three

When I wake back up from the black out, it's the next morning and I'm laying in my bed, staring blankly at the wall. I must have fallen asleep at some point during the night, but I wake up feeling as sleep deprived as ever. The memory of the blind man rushes in and makes me shiver. I get out of bed and walk to my desk.  

Writing is my greatest method of distraction. I used to be a pretty good writer, winning competitions and awards, but I stopped when I was twelve. When my dad died. 

I don't write in a journal or write poems to release my emotions. I don't write about myself at all. I write about other people, with different situations than mine. I guess that's not very healthy, since I never technically address how I'm feeling, but it works for me. I decide to attempt play writing. I’ve never tried it before. I just have one small problem: it's been years since I last saw a theater production in a long time. When I was younger, I went to the theater with my parents all the time, but now, the closest thing I've seen to a play is the school play that we're forced to watch every year.

Wasting no time, I begin to walk to the Sawmill Theater, the local theater about one block from my apartment.  which is only about one block away. As I leave the house, I remember that the waffle place is having a buy-one-get-one deal on coffee and waffles this morning and decide to make quick a detour. I enter through the back door.

"Hey," I mumble. I don't really want to talk to anyone, but feel like I should let the staff know that  I'm here.

“Mornin’ Lucy,” the cook, Frank, yells from the depths of the kitchen, “I just whipped up a fresh batch. They’re sitting over ther' on the counter.” He used to date my mom, when she dated. She stopped trying a couple of years back, when she realized that it was useless. She wasn't ready to move on; she never will be. Frank was one of the better ones, we still get along.

“I’ll just leave my money on the counter, okay Frank?” I reply. It’s a little hard to hear over the Spice Girls’ Wannabe blasting from the radio, but I’m pretty sure he tells me not to pay. I don’t argue and I silently slip out the back door to make my way toward Sawmill.