Another Day
I haven't needed a rooster to wake me for years. Might wanna call it a benefit of gettin' real old; my bladder's got that job now. I turn to see what kinda day it'll be… but there's no window. And this ain't my bed!
I jerk upright, earning a pang from my back. Where am I? What—Oh… Right. Manehattan Central Old Ponies' Home. There's a window alright, but to the wrong side of the room. I get up and pull the curtains to take a look outside. Why did I draw them in the first place? I've never had them drawn back at home. The view bashin' me in the face answers that question, too.
A gray sky hides behind an equally gray part of the city. The non-light of this overcast winter's morning makes it seem even dirtier than usual. An all-too-familiar sting of homesickness pokes me, but I shove it away. I got more pressing matters to take care of now, anyway.
Back home we didn't have much froo-froo in the bathroom, but here they got everything: a shower-bathtub thingy you need an instruction manual for, automatic faucets, even a heated toilet seat for cryin' out loud! I don't see much sense in them things though. I stick with the old ways. No one's teaching this pony new tricks.
After taking a leak, I look inside the mirror hanging over the sink and wonder if it's some fancy high-tech super mirror, too, but it's only showing me. The many wrinkles… they're to be expected if you've seen eighty-seven summers. The bloodshot eyes… well, they have a cause, too. The cut on my forehead is just a scar now, but it took a mighty long time to heal. A bitter voice inside my head asks if I'd still be living at home if it weren't for that scar.
I shoo the voice away, but I can't help remembering Twilight. Tears leaked from her eyes as she was standing beside my hospital bed. She'd asked—no, almost begged—that I move to someplace I wouldn't be on my own, saying she wouldn't forgive herself if something happened to me again. I imagined back then what she must have looked like, felt like, finding me at the bottom of the cellar stairs, unconscious. How she must've thought she'd lost the last of her mortal friends... I couldn't have done anything but give in.
I walk back into my room. It's brighter now, but the light is wan and cold. Shuddering, I creep back under my bedsheets and check the clock. It ain't time for breakfast yet, and I keep looking at the thing hanging on my wall. It's ticking, but not like the grandfather clock in my kitchen back at Sweet Apple Acres. It's growing louder every time it travels between six and twelve o'clock, as if it has to work extra hard to go uphill; it's weak. Our clock back home had a strong, bold sound to it. A smile tugs at the corners of my mouth; if I were back home, I'd be at my kitchen table now with a mug of steaming coffee in my hooves to drive out the chill. It'd be self-brewed from beans I'd ground myself, and I'd probably be listening to that big old clock, hammering like a young stallion banging in fence posts with a sledgehammer.
I reach for the radio on my nightstand, trying to ignore the cracking noise my shoulders make, and turn it on. It's the news: some crazy economics crisis, diplomatic difficulties with the Gryphon Kingdom, a train derailment in the Crystal Empire… I'm not really interested, but I've been listening to that station all my life. I wish they'd play music sometimes. Real music I mean, not that modern hooey that sounds like a broken-down Flim Flam Brothers' invention. I chuckle, thinking about the way Granny Smith used to talk about our music all them years ago; that kinda talk seems to be an old ponies' thing.
Well, at least it drowns out the feeble clock, which just now strikes—nah, that's the wrong word for this clock—sighs seven thirty. I pick myself up off the bed and set out to the cafeteria. I didn't really keep count how many times I got lost on that way. Those long corridors, they all look the same: wooden doors with brass doorknobs, the walls covered in a fawn, flower-patterned tapestry… Seriously, who thought this up? Fawn tapestry! As though some nice red or green would hurt old eyes. As though draining color from one's life would make passing easier.
The cafeteria is the whole opposite: glass, metal, white tiles, reflecting light from every corner of the room. Maybe because it's the place where the old folks bring their visitors, but visitors never show up this early. Very few residents shuffle along the morning buffet, me among them, and I get myself some cereal and a cup of coffee. I just don't like them rolls they have here; I liked the ones we had back home better.
As I chow down on my breakfast, I look around, spotting a walnut-colored stallion being fed by one of the nurses in the far corner of the room. He's bent forward, his shoulders rolled up, but I can still tell he was in great shape when he was young. Maybe a farmer, like me. My gaze wanders to his eyes, and I can't help shivering at what I see. It's like looking into the windows of a house that you expect to be the home of a bustling family, but all you see are cold, abandoned corridors. He's gone. Gone already. He drools half the spoonful of food back into his bowl, and I look away quickly, suppressing the sudden urge to run as fast as I can. I close my eyes and take a few deep breaths… and don't look his way again.
