DAILY PROMPT RESPONSE – FICTION
I never meant for things to turn out like this. Not that I had a plan—God forbid I be that organized. Life just… happened. Like a lopsided bundt cake with all the chocolate chips sunk to the bottom. Turns out you’re supposed to mix them into the batter. Would’ve been good to know before I tried to impress Rachel Largo—the most beautiful girl in three counties, maybe the entire eastern seaboard under the right lighting.
I didn’t check the expiration dates either. The cake tasted like regret and powdered disappointment. Rachel smiled and said it was “very creative,” which is high school girl code for this is awful, but I admire the attempt. She took one bite, chewed like she was processing trauma, and excused herself to “call her mom”—translation: you’ll never see me again.
I stood there in my mom’s kitchen, holding a dented bundt pan, wondering what exactly had led me to that moment. And I realized maybe I was just that guy. Not the one who gets the girl—just the one who learns not to bake without instructions.
Most of my life’s been like that. Spent in service to others. Not because I’m noble. I wasn’t raised by monks. No lightning bolt of altruism hit me over a bowl of cereal. If anything, I swore I wouldn’t end up outside a convenience store with a paper bag and a cigarette, crashing on my mother’s couch.
Spoiler: I did. More than once.
But service? That just kind of… happened. One favor turned into another. One crisis became two. Suddenly people were looking at me like I had answers. Like I was someone you could lean on. A functional adult. Which was optimistic, honestly.
Do I regret it? No. Do I feel good about it? Also no. I made mistakes—some loud and theatrical, others slow and corrosive. The loud ones make for stories. The quiet ones wear you down. And despite my best efforts and my many failures—usually delivered in the same week—it all still feels like it adds up to… nothing.
And that’s the part that really sticks. I might be the only one who thinks that. Everyone else moved on. I’m still here, counting ghosts.
I was in the Philly airport once when I saw her. The girl in uniform. Back then we traveled in dress—polished boots, pressed collars, trying to look like recruitment posters. She had that look: sharp, composed, untouchable. Every guy nearby tried to catch her attention. I didn’t bother. I wasn’t nervous—I was realistic. Women like her didn’t talk to guys like me. We carried bags. Maybe threw a punch if needed. But conversation? That wasn’t in the playbook.
Then the flight got canceled.
Instead of sleeping on a chair under fluorescent lights, they put us up in a hotel. Which meant one thing: party. Some guy who needed attention like oxygen threw a room bash together. I wasn’t old enough to buy beer, but I’d been doing it long enough to qualify as a supplier. I grabbed a few six-packs and slipped outside to the pool, which was closed for the season—quiet, gated, empty.
That’s where she found me.
Out of uniform, hoodie up, hair tied back. She looked more real than before. She spotted me, gave a half-smile, and walked over.
“You hiding too?” she asked.
“Strategic withdrawal,” I said.
She laughed. Sat down next to me. I handed her a beer.
We didn’t talk about much—music, food, home. No names. No stories. Just two strangers in the quiet, trading small things. But for the first time in a long time, I didn’t feel like background noise. I felt seen.
That should’ve been it. A memory, sealed off and fading. But a few years later, after deployment, I was sitting on an exam table at the clinic, in a paper gown, waiting for some overworked doc to clear me.
The door opened.
Rachel walked in.
Yes, that Rachel. Bundt cake Rachel.
And behind her? The nurse?
The girl from the pool.
I didn’t know whether to laugh, panic, or check if I was still in the desert hallucinating. Rachel was flipping through my chart. The nurse was wrapping a cuff around my arm like this was just another Tuesday.
And then she asked, casually, “How’ve you been sleeping?”
Like we hadn’t shared a beer under dead stars. Like we hadn’t sat together in silence while the world spun out behind us.
I opened my mouth. Lied like I’d been trained to.
“Sleeping fine,” I said.
But the truth?
I would never sleep again.
Memoirs of Madness 