Rebeka Gustafson
Bio
I write poetry about the pursuit of life and love.
Find me on Instagram @rbxpoetry
Stories (10)
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My Showdown With Timing
You have to give credit to Timing for her almost Old Testament style of teaching. She truly has the most twisted sense of humor. I can picture her with a Joker like smile, staring down at me while I walk through the door to my apartment with a bag of subpar fast food; her belly as full of laughter as mine will shortly be with cheap grease. Almost taunting me. "You thought you were on top of the world? Even worse- you thought you were in control? HA." Just this maniacal laughter echoing through this overpriced apartment while I shamefully eat this cheap cheeseburger and diabetes ridden milkshake. Chocolate, peanut butter, banana. Elvis knew the best ways to indulge. Sitting here wishing I was Elvis, or maybe anyone else, recounting the last month of my life. Oh, how the mighty have fallen. My mind drifts back to the attitude I had just one month ago, where I was at and where I thought I would’ve ended up by now. A month hardly seems like a significant amount of time. One month, four weeks, thirty days (or thirty-one if we’re lucky). It just takes one day to change every aspect of your life. Two days, for me. Two days out of those thirty (it seems I was unlucky, after all) changed everything for me. Every part of the life I’d built for myself, the security I’d been able to forge out of thin air and the little luxuries I afforded myself because I worked so damn hard to be able to justify them. I thought I was untouchable- indestructible, even. Wow. I can hardly even remember why I felt it justifiable to act so arrogantly. I can hardly even remember the feeling of arrogance. It's been replaced by self-pity and embarrassment. Two days out of thirty and here I stand now. A swift One-Two punch to the gut was all it took to instantly knock me down from my pedestal of comfort and ease. One: a mysterious illness (that turned out to be an entirely avoidable bout of poisoning) which left me bedridden and miserable for two weeks. Staring into the blankness of my ceiling above me, praying to a God that I've never fully believed in to either end this or allow me to disappear into the blankness above me. God only exists in my mind when he is my last resort, a true "hail Mary". And Two: sudden job loss due to mysterious illness caused by poisoning which ended the duel between myself and the awful, dirty Italian man that pretended to be my manager. I never extended him an olive branch or gave him the green light of forgiveness simply because that same light was blinding my eyes as I stared down my opponent in this ring. One, Two, and I'm down on the ground. Hitting the floor below me, screaming "uncle!" with all the force in my lungs, begging the aforementioned God to end this match. The green light quickly switches to red and the crowd is signified that I am officially done for. I've lost this round in a crushing, sucker punch defeat. As the mighty always fall. It's almost as if Timing were sitting in the front row with popcorn and Twizzlers, begging and praying on my downfall, because she placed some absurd bet with Fate that I wouldn't stand a chance in the ring. As I'm sitting on the floor of this ring, recalling the last month and the One-Two sucker punch, Fate gives me an encouraging look that convinces me to stand up one last time. The goal now staring in front of my face? Take Timing for all she has and end this bet. But where will I be next month, or the month after that? Another month, another round, another bet? Maybe I should ask Fate what she has in store for me.
By Rebeka Gustafson4 years ago in Fiction
