There are crumpled bits of paper on the floor all around.
Some wound up tight in frustration, others just neglected, falling on the floor carelessly.
I kick my way through and around and over them but never bother to pick them up. I never bother because my hands are full of more, and I furiously try to write a new page.
He comes in.
I'm all embarrassed and red. Crimson blood rushes to my face to show my shame and who am I kidding? Nothing was ever hidden, really. Nothing was ever unnoticed and now all the papers lie at His feet.
He picks one up and I shudder.
He smooths it. Puts it on the desk. I think He's reaching for an eraser or a big-fat-red pen, but He's crimson, too.
It drips on the page. All my ink spots turn red and I slump.
I should've known.
The paper is white.
All of them are gathered up and washed with crimson, all of them are bound up together. He signs His name at the bottom of every. last. one.
He's made it a story.
My trash, His treasure.
This post is part of Five Minute Friday, where we write with a timer set and we don't edit or overthink. Today's prompt is STORY. Link up with us?