Descriptive Essay: A Normal Day

Or maybe it’s not when it happens, so much as how it happens. It’s a normal day - it should be a normal day. Dust on the cracked white porcelain of the sink, mold growing in the niches and corners and jagged lines. The sunlight slanting through the window in long planes that stream down across the pale of the floor. The television blaring loudly in the other room above the clink of beer bottles and the wailing sobs of the baby. The rag in my hands is stained with rust from who knows what, but I scrub the dishes with it anyway. My fingers hurt from the work.

Momma never does anything anymore. Ever since the man she loved ended up in jail over an android trafficking scandal, she’s given up on life. You can tell just from glancing at her. Her

It’s not from being thirsty, I think, because she’s always got a beer bottle in hand, and new ones collect on the floor - a dozen a day. She can’t be thirsty. But she sounds parched whenever she talks, and her lips crack every time she speaks, spilling long trickles of blood that run down to her chin. What do I know? Maybe she is thirsty. I’ve got no idea what’s in those bottles. I don’t even know if beer quenches thirst. I have to stay away from alcohol myself. I’m the only working one in the family, anyway - little Elsie is too young to help out yet. And the baby, Sara, is still in diapers, with a pacifier firmly in her mouth.

It’s a normal day. The baby cries. Momma drinks. The television blares. Elsie does nothing. And I work.

It’s been quiet down-road, but that isn’t too surprising. There’s been an outbreak of junkers lately, and everybody’s hiding inside - windows shuttered, doors locked. It’s never fun when they come snooping around insisting that whatever’s there is worth salvaging for themselves - including the house - and that it’s worth it to you to give it to them...for free. The worst part is that they’re right, it usually is worth it to you. But that’s only because they always bring guns when they come.

What? They’re perfectly