As time goes by, the place fills up with more and more ponies. A young and handsome stallion walks in. He's called… what's he called again? Darn, AJ, you're getting real old, ain't ya. I even talked to him once. He's nice alright, but a bit too toplofty for my tastes. He calls out today's activities: a trip to the museum, the theater, the park. I stay alone at my table. I haven't made new friends yet. Maybe because I never join in on any of those… activities. Or maybe because old folks just don't make new friends that easy.
The nurses and the announcer guy all look jolly and smile, and I think their smiles are honest. Twilight did a proper job after all; I'm pretty sure she made tons of lists and picked the best choice. This is a good place, as good as such a place can be, and the employees know it and like their job… But it ain't for me, and I feel kinda bad about it because they all try so hard. Now, if some unkempt, muscled stallion, splashed with mud up to his chin came up one morning and told everypony the big shed in the back of the building had blown over last night and we'd need to build it up again, ‘everypony grab a hammer’—that'd be my kinda thing.
I get up from my table and carry my dishes over to the kitchen where the young ponies wash 'em. Most folk just leave 'em right at the table. An energetic mare smiles and nods before she goes back to work. I tried washing up myself at first but she stopped me, saying it'd cast a bad light on the institution if someone said they'd let the residents do their own dishes. I said I'd tell anypony who wanted to hear I'd be doing it because I want to, because I'd done it all my life… but she was stubborn. Maybe just as stubborn as I used to be at her age, and so I gave in.
As I leave the kitchen, I think about calling up Twilight and see what she's up to, but halfway to the phone booth I remember that she's been here just the day before yesterday. Silly old mare: ‘Come and sit with me, Twilight, and tell me what's going on in your life, 'cause mine's as boring as watching paint dry.’ Pathetic. She's got better things to do, but still… I wish she'd visit more often.
Apple Bloom's last visit was several months ago, but I know she'll probably be fast asleep at this time of day. Anyway, she's got a family of her own to be a granny to, now. Every time we see each other, all she does is talk about her grandkids. I like them very much... but afterwards I feel empty, brooding over how I never had and never will have similar stories to tell. Nothing new ever happens in my life anymore; I must've told her all my old stories so often, she could tell 'em to herself if she'd wanted to. Gone are the days her big sister had interesting things to talk about.
My hooves guide themselves, carrying me back to my room. The corridors that all look the same are no problem for them. They've got a memory of their own by now, and they seem to feel at home already while my head is in some dark clouds, barely noticing the blur of dim lights and dimmer colors that move past its windows.
The autopilot shuts off and casts me back into reality, and I find myself standing in the room that is mine, and yet isn't. I look around it: the large bed that's far too soft, the nightstand with the radio, the heavy, far too classy desk… and a whole lotta nothing to do.
I walk over to the large panorama windows and stare at the sky. Resting my head against the glass, I continue my search, trying to find a speck of blue in the colorless haze. Blue skies have always lifted my mood. Whether I was working outside on a rainy day, soaked to my very bones, or inside, poring over bills, my head buzzing with numbers, whenever the clouds parted to reveal a streak of blue, I found a smile and new spirits to keep going. Today, all I see is gray.
I pull myself away from the glass again and walk over to the desk. A twinge of regret twists my gut when I spot the book Twilight gave me; it's still unopened. She was so excited when she told me about it. Her eyes all shiny, her cheeks flushed, it had been obvious she loved it and was happy to share her love with me. I can't even remember what it was about.
Instead, my hooves reach for the photo album. I halt for a moment. I hardly remember a day in which I hadn't rifled through it. It's the only thing that makes me forget I'm here. It ain't healthy livin' in the past, but what do I have besides?
The album clutched close to me, I move back to the bed. The worn cover feels cool and rough against my skin. It reads: Photo album. Nice and simple. Written with a pencil, the words that had been bold and sharp once are now faded and smudgy. It's Apple Bloom's writing. I retrace the letters with the tip of my hoof. I know it'll make the writing even smudgier, but I do it anyway.
