Peter Jones and Tisha Box by Lorraine Sears

7 AM: The shrill alarm rings and demands that I rise. My eyes are heavy with denied sleep. My tongue is a matted carpet of cheap booze and vomit, and the film that covers my teeth is thick and greasy. I reach for the glass of water that’s been beside my bed for three days. The dust that floats on the top is like the layer that covers my soul.

8 AM: After a breakfast of phlegm and pop tarts I drag myself to the mirror. The dark bags under my eyes could carry a weeks worth of groceries. My skin looks sallow and dead. I am Peter Jones, I am a useless gob of a man, existing for no other reason than to give others a reason to hate and ridicule.

9 AM: The hell of the commute is over. Young girls dressed too old go to school to learn things that won’t matter. Small children with snotty faces stare from their mother’s arms. And old people, with a purse for each denomination of coin, get on the bus when they should be asleep in their homes. They stare through Peter Jones, as if he doesn’t exist. I hate them all.

10 AM: The bitch who thinks she owns me stands over my desk with her foul orange hair and matching lipstick. She barks her orders and taps her foot. With each tap I imagine stabbing her with my pencil.

11 AM: How I detest the gaggle of women in this office, they tease Peter Jones like he’s nothing more than their personal amusement. With their high-paid husbands and knock-off designer bags, they are deluded.

12 PM: Lunch time. I leave the shelter of my cubicle for a necessary outing. At the chemist I make my purchases and dare the check-out tart with a mouth like a cat’s arse to question the content of my basket. She drops in my estimation when she simply rings up the bill.

1 PM: Back in the office, the bitch is back, leaning over me in her cheap polyester grey suit. She thinks she’s next in line for promotion. But I’ve heard otherwise; that’s the benefit of being the invisible Peter Jones.

2 PM: I recover from throwing my guts up, after the bitch abused my self-worth. Doris from accounts comes to see me. She tells me it’s harassment. I tell her I’m all right. Doris is old and little and grey, and covered in knitting. I say something nice, like “Thanks.”

3 PM: Over a Snickers and a coffee, I read from an old novel in the staff room. I don’t see words or find plot, but I smell the story from the yellowed pages, the scent of a dozen different homes.

4 PM: The bitch calls me for a meeting. She berates my character, again. Peter Jones reddens, and she draws on the weakness like a kid sucking lemonade through a straw, growing bloated with her own importance.

5 PM: The commute is fast and the people invisible to me. I have better things than Peter Jones on my mind. I stop for fast food, and as the pimple-faced youth behind the counter struggles to comprehend my simple order, I repeat myself with spite.

6 PM: A shower and shave, removing unwanted hairs from obvious places, scrubbing skin ’til it’s raw, I wash away Peter Jones. I nip and snip and shape all unwanted edges. Wrapped in my robe I paw through my lunch-time purchases and select what I need for my evening: lipstick and nail polish.

7 PM: I pull back my hair so tight, but there is no pain, only beauty. I carefully select nylon and silk and tuck myself away, finally feeling free. I select my hair piece.

8 PM: I am a vision. I am a dream. I am fabulous. In purple Lycra and thigh-high boots, I walk the street with my head held high. I am met by smiles and catcalls, cheers and delight. I am Tisha Box, queen of clubs.

"Pattaya lady boy 1" (photo by Flickr user kasi metcalfe)

9 PM: I stand on stage, mic in hand. I sing for a crowd who adores me and have paid just to see me. They all want to touch me, men and women alike. Some want to be me, others just want me. I am Tisha Box.

10 PM: I cut people down like grass with my biting remarks and wit. I pull no punches. I attack women for cheap shoes and men for cheap women. I tell them all exactly what I think, and they roar my name in delight. Tisha, Tisha, Tisha!

11 PM: I am the dancing queen, the wicked bitch of the best. I am filled with vodka and smoke. My hand trails over a never-ending sea of shameless male desire.

12 AM: In the privacy of my dressing room I take a man. I need no face for my relief. I bend him over and impale him, he cries out and I cry.

1 AM: I find a beauty who’s young and game. I drop to my knees before him; finally the love I seek.

2 AM: The party is over. Alone with the after-affects of the booze, Tisha finally weakens. She sobs for the reality of her existence. A short time of joy that can only be reached by so much fakery and falseness. Yet the entire world loves her, and she loves them.

3 AM: As I scrape away Tisha’s face with embittered hands, I hate Peter Jones. That he should be granted life to waste while Tisha must survive on borrowed breath. I throw up in disgust and crawl into my bed.

7AM: The shrill alarm rings and demands that I rise. My eyes are heavy with denied sleep. My tongue is a matted carpet of cheap booze and vomit; the film that covers my teeth is thick and greasy. I reach for the glass of water that’s been beside my bed for four days. The dust that floats on the top is like the layer that covers my soul.

–
Lorraine Sears is a married, mother of two in her mid-thirties. She’s always had a love of creative writing and enjoys combing life observations with her imagination to create her short fiction. Her stories range from children’s fiction to horror and everything in between.

Lorraine has tried to take a break from writing a few times, but her brain won’t stop churning out the ideas. Even when she manages to turn off her computer, she always finds herself inexplicably scribbling random musings in any way way she can, from lipstick on mirrors to felt tips on toilet roll. Therefore, in a bid to keep her work available in a more readable manner, she always ultimately finds her way back to the PC.

Since being invited to join Hot House (a small, focused, online writing group), Lorraine has achieved publication for her work. “Mine” appeared in The New Flesh e-zine in May 2010, and “I am a Princess” has been accepted by Pill Hill Press. Lorraine has also written a fantasy fiction novel, as yet unpublished.