Creative Writing

Trey sits hunched over his brown mahogany desk. Outside the sirens blare, signaling the start of mid-morning-- for him, 2 pm. He looks over his shoulder to the white wall and imagines that it swallows him and his problems whole, but instead, as he looks towards his laptop screen, he sees another creation in its reflection; a complete and utter failure. Trey bangs his fists on the laptop table and rubs his eyes. He reaches into his bottom drawer and pulls out a faded pink piggy bank, covered in years worth of soot and dust. Trey then smashes it on the wood floor before him and watches the five pennies roll out of sight into the crevices underneath his bed. His laptop screen bleeds blue and distorts his vision and the perfect image he has created for himself. Trey takes a deep breath.

"Chris, where's my goddamn coffee?" He screams and bangs his fists against the table once again.

In scurries in Chris. He is shirtless as always, and his grey fleece sweatpants hang off of his slender frame. He has lost a noticeable amount of weight in the past few months. Depression did that to a person, completely distorted things, and shunned priorities.

"My coffee, Chris! Hurry your ass up!" Trey screams.

"I'm…" Chris sighs. He places the cup onto the table beside Trey, who proceeds to swipe the glass onto the floor. Coffee splatters the floor, creating rain droplets of alertness and desperation in their wake.

"Clean that cold shit up. You know I like my coffee hot," Trey says without turning back around. He sighs and rests his head on the keyboard.

"No." Chris's voice comes out as barely a whisper, and Trey can just hear the shift of Chris's bare feet on the paneling.

"What the hell did you say, boy?" Trey challenges.

Chris yanks Trey backward, and he falls hard onto his back, cracking the rickety wooden chair he had been trying so hard to steady himself in.

"I'm…" Chris turns abruptly and heads for the bedroom door. Just before he places his hand on the knob, he stops.

"No… I'm… I'm not afraid of you anymore!" Chris screams. "I'm so tired of living in your shadow!" He rubs his arm with his hand. "I'm sick of your shit, I'm tired of you moping, and I'm tired of this shitty apartment! I mean what is going on, Tremaine. You won't talk to me, and you're ALWAYS pissed."

Trey stands. "What's wrong with me? Fucking bankruptcy will do that to a person. I don't see you trying to get a job anyway."

Tears stream down Chris's face. "Don't you care about me?"

"Pfft, me? Care about you?" Trey picks the chair up off the ground and sits down onto what's left of it. "You couldn't even figure out a damn cup of coffee. I've dragged you this entire time. Fed you. Clothed you. Don't you think that you're a financial strain on me too?"

The sound of a loud smack echoes across the room and connects with Trey's face. Chris looks down as his hand wide-eyed as if even he is shocked at what he's just done. Trey closes his eyes. He could kill himself for every word he was saying. Did he mean it? Wasn't it for the best?

"Get out, Chris."

"Fuck you." The room begins to shake from where Chris is standing and slowly backs its way across the entire room like a wave.

Trey slowly shakes his head. "Now, Christopher. Before I make your ass."

"I fucking hate you," Chris sobs. He poofs from the room.

Trey beats his fists against the wood paneling and slings the chair across the room. He curses once, twice, three times before lying down on his small twin-sized cot and sobbing. It was what Trey wanted, wasn't it? Now he was left to fuck up whatever he wanted without intervention. What seemed like hours go by as Trey weeps into his pillowcase, his tears soaking through the seams. He sobs until his chest hurts, and his tears decrease from body wracking to a slight cough and sniffling. He picks up his guitar and begins to play.

Trey's fingers ride the waves of his guitar strings as he tries to pull out his hurt. The ballads that immerse drown his sorrows on him, and he isn't sure if it would be enough to save his music career. He would be 55 soon, who would want to listen to him?

Trey rubs his eyes and sits his guitar next to himself. Trey opens up Instagram and decides to go live.

"Hey guys," Trey starts, his face tear strained. "Today… I fucked up. I fucked up bad. And I know there aren't a lot of you out there anymore, but I need your help." Trey couldn't believe he was doing this. "Today… I realized that my sole lifeline in my whole being, I let go. And… I'm not sure what to do about it." Trey smiles through his tears before his body heaves with big wracking sobs.

"So… if you were to mess up big with a loved one, how would you fix it? Let me know in the comments. Thanks. Bye." Trey shuts down his computer and bawls up onto the floor. He falls into a deep sleep.

Trey awakes to his phone buzzing: 3:33 am. His timeline is blowing up with posts from his followers and also trolls telling him to kill himself, and that he's not worth living if he's going to treat people the way that he did. Trey keeps scrolling through the comments and tries to numb himself to the negative ones, but those seem to be the ones that resonate with him the most.

How about you get up off your ass and make some real music for a change?

Ok, boomer.

Yeah, right. Get a real job. No one's listening anymore.

Don't you ever do anything right?

Ever since Trey had lost the mansion and had to sell it, he had been in insufferable distress. Almost every week, he had to sell one of his guitars, and after that, it had begun to be more important things like home appliances. Now they hardly had food, and Trey was at the end of his ropes. But he knew what he had to do. He had to talk to Tony.