Categories > Original > Drama > Crucified To Faith
Jake was long asleep in his own room before I actually started gathering up my information and notebook to begin on my article. My mug of coffee was ready on the table as I slumped down on the sofa with my notebook in front of me. I grabbed a cigarette from my pack, lit up, and stuck in my mouth as I stared in front of the blank screen in front of me. The truth was I hadn't started on it because the topic didn't interest me. Technically, none of the topics interested me. But this one, in particular, was a pretty boring subject.
The subject was civil peace in other countries. My assignment for the next month's newspaper was to draw attention to what was wrong within other countries and how they can fix it to avoid controversy. If you thought about what a boring article it would be to read, then think about how I felt: I had to write the damn thing.
I had already done the researching part of the article. All that was left was the part where I came up with witty metaphors and examples. Every time I tried to think of one, though, my mind went blank. I wasn't used to topics that had to do with foreign nations. I didn't like writing about what I wasn't used to.
It's not that the subject didn't matter; it's just that it didn't matter in America. We didn't live in other countries. And I doubted that our government even cared what happened outside our territories. I knew the only reason my boss wanted this article is to show the readers that our newspaper was noble and caring. Because I was always required to write anti-violence articles, I quickly became bored with them. So why did she always choose me when it came to writing articles about opinions? Because she knew I had none. She fed me what her opinions were, and I wrote about it with immense detail and explanation.
When it came to opinions, I was the best person to come to. People didn't think I had any. But, if I did, I would have kept it to myself. My opinions would never be put into consideration anyways. I was my boss's slave. I wrote about what she wanted in better words than anyone else could have put it in. And I got paid excellently for it too.
One of the other reasons I didn't want to write this article was because I didn't care either. What happens in other countries is beyond our control. It's not like the president of Iraq would pick up my article and say "Hmm...maybe we are a bit too violent. We should take this advice into consideration."
It's not that I was selfish, even though I was. I just didn't think it would spark the public's interest. They want an exciting article. Maybe not true, but exciting. That's how I viewed other peoples' minds to be. They didn't want truth, they wanted excitement. And I wanted excitement in writing the article. I didn't spend my four years in college studying journalism to write dull articles about topics people didn't care about.
I knew I had two choices for this article: I could either bullshit my way through, or quit. As tempting as the second choice seemed, I figured keeping this apartment for now seemed like a better idea. Even though I knew that my earnings would be more than good enough to pay for this apartment for another year, I knew deep down inside that I couldn't quit. It was like trying to quit smoking. If you've done it for so long, you can't imagine life without it.
Plus, there was no way I could leave Jake here. Even though I had the money to buy a much nicer house in a much nicer neighborhood, I couldn't bear the separation between myself and close company anymore. I was the one who was having financial problems in the first place and asked him to come live with me. Now that I was living with more money than I did back then, I couldn't just leave. I would be breaking a promise, and that's the one of the few things I never did.
I puffed on my cigarette and put it down on the nearby ashtray. I had made my decision and I wasn't going to just bullshit. I was going to actually give my opinion. Chances were that my editor would hate it. I didn't care as long as the public was satisfied. Most people just bought the newspaper, scanned the front page, and checked their stocks. I would get occasional readers, but my fan mail wasn't as great compared to those who wrote articles about a car crash blocking up the streets in Times Square.
I had finally begun typing away on my notebook when I heard a distant sound. It was pretty faint and felt new to my ears. I knew I'd never heard it before. I stopped writing immediately, and listened closely. It sounded like the ringing of bells. Large bells. And maybe rung for the first time in years. Had anybody else ever heard them? Was I the only one? It was pretty late at night and I doubted anyone was awake. Nobody was as stupid as me to procrastinate something that could cause them their job.
The thought of waking Jake up crossed my mind, but I quickly dismissed it. It wasn't worth waking him up for. What did it matter that bells rang? It wasn't hurting anyone. And it wasn't like the northern lights had turned up in New York City. It had only struck me as odd since it was March. That meant that it wasn't the Salvation Army "Santas" ringing the bells and trying to get you to donate money to them.
I grabbed my cigarette from the ashtray and put it between my lips again before getting up. I headed for the balcony to see where this sound was coming from. The warmth of the night greeted me the second I walked out. I found this odd too since it was not yet summer and the weather had been pretty cold last afternoon. But I pushed the weather from my mind as the bells had finally stopped and I was left out there in the dead silence. I stood there anyways, listening in case they started up again. But they didn't. I probably was there for about ten whole minutes before I finally realized that it was a waste of time.
