Young Writers Society

He looms in the doorway with an aggregate stone upon his shoulder, facets in the rock facing fracturing as they collect. A short memoir of time best forgotten, I simply call him Em, for enmity. I smile and wave as I take my place amidst the tedious tasks of the day set forth.

I begin my day by passing him with a cold shoulder, on to a warm shower. Em groans and sits patiently at the doorway, silent and brooding. I shave, much to his discontent, and work my way past him into the kitchen.

Here is where we find ourselves at a crossroads, as Em always wants an omelette and never compromises. I can yield to him, but I've learned that it's easiest not to start the day with my white flag waving. I skip breakfast.

We continue to work as things become even more droll, and devoid of much wanted interaction. Humor shared only between Em and I is often found distasteful by others, as few would understand or relate. We've an especially distasteful bond, he and I, one I oft try to forget. Friends and colleagues pass him by as usual, and I dismiss him as well.

Few moments are shared between us during the day. Though, through proper provocation he may speak. It is customary, however, to give Em notice only when he claims it. He has learned to wear his leash well, and is rather tame when lacking cause.

I imagine he has quite the repertoire with such free time, or a rather long reading list. It isn't often that I find myself envying Em, and when I do I quickly regret it. He seethes, incredulous and sadistic, smiling and waving me on. As if to say: "No, no, continue, you're just a simple creature. I cannot expect you to have any insight, or to realize your ignorance." Smug bastard.

As the night wanes on we have these disputes, and oft I find myself in fear of them. The ignorant bliss of the day gives way to reality. Em simply sits, and I watch him silently, begrudging him nothing. I find little comforting in the sad mess left in my floor. Scattered papers and personal belongings in familiar array. Em tidies up, sorts and organizing the scraps he has to work with. He doesn't look me in the eye, and the tension is palpable. His thoughts, vehement, are audible in the chaos.

"Today.. morning, afternoon, and... ah, night. What further wreckage can he produce in twenty-four hours, he calls this life? I'm no maid, and if I were I simply do not get paid enough for this. You should really try to deal with more of your daily... you're not listening. Ah well, just like any other night. The fool carries his briefcase and stows pieces of the day too complex for this imbecile. Yet he has the nerve to call me his Em, his enmity. He is my indifference, my apathy."

I find myself in the doorway, looking in, as Em pieces together the broken pieces of my memories and emotions. I find little solace in this arrangement, but the sardonic amusement is incessant. To be the antagonist in my story, what a shame.