Lovely Coffee Apples

The mirror was broken, reflecting me as a vapid figure. where my face would have been replaced by the impact of whatever broke the mirror during one of my outbursts. The limited identification I could make was of my eyes, a sharp gray-blue as if you were looking into the cloudy skies. I open the cabinet and grab my bottle of Prozac, and with a swift motion, I throw two into my mouth and drink some coffee to quicken the process. I guess coffee is a drug in itself that manipulates the mind. Who would drink coffee for the taste? sick bastards, I think. I shut the cabinet and walk out of the restroom.

The living room was covered in paper from the floor to the edge of the wall. I shift to the old coffee table with a fruit bowl full of apples. At one point, I never would have pictured that I would have this piece of driftwood with glass in the center in the middle of my house, but sometimes you wish to have a memory of the old world. After all, it’s a gift from the dead, no matter how old it is. I sit on the couch and rest my feet on the table.

The black box was broken as well as shredded into millions of pieces. Above it was an old stuffed deer head, older than my ass by a decade or two. Its eyes were blacked out as if the night had been tied to an animal and shoved into it. as if it could understand what the hell the night had in store for it and wanted a picture before he left. I grab my phone from my pocket and open it.

A soft white covers my face with a hint of red as if to try and apply blush to my face. My phone had over 10 different calls, all from Bunny. A sweet girl with a head filled with the sunny light of the divine With a slide of my finger, the notifications went into the abyss. Why would they want to talk with me as if I were the corpse we pray to? I pick up an apple from the food bowl and bite into it, ripping the shiny red fruit. I close my eyes and tilt my head to the ceiling. What if she needed me? After all, we are friends, and we should be there for each other. My thoughts rushed in, flooding the limited space I had. Slowly, the date fades into my head. It’s Sunday; no wonder my eyes have been killing me. She probably just wants me to go with her to church. We all can be lonely, but who would choose to take me to worship?

Why would the bear leave the den? Would the carcass prefer to anticipate someone who consumes the fruit? from which, in turn, he would choose to burn my eyes and remove the mark that held on to my life. My skin was scorched by an angel’s kiss. Would Bunny be ashamed, worried, or have other feelings of repulsiveness? Perhaps she would be happy that a burden had been removed from her weak shoulders. I can’t see into her mind.

I finish up my coffee and walk to the kitchen sink. After washing out the remains of the poison and pouring out the black bones, a knock on the door broke my construction. followed by footsteps rushing away. I stumbled to the door and opened it to find a little box labeled “Nam apples,” covered in a golden bow as if it were a gift from a nobleman. I grab my letter opener from the counter and cut it into the box using my standard slaughtering technique.

Inside was a salt shaker filled with golden sparkles that glowed from the lights of the kitchen. A note was laid next to it: “Good afternoon, hellish consumer; we have a special gift for your unsightly ass.” To use your unique present, grab any sort of fruit and shake it once, to add some caffeine to the fruit. enjoy “Hortus voluptatis company.” I took the shaker and walked over to the coffee table. With a shake, little golden rocks landed on one of the apples, making it glisten even more than ever. I started to rip the golden-lined apple, and my heart raced and twisted. A beastly feeling overcame me, filled with curiosity as the fuel to my flame.

As if I were eating the cacao plant raw, the apple tasted like a bar of sweet chocolate. I could feel the chemical rush into me like an injection of hard drugs. After some crushing and ripping till even the core was inside my mouth. I got up from the couch and rushed into the bathroom to finish up my daily routine. I grabbed the brush and paste, and with a squirt from the bottle, I started to brush my teeth. I looked at the shattered work of art. Man, I look more and more like my dad every day. He was truly a different man.

a drug addict to the helper. He picked himself up to see his sons, and yet I have done so little to make him proud. We may have the same hair and noise. We may even act the same, but I’m not him; by now he would be running his clinic with Samantha. He always wanted me to use my brain, but how can one do such a thing as fall into a pit of papers that can’t change anything? After all, history repeats itself. In some ways, the curse can’t be removed from the tree that creates the apples. He is the only man who still loves me unconditionally.

I wonder what he thinks of me, a shameful figure who just repeats his actions with less grace and an uglier face. He the only man I can never live up to,o, as he has done more than I can dream of, on with less grace and an uglier face. The only man I can never live up to as he has done more than, I can dream of. I feel so stupid for thinking of myself as a figure like him. His oldest and yet the weakest of his sons I took his last name and have soiled it.

I spit out the mix of paste and saliva into the sink. I grabbed the brush from the sink and started to rush out the kinks from my hair. With some effort, the majority of the hair was down and evenly laid on top. I grabbed a shaver and started to cut the little bits of hair I had. Mostly on my birthmark, which is right on the cheek, creating an uncomfortable asymmetry. My hand shakes and jolts from side to side in tiny movements. Even with my shaky hands, I was able to clean myself up. I walk out of the bathroom and across the living room, making sure to grab the apples and salt shaker. I walked until I reached my study.

