4 minute read
The Screen Turned Black
Hanna Tischer
The scratchy couch oozes the smell of home. Sweat builds between your hand and the remote as you flip through the channels. You pick something about weddings, or a big crazy family, or maybe something about both. The sound of the TV drones on as you eat the last of the salt and vinegar chips from the bag that you only opened this morning. You push your fingers into the corners. The small chip-bits crumble against the pad of your index finger. You suck the dry and salty dust off your hand. Your fingers shine with saliva as you put them back in the bag for another helping.
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By the time the screen turns black and counts down from five, you debate getting up. Once you do, the backs of your bare thighs are red. You look down and see a weird speckled pattern across them and do some acrobatics to try to get a better look. With your hand on the coffee table and your left foot on the couch you realize that you’re not actually bruised. The couch stitching imprinted on your thigh. You walk five steps into your kitchen. The tile is cool and sticky. You grab the fudge-striped cookies from the cabinet and walk back to the couch. Before you sit you rub your feet against the carpet, depositing the pieces of rice your feet picked up from your kitchen floor.
A loud bang from the construction outside grabs your attention. You look out and see the sky. Its blueness matches the label of the empty Blue Moon bottle on the coffee table. The view of a single cloud makes you almost feel a light spring breeze on your skin. You think about crawling into your bedroom and pulling on a pair of shorts over your underwear, putting on a clean shirt, taking the elevator down, and walking through the double doors that lead from the small lobby to outside. But then you think about how much effort that would all take. You think about how many door handles and buttons you’d have to press. You think about how you couldn’t see anyone once you actually got out there. You think about how you couldn’t walk into that ice cream store three doors over. You think about how if you saw a neighbor’s dog, you wouldn’t be allowed to pet it. Then you think about how the couch has shaped itself around you like a mother hugging a very fragile child. Then you look back to the screen. And then you don’t think anymore.
The screen turns black again. The light outside is starting to disappear. The sliver of sky between the roof of the apartment across the street and the top of your window has turned orange. You think about how beautiful it must be from the backyard of the house you grew up in. But that only makes you think about your parents asking you to come home. Which is not something you want. They’re nice and the food there is good, but at least here this apartment is all yours. The couch you got from your parents, the table you took out of someone’s trash on Fairfax, and the swirly chair you stole from your dorm room. They make this apartment feel like yours. Ever since your mom moved your bookshelf into the living room and replaced your sheets with a newer and pinker set, your room at home hasn’t felt like yours. But you also know you should go home. The food here is starting to dwindle, and you’re sick of having rice every night. But you don’t know what to do, so you go back to the television. Mary fights with Juliet over Anthony for the sixth time, even though you’ve shouted at her that Anthony isn’t good enough.
You stick the last of the fudge stripes into your mouth and let the cheap chocolate melt on your tongue. Anthony’s engaged to Mary now, even though Juliet’s pregnant. You laugh at their lives and are thankful and selfrighteous that you are nothing like them. But then they all dance together in a nightclub and two make out with strangers. And you wish you could go to a nightclub and make out with strangers. Not that you would, but you would like to be able to.
The screen turns black again. This time “Season 2” comes on the screen. You look down at your dirty shirt. You feel the oil built between your eyebrows. Your knees click as you stretch them over the small table. The room is full of dirty dishes and stale clothes. You turn off the TV. As you muster the courage to clean, you check your phone: “The Long Grim Road Ahead,” “U.S. Service Member Dies,” “12-year-old Belgian girl becomes Europe’s Youngest Known Coronavirus Death,” “Not Enough Tests,” “U.S. Now Leads World in Confirmed Coronavirus Cases,” “White House Projects 100,000 to 240,000 U.S. Coronavirus Deaths,” “Face Mask Shortage.” You google when this will end: June. You google how to prevent it: wash hands, exercise, use hand sanitizer, wear a mask, don’t go outside, support your healthcare workers. The world is under attack. You can’t see it. You can’t know if you have it. And you know you’ll probably be fine. You know that. But you don’t know if your job is coming back. And you don’t know when you’ll be able to go to the store again without being afraid. And you don’t know when walking into your neighbors’ house will be allowed. You just want to fast-forward through this part of your life. But you can’t, so you go back to the couch and start season two.
-Hanna Tischer is a junior from Davidson, NC, pursuing majors in Computer Science and English.-