It’d been her idea, of course. The day after the Apple family reunion that I'd nearly messed up big time, she came to me and asked if we could start a photo album of our own, just the four of us. Eyes like saucers and a smile from ear to ear, she'd been bouncing on the spot. I didn't need much convincing from that point on. I don't think I ever told her just how much I liked to see her smile. We took our first picture the same day. It'd been a good idea.
My heart makes a leap of joy as I see that first picture again. Granny Smith, our wrinkled little sun, stands between Big Mac and me. Apple Bloom had jumped up high, a big goofy grin on her face. In the back, Sweet Apple Acres in midsummer. I can almost feel the warmth of that day on my skin and smell the sweet scents from the orchard. Almost.
The photos that follow are plenty and random. Back then, I told Apple Bloom that nopony would wanna look at these, ever; boy, was I wrong. The Cutie Mark Crusaders' clubhouse from all angles, all parts of our cottage, the orchard, by morning, midday, and evening. These photos have become so precious to me recently, I should make a call to her right now and take it back. But I don't want to let go of the album just now.
I halt at my favorites, as I always do. Rarity and I had a talk about artsy stuff once… We didn't get very far though, 'cause she kept throwing around her fancy words and I got too annoyed to ask what they all meant. I wish I'd shown her these when I still could though, 'cause for me, they're art. There's one of Granny Smith inspecting jam glasses, her good eye squinted and concentrated. Her stare is intense, and anypony who'd only known her as a nice old granny in a rocking chair wouldn't recognize her on first sight; it's a picture of a master at work.
I pause a moment at a photo of her in that very rocking chair, fast asleep. I told Apple Bloom after I'd seen it the first time that she shouldn't have bothered her while she was napping, but got told that one couldn't rouse Granny from her nap even if one tried… which was kinda true, so I let it go. I'm glad I've got that picture now, knowing it is the last ever taken of my Granny Smith, 'cause there came the day she didn't wake up ever again.
I guess that memory will always be chiseled into my mind, crisp and clear. The way Apple Bloom came running into the orchard, her eyes wide as a barn door. The way she dragged me back to the farm before she’d found words to explain what was wrong. The way Granny had been sitting in her napping chair, perfectly still.
I'd frozen in the doorway, staring at my granny's lifeless shell, my mind gone completely blank, while Apple Bloom frantically tried to wake her, asking me what to do. When I had a grip on myself again, I told her to go get a doctor from the hospital, but I knew it was no good. Granny Smith had passed away.
I sigh, remembering how devastated we were. We'd all known Granny had been mighty old, but she'd been a constant all our lives, such a cornerstone of our home—we never imagined facing a world without her. I've been strong, though. Strong, for Apple Bloom and Big Mac. Or at least, I've tried.
Again, I find one of the pictures I like most, the ones I'd call art. It's a picture of me, soaking wet after a hard day's work in the rain. I'm still standing half outside, all but my face just a figure cast into relief by the interior lights. Wringing out my hair like a wet rag, I sport a grin that might be called victorious, even defiant, seemingly immune to the harshness of that day. The hearth's fire makes my wet eyes glint, eyes only I know to be wet for the dark and sad thoughts I'd been unable to blend out. ‘You look so strong,’ I remember Apple Bloom saying as she looked at the photo she'd just taken. I didn't trust myself to do anything but nod. I didn't lose it that day.
I lost it after Zap Apple harvest. Apple Bloom had managed it all on her own for the first time, and she'd done such a great job. I tasted the jam, and looked into her expectant, gleeful smile, and imagined how proud Granny Smith would've been. Next thing I knew, I had a lump of the size of a small cow in my throat. I tried to press it back down, but it wouldn't go, and once the first, choked sob escaped my throat, there was no stopping it. I remember Apple Bloom hugged me then, like I hugged her so many times before. That day, she was the strong one, and I keep wondering if it was the first time she realized her big sister wasn't invincible.
I snap the album shut. The loud thud is followed by cold silence. Different from the silences back home, which were calm and pleasant—and not that common to be honest, but for the last few years when Big Mac and I had stopped working the farm—this one's just empty. I wonder how things might be if my brother was still here. The urge to see him kicks in like an itch you can't refrain from scratching, and I flip the album open just at the right spot—a trick learned by needing that photo so often.