It’s only been eight months since I quit college and stopped working on my degree in general. Money became hard to come by, and I had no one to help me. I managed to get at least some of my papers published and make a decent amount of money to live on for the rest of the year. I sat at the desk facing the window; the sky was a dark gray, with a low fog rolling on the city streets. The sun wishes not to look at the busy streets today but only to hide away and rest. Honestly, it’s one of the better days for me to write. as my eyes choose to die rather than look at the star.

I spike the apples and start to eat one as I turn my computer on. I chopped into the fruit, leaving little marks on its red surface, like holes in the moon. After a while, I finished eating, discarded the core, and went to work. Nowadays, I write small journalistic reports on topics I get given every week. If only my high school teacher could see me now. I made big promises only to fall victim to my arrogance and end up as a small writer living in a small apartment. I wanted to see my name in lights, but now it’s just a footnote at the end of an article.

My hand shakes as if to use some of the stored energy I gained. After all, my metabolism was at its peak. It needs to be used somewhere. My mind didn’t want the dopamine after all I’d already used up. When I was younger, I thought that one day we could just take a pill that would make us happy all the time. Now the only escape is drugs, and I’m no addict—nothing like the woman who birthed me. She was at one point a good person, but not to me. As if the fact she called me a “fat ugly pig” when I forgot to do one of the many chores in the house I lived in as the maid of our home, taking care of my brother and my mother when she was out of it during her drunken nights.

That’s all in the past now. She has been dead since I was a senior in high school. a car crash on the highway, and when it happened, I shut down. My body wanted to stop as if I had run miles only to come to a halt. The book is closed, and “the end” was written in her blood on the last page. At times, I wish it could have ended differently with a happy ending, but some books aren’t made to make you happy. We all want things to go right, but they can’t. The sick get better, the poor get richer, and people grow. The longer we hope, the more despondent we become about the miracles that litter life. We shouldn’t hold them to such a high standard of expectation, whether it’s a divine gift or a lucky moment.

My thoughts are broken by my phone buzzing. My brother’s picture pops up, followed by a message. “Connor, I have some bad news.” Tension rose in me. The caffeine had already made my heart race, but now it felt like it would implode on itself. The star was ready to explode when a buzz broke its timer. “Dad is gone,” Three little words created a void inside me. The little bit of heart I had was ripped out of my chest, leaving a hollow shell. The shell was sickly and on the verge of collapsing from the chair in which it sat.

I couldn’t cry; I never could for years, and yet the urgent need for them filled me. cutting me into a deep two. The glass around me broke as I yelled in anguish. A cloud of wind came in and blew on my face. I reach for the salt shaker; the need for something in my control overrides my mortal form. I rip the lid off the shaker and start to dump it into my mouth. The gold crashed into my tongue, saliva building up in expectation of pleasure. A waterfall of shiny little stones drops into the beast’s throat. The caffeine rushes into me, sending me on a high like no other. My eyes felt weak, my body went stiff, and my head started to pulse. No longer was the mind sickly, but so was the body that held it. Now I’m acting like my father’s younger self. I closed my eyes and fell into a deep sleep as a result of it. My phone made a sad attempt to wake me up, but it was no use as it was too late.

Static fills my head, making me open my eyes. I was sitting in a chair surrounded by mirrors with dark oak frames, each one in perfect condition. The room was pitch black as if I were stuck in a box. The mirrors reflected a man’s pulsing light; all his features were missing, and only a pair of bright gray eyes looked back. A small heart lay on his face. I look down, trying to avoid eye contact. A voice filled my head. “Ugly pig,” it chanted over and over. A sharp pain came from my side like I had been punched. “We hate you; why did you try?” the voice proclaimed. My face turns hot in a mix of shame and embarrassment.

My left eye started to hurt like a nettle had been shoved inside. I look up to see the mirrors start to crack. one after another over the figure’s eye, cutting it in two. The voice rings in my head: “Everyone would be happy if you just ended your life.” Think about it: you take up space, make burdens for others, and never give back what you have stolen. You have wasted your life on nothing; you were marked and gifted with divine inspiration. Yet we stand in this spot all the same.”

I lay my head in my hands as an ache started to fill my body. The sound of objects falling fills my ears. The breaking of the glass follows suit. I look forward to seeing the figure in the mirror now with a knife in his back. His mouth dripped out a crimson liquid, making a pool around him. The voice returns and chants, “An apple that tries to copy the tree.” The son of the dead and the failure of dreams “One who abandons hopes to live in garbage.“The voice starts to laugh, sending chills down my spine, followed by a spike in pain.

I look around, trying to find the voice. The floor was now covered in apples and gold. Glass littered the floor near the mirrors, which had almost nothing left inside the frames. I wanted to stand, move, and do anything, but sit still. As if to follow my command, a trap door opens under me, taking me and the chair down.

