Rusting Pessimist.

      Your skin's dry, flaking, and that rancid jag told you that your nose is peeling again. And the tears, torrentially pouring down your cheeks, make it worse. They burn, and your skin feels so tight that even your blinking feels arthritic. And it's because you're unhinged, stuck in the dark hallway of another house, owned by more people who say that they'll be your family. You hate crying, the act itself, but you especially hate it on you, mostly because you can't stop, once it starts. It's a compiling, rolling snowball, a falling line of dominoes, an unacceptable, murky bunghole of regurgitated horse shit that you can't climb out of, until you pass out.
      You're standing here, crying, in the dark, because you can't find the doorknob to the guest bedroom that you're supposed to be staying in. Furthermore, you're forced into silence, desperately trying not to irk any of the snoozing, other people in the house, feeling the door, up and down, eternally unsuccessful, obviously displaced in this environment. You're foreign here, contrary to what they all tell you, and you decide that you hate houses with closed doors. Even people together are people alone. None of it makes any difference, and you fucking hate cats.
     These are the breed of human beings who clean their houses when people come to visit, the breed of people that turns the faucet on to take a shit, the breed of people who feels free to drag Jesus into regular conversation. And you're a real idiot for allowing yourself to become a charity case.
     You're a retiree, a person who resorts to favorite spots when found overwhelmed or flustered by the presence of others. And whenever you happen to find yourself exactly here, your choice spot is in the bed of the abandoned pick-up truck, next door. It used to belong to a set of very nice neighbors, but their house was foreclosed on four months ago, and apparently, nobody bothered to take the truck. So, you lay yourself down, in the back of it, always, allowing its ribbed, metal floor to make you uncomfortable, dirty, and cold. No matter what anybody says, there's serenity to be found in habits. Plus, the truck is red, helping its expanding rust spots to, moderately, blend in, and you think that's just so clever.
     You finally find the doorknob, quietly letting yourself into the room, but quickly shutting the door again, behind you. You let your wet towel sink into a heap on the floor, proceeding to crawl into the bed, smothered and sick to death by the concept of throw pillows. You pull your knees up to your chest, wrapping your arms around your shins, and you rock back and forth, the movement helping you to realize that, in some small fraction of a way, you still exist.
     The douscher of a neighbor's Christmas lights blink at you, through the window, blinding you every few seconds, and you wish you had a neon, "Fuck You" sign to graciously share with him, at this most beautiful time of year. He's going to give you a seizure, and these people aren't even your real family.