I'd taken this one myself. Big Mac's otherwise-gray mane gleams a vibrant orange in the light of a setting sun, as do the red autumn leaves of the orchard in the background, contrasted against a sharp, bright blue sky. He leans on a fence, a straw casually hanging from his mouth as he stares into space. The chill had already set in, and I remember praying that he wouldn't notice me for the chattering of my teeth before I'd gotten close enough. Now, I wonder what was going through his head, but I didn't ask back then. He heard the shutter click, turned around calmly and gave me one of his warm smiles. I stepped beside him, and together we watched what was to be the last sunny day of the year come to an end.
I shut the album again, this time more softly, and rest my head on the pillow. Big Mac died that winter. Just didn't wake up one morning. First, I'd felt empty, like everything around me. Apple Bloom had moved out many years then, and with him gone, I wandered through those rooms I'd known all my life, hearing echoes of the past, of a life lived, unable to find use for this time I'd been given. After that, I wandered through a valley of tears. There are still days I wished our places were exchanged, that he were alive and I were dead. I hate myself for wishing this, because it would be him then that would suffer my loss, and it would be unfair, 'cause I'm the strong one. I hate being the strong one. Concentrating with all power of will I have left on that image of him as sleep grasps for my mind, I can almost feel him beside me again. Almost.
—————————————————————————————————————————
I wake up sweat-drenched. I dreamed of walking through the orchard on a mild summer evening, hearing Apple Bloom's childish laughter in the distance. I tried to get to her, but the orchard went on and on and on, the trees turning into blank walls, the colors fading away as I ran.
Trying to get my head clear, I jerk it off the pillow and regret it at once; a sharp sting in my neck tells me it didn't like the angle I fell asleep in. The weak clock tells me it's five in the afternoon. Quite a nap, huh…
A grumble in my belly reminds me I skipped lunch. My body always knew how to get its way: No lunch today, eat your veggies, stay healthy, grumble grumble. Only paperwork today, go for a run, stay healthy, fidget fidget. And all the good it did me. My family, my friends, my home, my generation... I outlived them all.
A sharp knocking on my door startles me from my broody thoughts.
“Hello?” The voice is a mare's, and it sounds vaguely familiar. She knocks again.
“Hold yer hooves; I'm an old pony.” I drag myself to the door. Before me stands the mare from the kitchens. The one that wouldn't let me do the dishes. “Hello there. Can I help you with something?” I ask, feeling stupid before I even finish the sentence.
A smile flickers across her face as she drops her gaze. “No, it's not… I just noticed you didn't turn up for lunch. At first, I thought you'd signed up for the museum, but Silver Chance said you hadn't… you know, the stallion responsible for the daily activities… I got worried, so—” She's still looking at her own hooves, fidgeting. “—so I thought I'd check on you.”
She's looking up at me now, but I'm not ready to respond yet. All shy and unsure, she stands there, checking on me. Not sending the nurse, but doing it herself, probably after quitting time. “That's… that's mighty sweet of you. There's no need to worry, though. I'm… fine.”
“Oh, uhm… alright. I… I'll be going, then.” She hesitates for a moment before turning to leave.
“You want something to drink or somethin'?”
She whips around again, smiling now. “Sure! I'm Banana, by the way.”
“Applejack. Nice to meet you.” I step aside to let her in and notice the unmade bed, realizing that I'm probably looking just as messy. I hurry over to the balcony door and open it to at least let in some fresh air. “Take a seat wherever you like.” I fetch one of my apple juice bottles and two glasses. After filling them, I turn around to find her sitting on my bed.
She's looking around, taking in the whole room. “I've never been in a resident's room before.”
“Well, it's a bit small, but it's alright for just one pony.” I hand her a glass and grab the desk chair to sit across from her.
She stops, and looks straight at me. “Small? This? It's larger than my kitchen and bedroom combined!” She laughs. “But I can understand it seems a little small when you're moving in from the countryside. I bet you even had your very own farm!”
“Hah, good guess. How did you know?”
“Oh, it's… it's just your accent. I had an auntie just like—” She pauses, looking down. After a few seconds, she looks up again and regains her smile. “Well, you remind me of her. Anyway, you've been up and about and had lunch in the city today? A friend told me there was this new place with country dishes and even a rodeo.”
I frown at the very idea. “Nah, I just… I just didn't feel like eatin', is all.”
