Tell A Tale in 500 Words
A Plate Holds More Emotions Than The Rich Ever Could By Cait Zipfell
I woke up in a virtually silent room with a pounding heart and sweat-drenched clothing. Panting as I clutched my chest, I collapsed back into bed as if I'd just ran a marathon. The sharp pain was still present at my shoulder when I realised that I'd fallen asleep whilst reading. The corner of a book was digging into the flesh of my shoulder - fortunately, it was hardback, so I didn't have to mourn the loss of a neat page or corner. I'd already done enough mourning. The book was returned to its rightful place on the shelf - arranged neatly in alphabetical order by author, the only thing I can seem to control - and I returned to my place in the bed. A dim light leaked from the lamp, spilling over the walls. It reminded me of the glass of water I had spilt at dinner earlier. I named it dinner, but it was hardly much of a meal - the few scraps left in the cupboard organised hastily on a cracked plate. The chips in the crockery were caused by numerous accidents during the journey from the draws to the table to the dishwasher. Of course, it had visited other places around the house, leading us to the cracks indented in it. However, I was forced to keep the plates, unless they were truly beyond repair or use. Only few survived the many moves I'd endured. They were a gift given by my mother, practically symbolising our relationship.
Switching off the light, I closed my eyes. A long time ago, I used to pray for anything: change, love, help. Now I just watch as time ticked by, the rich get richer, and my 18 years of living seemed practically useless. 18 years crushed by inequality, salvaging what I could to get where I could. The nightmares continued. The misery continued. Worst of all, my life continued. Money is proportional to time - each decrease with each other, like partners in a cruel crime. Change is unlikely. These are the harsh realities we must live with. An underclass prisoner crying out is useless; it is only buried beneath the wealth, like layers of sediment on a worn out beach. A plate jumps off the kitchen shelf and breaks into shards.
Maybe there's a chance of hope for those higher up in the layer, as the waves wash them closer and closer to the surface - or do they wash away the rich? One day I hope to know what the sea breeze feels like as it drifts over me. I pray that when I get there - if I ever get there - I do not become as apathetic as those who tower above me now.
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