Morning Jingles

Sarah rolls out of bed not realizing how close to the edge she had shifted in her sleep. The corner of the oak table next to the bed pierces her pajama top dragging a jagged streak up her back as she slips to the floor. Her shouts of pain echo expletives into the empty room. Her screams end with the back of her head laid out on the top of the nightstand. Her eyes stare up at the ceiling fan regaining focus on a dull hum and the squeak and wobble of the fan base that Josh never installed correctly. Memories of his incompetence normally made her smile if it weren't for the blood dripping down her back and the bump on the back of her skull.

One hand on the ground and one hand clenching the back of her top to keep blood out of the hardwood floor, Sarah rushes to the bathroom to change. A flick of the switch begins the slow buzz of the light fixture bringing a dim glow to the bathroom an instant too late for Sarah to see the open drawer. Her knee crashes through the cheap plywood crushing the drawer frame and spilling the contents onto the floor. Bouncing goes the hairbrush. Hopping goes the jar of cotton swabs. Crash goes the mirror across the tile floor coating each step to the medicine cabinet with shards of reflective glass.

Minutes tick by on the clock on the night stand while a set of bloody footprints form across the wood floor of the bedroom. A ding is heard clearly through the lonesome apartment, camera swinging to the kitchen where Sarah is sitting enjoying a cup of coffee with blood still dripping from her toes.

The least shitty part of your day could be Folgers in your cuuuup.

Terry finishes singing the last line into the receiver of his home phone, feet propped proudly on the kitchen table. "What do you think? We've never truly tapped into that pessimistic, 'I hate the world' crowd."

Click goes the line, dead as a job prospect from a top advertising firm.