“Oh… alright, but you should go there someday. It's supposed to be really lovely.” I have to chuckle, thinking ‘really lovely’ is a thing Rarity would've said, and how very much better Rarity would do in my situation. “I'm sure we could even organize a group trip around it,” she adds. Yeah, that would be great. Make this a silly little entertainment show. Attraction: country life, with me as a fossil to prove it all. Nu-uh!
“I don't do group trips,” I say coldly. Banana's smile vanishes, as I wanted it to. What's left behind is the shy pony I greeted on my doorstep, the pony that came checking on me although it wasn't at all her job, somehow caring for this heartless, grunty old fool. “I'm sorry.”
“No, no that's alright. Chance said you never do. But why? Don't you want to make new friends?”
“I had friends. The best. I can't replace them.”
“Nopony said you should, but don't you think there are some nice ponies out there whose company you would enjoy? I mean, you've got to move on at some point.”
“Do I?” I look at this young mare. This can't make sense to her—not at her age—but I cough up the rhetoric I use to convince myself anyway. “I've got a lifetime of memories, sugarcube. Of ponies I loved more than I'll ever love somepony again. Nearly all of them are gone. Of things I loved doing, but won't ever do again. My hip can barely take the stairs, for cryin' out loud. What am I supposed to move on to?”
She shakes her head. “Is there nothing you'd want to do?”
“Doin' mah own dishes would be a start.”
She barks a laugh, and I'm happy to see the frown leave her face, but she gets solemn again almost instantly. “I've checked the policy—I can show it to you sometime—but it’s a strict ‘no’. Sorry.”
I open my mouth, half wanting so say ‘nevermind.’ But although it was half a joke to mention the dishes in the first place, I find that I do mind. The casual tone of her sorry hurts. ‘Policy agrees, you're useless’. I close my mouth again as my eyes start watering.
“Why is this so important to you? I mean, it's not such a fun job, really.”
She's clueless. So darn clueless. “I'm not useless,” I whisper.
“Come again?”
“I'm not useless!” She flinches at my shout. Even through my angry tears, I can see she's shocked, but I'm beyond caring. “I'm not!” My useless voice cracks.
“N-nopony ever said—”
“No, y'all don't even need to say it, it's so obvious, right?!”
“But—”
“Get out!” I get off my chair and kick it across the room.
“You're not—”
“I said get out!” I take a step towards her, head lowered and teeth barred. Without another word, she bolts for the door and slams it shut behind her.
The room's left empty, without a target to direct my rage at; I just stand, tensing up. The thundering of my own defiant heartbeat is filling my ears… but there's something else. Tick, tick, tick. Doing its job of counting cursed hours, the clock labors along, getting slower, and slower, and…
I bolt towards the thing, yank it off the wall, and throw it out the still opened balcony door. Teeth gritted, I take two heaving breaths. I hear it smash on the cold concrete outside, and the sound sends a jolt of relief through my body. I take another breath, and along with it, all the fight leaves me. Like a curtain falling, I feel old and tired again. So tired.
I kick the door closed and slump down on the bed, pummel my pillow into the right shape and bury my face in it. My stomach rumbles again, but I don't feel like eating. I don't feel like anything at all. Maybe they'll notice and send someone else to check on me again. This one would probably be on duty though… see if I'm still alive and leave it at that.
I pull the blanket over my head, trying to shut it all out. Or in. I don't know. I want it all to end… or even just this day, so I can tell myself I did it again. Be a bit proud of myself, maybe. Did it again and lived another day. I let out a harsh sound between a laugh and a snarl, and finish it off with a hiccup; you've never been a good liar, AJ. This ain't living. You died another day.
—————————————————————————————————————————
My eyes open to see a crescent moon scowl through the window. The silence around me feels thick as soup. Trying to drop off again, the old habit of going through my tasks for the next day kicks in, but I come up with a blank list; my stomach cramps to a tight knot, and all that I had hoped to keep shut in comes back to me. The sheets start to burn my coat. I manage two more seconds of just lying there, trembling.
I bolt out of bed and start pawing the ground. I want to go out on the balcony and yell my head off. Or take the four-story plunge and join my broken clock. Or get to the kitchens and smash all the dishes. Some still-sane part of me tells me to go and call a friend, and that’s the option I'm going for.
I storm through my door and march down the hallway. The darn carpet muffles my anger, but my useless hip sure notices, rewarding me with a stabs of pain each time my right hind hoof stomps the ground. I make sure to stomp extra hard, gritting my teeth.