I walked back inside and looked at the nearby clock as it changed to 4:11. My article was due in about three hours and I hadn't even gotten more than three sentences. I puffed at the last bit of my cigarette and threw it into the ashtray before going into the kitchen to get yet another cup of coffee. This was going to be a long three hours and I had no doubt in my mind that I would need every minute of it.
The subject was civil peace in other countries. My assignment for the next month's newspaper was to draw attention to what was wrong within other countries and how they can fix it to avoid controversy. If you thought about what a boring article it would be to read, then think about how I felt: I had to write the damn thing.
I had already done the researching part of the article. All that was left was the part where I came up with witty metaphors and examples. Every time I tried to think of one, though, my mind went blank. I wasn't used to topics that had to do with foreign nations. I didn't like writing about what I wasn't used to.
It's not that the subject didn't matter; it's just that it didn't matter in America. We didn't live in other countries. And I doubted that our government even cared what happened outside our territories. I knew the only reason my boss wanted this article is to show the readers that our newspaper was noble and caring. Because I was always required to write anti-violence articles, I quickly became bored with them. So why did she always choose me when it came to writing articles about opinions? Because she knew I had none. She fed me what her opinions were, and I wrote about it with immense detail and explanation.
When it came to opinions, I was the best person to come to. People didn't think I had any. But, if I did, I would have kept it to myself. My opinions would never be put into consideration anyways. I was my boss's slave. I wrote about what she wanted in better words than anyone else could have put it in. And I got paid excellently for it too.
One of the other reasons I didn't want to write this article was because I didn't care either. What happens in other countries is beyond our control. It's not like the president of Iraq would pick up my article and say "Hmm...maybe we are a bit too violent. We should take this advice into consideration."
It's not that I was selfish, even though I was. I just didn't think it would spark the public's interest. They want an exciting article. Maybe not true, but exciting. That's how I viewed other peoples' minds to be. They didn't want truth, they wanted excitement. And I wanted excitement in writing the article. I didn't spend my four years in college studying journalism to write dull articles about topics people didn't care about.
I knew I had two choices for this article: I could either bullshit my way through, or quit. As tempting as the second choice seemed, I figured keeping this apartment for now seemed like a better idea. Even though I knew that my earnings would be more than good enough to pay for this apartment for another year, I knew deep down inside that I couldn't quit. It was like trying to quit smoking. If you've done it for so long, you can't imagine life without it.
Plus, there was no way I could leave Jake here. Even though I had the money to buy a much nicer house in a much nicer neighborhood, I couldn't bear the separation between myself and close company anymore. I was the one who was having financial problems in the first place and asked him to come live with me. Now that I was living with more money than I did back then, I couldn't just leave. I would be breaking a promise, and that's the one of the few things I never did.
I puffed on my cigarette and put it down on the nearby ashtray. I had made my decision and I wasn't going to just bullshit. I was going to actually give my opinion. Chances were that my editor would hate it. I didn't care as long as the public was satisfied. Most people just bought the newspaper, scanned the front page, and checked their stocks. I would get occasional readers, but my fan mail wasn't as great compared to those who wrote articles about a car crash blocking up the streets in Times Square.
I had finally begun typing away on my notebook when I heard a distant sound. It was pretty faint and felt new to my ears. I knew I'd never heard it before. I stopped writing immediately, and listened closely. It sounded like the ringing of bells. Large bells. And maybe rung for the first time in years. Had anybody else ever heard them? Was I the only one? It was pretty late at night and I doubted anyone was awake. Nobody was as stupid as me to procrastinate something that could cause them their job.
The thought of waking Jake up crossed my mind, but I quickly dismissed it. It wasn't worth waking him up for. What did it matter that bells rang? It wasn't hurting anyone. And it wasn't like the northern lights had turned up in New York City. It had only struck me as odd since it was March. That meant that it wasn't the Salvation Army "Santas" ringing the bells and trying to get you to donate money to them.
I grabbed my cigarette from the ashtray and put it between my lips again before getting up. I headed for the balcony to see where this sound was coming from. The warmth of the night greeted me the second I walked out. I found this odd too since it was not yet summer and the weather had been pretty cold last afternoon. But I pushed the weather from my mind as the bells had finally stopped and I was left out there in the dead silence. I stood there anyways, listening in case they started up again. But they didn't. I probably was there for about ten whole minutes before I finally realized that it was a waste of time.
I walked back inside and looked at the nearby clock as it changed to 4:11. My article was due in about three hours and I hadn't even gotten more than three sentences. I puffed at the last bit of my cigarette and threw it into the ashtray before going into the kitchen to get yet another cup of coffee. This was going to be a long three hours and I had no doubt in my mind that I would need every minute of it.
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