THE WRITING ON THE WALLS

The honest words of going insane are very complicated to say. It can only be described as actions and not words. I’m sitting alone on the floor of what, was once, my apartment. I moved all the furniture out and into the garbage. I haven’t slept in a while. I was fired from my job and I haven’t showered or shaved in weeks. Even though that I am in my apartment, I haven’t left the room where I wrote the blackened, painted words on the walls since I lost my mind. I didn’t pay my rent. My landlord is constantly pounding on my door. My apartment reeks of uric stench and all I do is stare at the writing on the walls. All – day – long.

            Before I get ahead of myself, allow me to introduce myself. A lot of people call me just by the shorter versions of my name, I don’t know why, they just like the shorter versions. My name is Ernest Demmist and everyone either calls me Ern or Ernie. I’m thirty-seven years old and of African-American descent. I work in the mail room of a law firm. They never did pay me much but then again, I only have a high school diploma. Although, I always paid my bills and honestly, I am a bit of a nobody and I am not scared to say it to the world. If I said otherwise, I’d be living a lie.

                                    *                                  *                                  *

            My routines were basically the same thing, over and over. Wake up, take a shower, eat breakfast, go to work and run errands for the lawyers while also having a janitorial job as well. At around five thirty, I would go home. My apartment is on Roosevelt Island and to get anywhere in Manhattan, I would have to take The Tram from the Queensboro Bridge to Manhattan and there to Downtown Manhattan to where the law firm was. Going home was always the best part of the day.