I was falling into a void, my senses being obscured by darkness. As if a blindfold were removed from my eyes, a light shone over a floor of paper. I used the chair as a springboard and launched myself onto the pages. A cold wind wrapped around me like a blanket over a newborn. I raise my hand as if to grab something out of reach. In seconds, I crash through the floor into a garden. A bright sun shone over the fields covered by thousands of different trees. The grass is yellow and decorated with flowers. From the air to the ground, a sweet scent covered my nose.

Below me was a small pool of water. I braced myself and closed my eyes. A large splash follows my entry. I swim up to the surface; anxiety fills me. as I could feel a small hand grab my leg. I look to see a young boy looking at me as he tries to pull me down. I kick the boy, but more children grab onto me and start to pull. I closed my eyes as the little bit of oxygen I had in my lungs left my body. The urgent need for fear filled me, but it didn’t come.

After all, this is my fault. Why should I be fearful? I’m an ugly person, inside and out. From the surface to the core, rot takes hold. Do you even have a soul? I lack so much and yet have not reached anything more than a small-time writer. Maybe it’s best if I drown and just disappear. The water started to feel slimy, and a smell like a salty sea came into my nose. My body started to freeze over. Suddenly, it felt like I was on dry land.

I open my eyes to see myself in a room with a knife on the table. Across from me is a woman. A smile stretched across her face as she pushed the knife toward me. Chills went down my spine. She starts to say, “Do it,” with a smile almost stamped on her face, cutting the air. My eyes darted to the knife and her. I reach for the knife and hold it in both hands, the sharp side facing me. The woman began to laugh quietly.

She starts to say, “You know it’s the best thing for you.” It’s the truth; after all, you’re an ugly pig that has only burdened the world. You soil the words, the name, and the heart of the dead. “The apple rolled down the hill so far that it ended in a landfill.” My hands start to shake, and my heart races, pulsing in quick succession. The woman is right, after all, I have nothing to offer the world. Maybe I should kill myself, ending not only my suffering but so many others. The world would be cheering and happy at my death. Maybe I’m being conceited; after all, I’m a nobody. just a number that people would use without caring about the deaths of the individuals.

No matter what, no one loves me. I have known this since I was little. My father left me, my mother hated me, and my grandparents were stuck with me. Who would miss me but those who like my money? I look at the knife, sharp to a point and shining in the light. It’s offering me a chance to leave this reality I hold on to. My mind was captured by a deadly aura. The woman laughs even louder than before.

“This is pathetic; just do it.” No one loves you. Everyone hates you. You’re an awful person. You’re not even a man, you’re a fucking shitstain on this world, a good-for-nothing man. It’s simple: shove that knife deep into your side and rip it out. “Let yourself suffer for your actions.” She says she is still keeping a blade-like smile on her face.

I wanted her to shut up. Let me think. What would Bunny think? What would my brother think? So many questions, just no time to think. My head hurts, overflowing with thoughts. I place the knife on the table and cover my face. I wished to feel anything but sadness. I just can’t, is it from a lack of strength or is it because I wish to see how my story unfolds? I don’t know, but I won’t kill myself. No matter what it could do to help others, I just won’t.

The woman sat still, her smile growing a bit smaller. I stand up and say, “I’m sorry, but I can’t.” She remains silent for a moment before starting to say something: “It will be here when you want it, Connor.” “Thank you,” I say before closing my eyes, and a small glow forms around me. A warmth like that of a father’s love held me before it faded away. The sensation was taken over by a cold spike on my face.

I was lying on the floor, the cold texture engulfing me like I was walking on ice. I rise off the floor, pushing away a bottle of my anxiety pills lying next to me. My study window was left open, and the wind was on my face, bringing in a sweet cotton candy smell. The sun blinded my eyes for a moment before fading behind clouds. I got up from the floor and grabbed my phone from the desk. Moving into the living room

The floor was well kept, with only some dusk dancing in the air. I sat down on my couch and looked for the remote. The TV wasn’t the best, but it was one of the things I inherited from my grandparents. I open my phone and light white covers my face, making it paler than normal. I had one voicemail from Bunny. She likes to check in on me, and we have been friends for some time now. I click on the notification and start to play.

“Hey Connor, I have been trying to get a hold of you for some time now. You’re starting to worry me. I’m here for you; I hope you know that. Let’s meet up, go to the library, a coffee shop, or anywhere. “Call me when you get this.” She and all my other friends spend too much time worrying about me. I’m fine. I stand up and walk into the kitchen to get a drink of water.

On my way there, I see the bathroom mirror. A reflection of a young man with gray eyes and a brown birthmark watched me. I open my phone and pour some water into a glass cup. I dial Bunny’s number and place the phone to my ear. A sweet voice answers, “Connor, how are you?” Did you get my last dozen phone calls? “Are you okay?” My voice came out in a weak whimper: “No, I’m not okay.” A single tear rolls down my face and falls to the ground.