The Existential Woman page 8

Wednesday morning, Shanna woke up before Norman. She got a cup of coffee, cold and stale, leftover in the pot from yesterday. Sugar and milk was not enough to make it taste good. She smoked a cigarette. She heard Norman get out of bed and go to the bathroom. She laughed about his incredibly long pissing. She began complaining about her life, wondering what his reaction would be. He seemed to have heard everything she said, but as usual, he didn't say much. When he attempted to say something, she'd cut him off with a repetitive line, in a chiding, mocking manner. He finally brought his voice up to the loudness of hers, and she backed off a bit. She slammed her palm angrily on his desk, pleading, "Why can't you just say that I'm right?"

He left and never said it. She regretted yelling at him. She regretted letting his stubborn refusal to acknowledge her pain, her losses, or her truths, get her upset and angry. She already knew that people don't change. She had changed, but most people don't change. There was probably no one in the world who would ever or could ever show her the compassion or loyalty that she wanted before she died. She would die alone, this she always knew; But she would also die without ever having had a real best friend. Not one person in the whole wide world who would say to the rest of the word, she is right. You did her wrong. It compounded her loneliness and sadness. Not even her brother would validate her. Family? What family?Her family was dead. She knew that. They were dead even before they died. She had always been alone. She would always be alone, and letting go of that hope for a best friend was the best thing she could do for herself. Why should she continue to look when all that search ever brought her was disappointment. It was fruitless.

She knew what a best friend was. She knew a best friend was the person to stand up for you and say "You're right!" even if the rest of the world said "You're wrong." She had that with her mother a long, long time ago. So long ago, that it almost didn't seem real anymore.

Shanna sat down at the desk in front of the computer and lit another cigarette as she sipped the bad tasting coffee. She wanted to cry, but no tears would come out. She wrote a few cynical poems hoping to relieve herself of the emotional distress. When she read them, she laughed instead -- a harsh, sinister laughter full of hatred --- an obnoxious laugh that rang with accusation and wanted to torture all those who had ever hurt her.