Click

When I'm bored, I tend to click the mouse. A lot. I move it all over the computer screen, and I click. Sometimes I see how fast I can click, sometimes I click to the beat of a song in my head. Right now it's the latter. The song: "Wearing and Tearing" by Led Zeppelin. The clicking: a fast and driving rhythm with a heavy bass. My performance, in my opinion, is excellent. John Bonham, God rest his soul, would be proud. A distraction, though, which I must put up with during each of my clicking sessions, has made me upset–my computer is very loud. The fan inside it seems much too powerful for such a small device; it buzzes incessantly and, needless to say, loudly. It is so loud, now, that I have lost track of my clicking and messed up the rhythm, which upsets me further.

My old computer was extremely quiet. I could come into my room and intentionally listen for it, and still not hear it. In those days, my clicking prowess had reached its peak. I was able to focus entirely on the song, without an obscene fan in the background, and click to my heart's desire. It didn't matter that, without a proper fan, it overheated and the hard drive melted–I had my clicking, and life was good.

Fucking fan. It's no use making another attempt at keeping the beat. Besides, now it's "Every Time We Touch" in my head, and who wants to keep the beat to sappy techno shit. Taking my hand off the beloved mouse, I resort to another activity of mine: slumping. My chair is so comfortable. I slowly sink into it, sliding down the back until my head is where I should be sitting. Most of my body is off the chair, and a chiropractor would have nightmares if he saw me, but I am content. If I could click while in this position, I would never leave my room. Unfortunately, I can't reach the mouse from here. It is a sad day. Life can't be too perfect. This will do, though. Here, I can't really hear that stupid fan.

But now, on my way to office chair nirvana, there is another distraction. Without my clicking to keep me busy, I notice that my mother, who has been standing next to me for the past ten minutes, looks somewhat distressed.

"Are you listening to me?"

"No."

"Ryan! You need to pay attention when I'm trying to have a conversation."

"This isn't a conversation. Conversations have two people talking. You're just standing there screaming at me."

"Because you won't listen!"

"Ok." I don't feel the need to provide anything other than blank responses to her. She pulls back her arm to slap me, revealing the scars. I don't flinch. She's never gone all the way. To my surprise, this time she does. I watch her from my slump as she breathes ravenously, shaking her wrist. I don't mind the sting–I'm more amused at the fact that my mother just backhanded me. But that engagement ring hurt like a bitch.

"Now you pay attention," she says, leaning down, trying to be intimidating. "Get your ass out of this chair right now and bring me back the kitchen knives. And my razor."

"Why."

"You know why. What the hell do you think I've been saying to you this whole time? I can't make any meals without them. Let's see how smug you are when you don't have any food to eat

"You don't cook with your razor."

"You shouldn't give a damn what I do with that."

"Ok."

"Ryan, I mean it, I'm not gonna ask you again."

"I'll give them to Dad when he gets home."

"Ryan! Dad's not coming home. Ever. Get it through that damn skull of yours."

"I'll give them to him when he gets home."

"Your father is gone. He's never coming back. So get your ass up and give me my stuff."

"No."

"Alright. You know your TV? You can say goodbye to that piece of shit. An eye for an eye, you little jerk."

She storms out of my room, slamming the door behind her. I unclench my fingers, which I realize have broken the skin on my palms. And there it is again. That fan. God it's so loud. But it's not loud enough to drown out the distinct sound of glass shattering a floor below. I sit back up. I've had enough slouching. "You May Be Right" by Billy Joel comes into my head. With my hand back on the mouse, I start clicking again. It feels good. I like this song.

Josh Stillman is an undeclared Duke University sophomore with an interest in Political Science and Journalism. He swims and plays soccer, raquetball and piano. HIs favorite books are Catch-22 and Blood Meridian.

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