Sad friends. Ugly sweaters.
We’re dipping our toes into storytelling this week. Check out this horror movie ending rewrite from my writing pal!
Their prompt for me: Write a scene about someone comforting their sad friend, but they’re severely distracted by their sad friend’s awful sweater.
When he brought his face out from behind his cupped hands, streaks of tears etched their way off the sides of his cheeks and into his beard.
He’d finally met the foe he lived life dreading: heartbreak.
I knew rejection like the annoying cousin that popped up behind you in the buffet line at Thanksgiving and pushed the back of your knees as a joke. He, unfortunately, was no stranger. His obligatory presence came back around eventually like a holiday on the calendar. I’d had my share of breakups, rejections, and ghosting. They never hurt any less, but knowing life would go on after their initial sting helped me develop a tolerance for their arrival.
Still, it’s nothing I’d wish on anyone, and I was sorry to see my friend getting a fresh beating from good old rejection.
My sobbing pal slumped onto my couch, damp eyes clenched shut as he heard the close of this romantic door slam shut. “I don’t know what I’ll do now. I thought we’d build a life together.”
I grasped my friend’s shoulder as if to assure him I wasn’t going anywhere, but in doing so, I felt the itchy fibers of the neon yellow, ribbed sweater he wore. My hand recoiled involuntarily.
My friend didn’t notice.
He went on, “He seemed so cold when he called things off. I don’t know where it all went wrong. I thought we were doing fine.” I nodded and just listened, but in moving my head up and down, my attention was pulled toward the small print within the fabric of my friend’s garment. Orange dots. There must’ve been a thousand of them knit into the sweater. Orange on yellow. Construction zone colors. Who designed this sweater and for what? Road work?
“We were supposed to go to a concert this weekend. Do I go alone now? Should I just give him both tickets? I hate this. We were supposed to go together!”
In each orange dot, little stems of baby shit green protruded, speckled all the way down the arms of the sweater. I couldn’t keep my eyes from tracing their trail.
My friend’s sobs started again, “When I asked him if there was someone else, he said no, but I don’t know if I believe him. Maybe he’s only just met someone—someone who he thinks can make him happier.”
In the middle of the sweater was an abstract shape of what looked like a grandmother’s needlepoint design gone awry. I wondered what horrific thrift store sale rack my friend had found this top in and what ill-fated day he chose to purchase it.
“This just hurts so bad.”
I finally was pulled out of my fashion judgment and brought back to earth. I looked at my friend, looked at their sweater, and then looked back at my friend, “Hey, it’s going to be okay,” I told them.
I placed my hand on his shoulder again, but this time, the static from the sweater sent an electric shock through my arm. I think it sensed my disdain for its presence and wanted to communicate how the feeling was mutual.