Finally at the phone booth, I punch in the emergency-callthrough number Twilight gave me. As the phone toots, my glare darts about the booth area: spacy, still carpeted and plastered with that fawn, flower-patterned, boring tapestry. Then, a crackling sound and a drowsy voice: “Hello?”
“Hey Twi. It's me.” I almost manage to sound casual.
“Applejack! What… are you alright?”
“No, I'm not alright. I'm pretty darn angry!” Not so casual anymore...
“W… Why? At whom?”
“You. Me. Everything! You put me in here, and I can't handle it. You put me in here, with all your good intentions and whatnot, and I'm dying in here! No, scratch that, I'm already dead—just forgot to stop breathin' and eatin'!”
“P-please calm down, Applejack. You're—”
“I’m NOT calming down, Twilight Sparkle, you hear me? I'm NOT!”
“Alright, alright, but please explain… I don't understand!”
“Oh, you don’t understand. Well, join the club. Explain. Okay okay.” I take a deep breath and count to three to stop getting louder still. “I'll explain: Every morning I get out of bed, knowing I'll be having another empty day. A day like the day before. A day like the one that'll come after. I'm trapped! The only refuge I have is my photo album, but once I close the lid, my life's empty again. I just keep shutting myself in. The activities, the place, heck, even the furniture, it all ain't mine. I can't get used to it. I can't make myself fit in. I’m just a burden.” I sink to my haunches. My hip feels like a bag of broken glass.
“I can't get myself to read your book or make friends with the city ponies. They won't let me do my own dishes, and I can't get myself to like any of the things they have to offer. What am I supposed to be doing in a theatre for cryin' out loud? I'd like to bang together some planks and make something with my own hooves, but they don't have a workshop here. I can't fit in, and it's making me lose my head; Today, a young mare from the kitchens visited me, and I shouted at her like a madpony for not understanding either.” I blink away angry tears. “And now I'm gettin' whiny, darn it! C'mon, say something. Tell me I'm silly and useless!”
“You're not useless, Applejack!” She sighs. I've always admired how much she can express with those; there's the satisfied sigh, the angry sigh, the puzzled sigh… and the sad one that I'm hearing now. “I'm sorry, AJ. Sorry for putting you through this. I should have noticed that you're unhappy, but I didn't. I knew the place wasn't ideal. None was. Yet I didn't think it would be something some honest feedback couldn't fix…”
I can hear something clank and rattle in my head. “Honest feedback? You mean, like… talking to the director?”
“Yes, if that didn't work… I'm so sorry. This is all my fault. I'll get you out of there right now, and we'll think of something else. You can live at my place in the mean—”
“Wait, is that a challenge?”
“Huh?” She doesn't follow. “Is what a challenge?”
“Honest feedback!”
“I… I don't know. Is it?”
“I'm the element, after all, ain't I?” I get on my hooves again, pushed by the thought.
“Yes, you're the Element of Honesty, Applejack. Have… have you forgotten anything else recently?” Her worry is almost cute.
“Hah, nah Twi, I'm not having dementia yet. It's not like I'd forgotten, but I needed that reminder alright.” I shake my head, eyes closed, disbelieving how silly I've been, bottling things up, suffering in silence, and venting at all the wrong places. “You hold yer hooves getting me out of here just yet. Having you on my side… it means the world to me, but I've got to try a thing or two now before I throw in the towel.”
“Are you sure about this?” The worry's still thick in her voice.
“Yes, totally. What kind of an honest pony would I be if I call it quits without giving the director a piece of my mind?”
“About doing the dishes?” Twilight asks.
“Yep, that and other things. I think I'll make a list. He won't know what hit him!”
She laughs. It's the first time I made her laugh in ages, and it feels like a warm summer breeze, lifting me up and blowing some leaden drapery from my shoulders. “You go, girl! But maybe wait until morning, alright?”
I chuckle. “Alright. Just for you, though.”
“Call me later and tell me what happened!” Almost sounds like there's something going on in my life again.
I have to swallow before I manage a response. “Will do. Catch ya later, Twi.”
I hang up the phone, feeling twenty years younger. Costs me some real power of will not to go knocking down the director’s door right now, but I manage. Maybe I'll be doing my dishes in a couple of hours. Maybe I'll convince the guy to buy some tools and let me do something I'm good at at last. Maybe not. I know one thing though: I won't suffer another day.
-The End-