Pisaries Creator

There are many people in this world. There are more personalities. Some people have more than one personality. People are a complex species. I’ve heard we know more about outer space than we know of the human brain or the ocean. I’m not sure whether this is true or how the researchers qualified or quantified the findings. When it comes down to people, this really doesn’t matter because the people I’m talking about wouldn’t think once or twice about what is in space or in the ocean.

I know humans can’t exist in the water or outer space without assistance of an oxygen tank and protective clothing. In this little corner of the universe, this tiny group of people had to learn to work, live, breath, and eat together for a greater cause. The problem was none of them knew why they were there except the need to survive. Their situation was a means to an end. All of them would die eventually. Some earlier than others and others given more years than deserved. All of them on this cold windy day were just trying to get through this particular day, which was hump day.

The sun was hiding behind the clouds when noon arrived and when others noticed Martinique moving her head to the music flowing through her earbuds as she walked to the table with a tray of food. She was never one for disorganization and anybody looking at her tray from afar would not have thought differently. Her family never understood the reason for her need to carry plastic trays around for her breakfasts, lunches, and dinners. Her tray was packed in bubble wrap when she left home. It was an ugly faded orange color with cracks on the edges.

If Martinique held it the wrong way, the cracks on the tray made sure she would bleed on one of her fingers. Whenever she was careless, the plastic cut into her briefly. Each time, she let the blood flow where it would naturally travel, maybe a quarter of an inch. This wasn’t a cut from glass where the flesh wouldn’t stop bleeding until at least 30 minutes after.

The trouble Martinique found herself in on this Wednesday was the feeling she was having. She had never liked these spontaneous thoughts in her head. If her family knew how she felt at certain times during her solitude, they would have probably disowned her without any hesitation. Her name would be removed from the will and her parents would tell other relatives she simply didn’t exist to them. Any of Martinque’s belongings would be burned, donated or left  for the garbage truck workers to pick up.  

Martinique turned her attention to the burger she had grilled well done in between a sesame seed bun with all the toppings of lettuce, onions, tomatoes, ketchup, and mustard. A toothpick stuck out from the top to hold the burger together although it gave her some disappointment the toothpick wasn’t longer. She could have put a few snack size dill pickles on top of the bun. Then again, the pickle juice might have dripped onto the bun and made it soggy. The only side dish was macaroni and cheese she had made from a box. She followed the directions  because Martinique didn’t want it tasting funky. Her first bite into the burger was the largest one out of all of them. By the time her burger was in her stomach, she grabbed her fork and stuck it into the macaroni and cheese. The next step would have been for her to remove the fork and put it into her mouth, but Martinique didn’t do this. Instead she closed her eyes and turned her head down as if she was in prayer. No one knew what the purpose of this was and each time it didn’t last long. Whatever she was thinking was quick and her recovery time was nonexistent.

She picked up her fork and placed it into her mouth. Her jaw moved up and down. Anyone watching her could see her swallow her macaroni and cheese in a few bites. What they didn’t know was her savoring the cheese in her mouth. When her fork scraped the sides and bottom of the bowl, her stomach was satisfied. It had gotten enough nutrition and sustenance from the burger and pasta. There was no need to eat the pickles but she did anyway. She enjoyed listening to the crunch and washed them down with the remaining water in her glass.

Her mind went back to the previous conversation with her friend. Why do some people fake it until they make it? Martinique told her friend some aren’t that lucky. There were many times she had half faked it and never made it. She fell flat on many occasions. Her last attempt she fell on her ass. It was never bruised because she was a woman with an ass that never stopped giving. Anybody could set a plate on her ass and eat their lunch in peace. In fact this was one of the thoughts entering and leaving her mind as she ate her last pickle. She wanted to be a worthwhile person that contributed more than most to the betterment of life. Yet, here she was feeling ashamed for thinking she could make any contribution by allowing people to place food on her ass.

This was a preposterous idea. She could never make money off this. The moment it left her mind, she felt embarrassed and couldn’t believe she even thought that was a good idea in any way. She wanted desperately to get rid of this embarrassment. Desperation comes in many forms and it came to roost on that Wednesday until Martinique found a way to regurgitate her assessment of the thought.

She had reformed herself before when she no longer was bothered by other people’s motives. Of course, it still bothered her that her trajectory would never be as easy as other people. She had to accept the fact her problem was her own reflection in the mirror, no more and no less. There was no one to blame but herself as she got up from the chair. They thrived. She withered. The chair making a noise as she scraped the floor didn’t bring her any happiness as it had.

When a year turned another digit on the universal watch, Martinique felt a combination of equal disappointment and inspiration. This year she vowed when it neared, to only feel disappointment like she felt today. She would not commit suicide, but Thursday was still up in the open. One of her last thoughts before she fell asleep that hump day was a question. If she jumped into the ocean, would a shark bite her hard enough to make her bleed to death? There were other ways to kill herself where you didn’t need to waste gas or swim far enough out from shore. There were options less strenuous. She could overdose on most any medicine and yet she gravitated more to sinister possibilities.

While it would be painful to succumb to fire, the smoke inhalation and trauma to her body would eventually overtake her. She could almost smell her burning flesh and taste her victory of suicide. The burning in her throat would be a minor inconvenience. Wednesday sucked hardcore and Thursday would probably be the same. This was her last thought as she fell asleep. How many more mornings she would wake up was up to her.