Take as prescribed and don't forget to eat. Love, [redacted].
I didn't know why I bother looking for muse anywhere else but here. She was staring right at me all along.
---
"Why are you such a drama queen?" She asked nonchalantly. She didn't mean to offend, I guess she was just curious and 'drama queen' happened to be the word she came up with to describe my situation in her head.
"Amplifying emotions seem to bode well for my writing," I continued brushing the blue hair dye on my fringe, "I wish I could explain it to you better, but you know, we're kinda different."
"Yeah, sometimes I find it hard to understand you-" She went back to scrolling her phone. I knew a few ways she could resume her sentence- 'not that I cared that much though', 'I didn't even want to know what you're talking about', 'but we can still hang out anyway'. Why did I even think of resuming her sentence, and why did it even matter anyway?
"Do you want bento takeout for tonight?" She asked again.
"Sure."
---
I suck at world building. Description, narration, coherent timeline, they're not really my strong suit. My specialization is in creating dialogue based on strong emotions and self-thought. There's no flow, no plot, just redundant exercise of interaction exchange, not supported by non-verbal gestures at all. I stick with writing because it's been easy. Only thirty percents of communication is deliberately delivered, so I thought I could get away with hiding the rest of it behind linguistic barrier.
I haven't even explained who I am, who she was, what situation I was in, and why it all happened. I tend to avoid these things because it meant objective assessment of myself, my roommate, my condition, and it's a pain to be honest. I'd rather present myself as a bundle of negativity with human physical embodiment, and leave it at that.
My relationship with my roommate isn't all that fabulous. We didn't exactly start up as some kind of dynamic duo with lifelong pledge to conquer the world or something equally touching. We just happened to be in the same thermodynamics class and she was looking for roommate while I was seeking new air. There was nothing remotely similar about us, be it appearance, music taste, or life principle, but she was eager, and I was willing to try.
Our roommate-ship is basically a business-only relationship.
I munched the sweet and spicy shrimp rice as I listened to her going on about her day at work. I nodded and responded only briefly, hiding my unemployed shameful face behind the chopstick and bento box.
---
I always thought of her as a straightforward, normal person. She always said what she wanted to say, did what she wanted to do, and so bright and cheery as far as I knew. She often avoided deep conversation, and wanted nothing to do with my negative talks.
Until I found a pack of these at the very bottom of her purse.
Prescribed for [redacted].
I took a couple and wrapped them underneath a tissue paper, stashing it in my stationery drawer. I wanted to see how these things might work for me. Just a little experiment.
"Here's your eyeliner." I handed her the only thing she asked, which she promptly responded with an expected 'thanks'.
That night I stayed at another friend's place. The night after, I stayed in a 24-hours cafe. And I took the wrapped pills with me.
"When are you coming home?" Her text gleamed from my phone screen. My surroundings were dark; I turned down the brightness. I couldn't answer. I put the device on the table, face down, and resumed typing. I never felt this calm and focused before.
I didn't know if she noticed or not, but she made no indication of confronting me upon the disappearance of her two pills. I brought her croissant and coffee for breakfast as I went home in the morning, ready to hit the hay. I reckoned she was still in the shower, so I wrote a note to put on the table.
Breakfast for you. Good luck with work today. -Tay
---
Back to the present, though. I didn't know how much I needed the pills, I just knew how badly I wanted the desired effect to work again to me. I sent my last manuscript three months ago and I still hadn't heard back from the publisher.
I haven't written in two months, and I didn't feel the urgency to do so.
I was already discouraged with my last piece. I knew deep down that I needed to get my gears going and come up with another writing if I still wanted to establish my self-actualisation, published or not. It was the only thing I wanted to do in life, and the only thing I knew how.
But my muse was gone. I barely left my room if not for piss or butter and toast, and a few household chores I agreed to do.
She didn't really intervene. Like I said, it was almost a business-only relationship. I got my secrets, and she got hers. She'd listen if I wanted to vent about my problem, but until then, she wouldn't try to breach my vault. I did the same.
---
I once asked her to go through one of my fiction writing. She commented something along the lines of 'using too many metaphors and big words that only makes sense for you', and that she found it difficult to follow the flow of my narration, jumping from one thought to a different one in a short period of time, without allowing the reader to get immersed first.
That was a lie, of course. That was my own criticism from her brief comment of 'this is difficult to read', which I was highly aware of. She didn't care much about fiction, per her life principle of 'more experience, less fret'. I was the drama queen, she was basically the go-getter prime minister. She bravely made decisions without much fuss, although not immune to annoyingly everchanging second-thoughts.
Maybe that's one reason I got so easily attached to her.
Not emotionally, but domestically. I could always wake up and rely on her being there. At the very least, I knew I wasn't alone at that moment. I hated to admit that I would dread the time she would decide to move out.
---
It was dark outside- inside too. Dusk had far from passed, and I still didn't think to turn on the lights in my room, save for the one study lamp I used to stare at the small box atop my desk. An early birthday present. A semi-parting gift. An unexpected one, at the very least. I took off the wrapping paper minutes ago.
She was going out of town for work for a few weeks.
"I want you to take care of yourself, okay?" I recalled our interaction a couple of hours ago. She stood before the doorway, suitcase packed and ready to haul near our shared shoeracks. Her face was made in a natural manner, fine plum-colored lipstick clung to her thin lips. I saw a hint of sadness in her smile as she faced me with an intense expression, but that might be just my imagination.
She took the small gift-wrapped box from her totebag, and handed it to me.
"I'm gonna miss your birthday, so here's an early present."
I was appalled she remembered at all, let alone getting a gift for me. Unsure, I received the box, "Thank you."
"Open it when I'm already away." She opened the door as she grabbed the handle of her suitcase, then turned to me for a brief moment. I felt her breath as her face leaned towards mine and landed her soft lips on my cheek.
"Wha-"
"See you." She walked out before I could respond the surprising interaction.
I looked at the open box once again, which was just the size of a newly purchased phone package. Instead of smartphone, inside was one tosca-yellow colored stress ball, mini chocolate bar of my favorite brand, and a sealed pack of white pills.
The same one I stole a few months ago. The same prescription. The same label.
Prescribed for [redacted].
With an additional note, a purple-ink curvy handwriting on an ivory card with a doodle of birthday cake and her face. Happy birthday! Take as prescribed and don't forget to eat. Love, [redacted].
I didn't know why I bother looking for muse anywhere else but here. She was staring right at me all along.
