Trapped in a Bottle

Trapped in a Bottle came from a writing prompt of 300 words containing three lines:
I’m tired
I hate this.
I’m going to bed now.
Those lines can be interior monologue or dialogue.

Trapped in a Bottle

I’m tired
I hate this.
I’m going to bed now.
Except Mom won’t let me.
As if six hours in a station wagon with Jessie, MJ and Kal wasn’t enough.
It’s hot at Grandma and Granpa’s. The air conditioning gave up in 1963 and Granpa’s is too tight to get it fixed. The windows are open, but there’s no air, and a hole in the fly screen lets in the skeeters.
MJ’s lying on the cool floor with the dog, both of them fast asleep. Or maybe they’re both pretending. MJ’s six and even the dog knows when to duck out of a conversation.
Kal’s flicking through Grandpa’s fishing magazines, pretending he’s really, really fascinated, all so he can just zone out while Grandma tells us which of the neighbours died over the winter.
Jessie’s seething, picking at the snaggly lace doilie over the arm of the couch. Mom tells her to stop and that just makes it worse.
Mom’s angrier than all of us put together. Probably thinking about Dad and his new girlfriend out on the coast. At least with Grandma around, Mom can’t open a bottle. Grandma’s probably hidden the alcohol after what happpened at New Year’s.
Another long silence.
Another dumb question about my majors and minors in college. Grandma and Grandpa never got to go. To them it’s a whole other world, all bright and shiny; leafy campuses with lots of trees and grass and sunshine, like you see on TV. Even with a scholarship and Dad’s guilt money, it’ll be a struggle.
But it’s an escape. Like I could use right now. Instead I have to talk and pretend everything’s normal.

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