Crooked

If only for a moment, Johnny's heart sank, his mouth became unusually dry, and as he tried to think of what to say, all he could focus on was whether or not that tacky picture hung on the wall was level. She mentioned something about his apparent indifference, or his condescending attitude, but that picture, that unnervingly crooked picture, drew more of his attention than she ever could. Before she managed to slam the door behind her, he was desperately trying to straighten the frame. By the time she had driven away, Johnny couldn't even think of her name. 

As he wobbled the picture back-and-forth on the nail he began to become frustrated. The picture, for some inexplicable reason, was simply unable to stay level. Every few moments Johnny would take three steps back, confident that this time the picture would look straight, but every time he was unsatisfied. After ninety-seven minutes it occurred to him that the problem might not be this one picture.

Johnny was standing three steps back from his wall, concentrating. His wall had exactly eleven different picture frames hanging on it. He was not a sentimental person, but had always liked the idea of being one. The idea that someone cared enough about such trivial moments to display them like trophies intrigued him to say the least. These picture frames contained images of his family, of him and her, of whatever happened to be going on that day he had a camera. They now littered his wall, confounding him. He felt his heart pounding as he realized that it was not the one picture that was tilted slightly, but the lot of them. 

One by one Johnny adjusted the frames. Each one contained a memory that he neither wanted to remember nor forget. The more he tried to simply think about the frames and not about the pictures, the more crooked they all became. His breathe became more sporadic. Sweat dripped down his forehead. He felt feverish. After two-hundred-and-twelve minutes of minute adjustments and an obsessive amount of attention to each individual frame, Johnny stepped back three steps to admire his work.

Tears began to form in Johnny's eyes. Looking at these frames, and the pictures within them, physically hurt him.  It was unbearable. As he tore the pictures from the wall, tossing them around his living room, the tears that were once content within the confides of his eyes poured down his face. Shattered glass and splintered wood covered the floor beneath his feet. As he fell to his hands and knees the glass embedded itself within his skin. Palms and knees bleeding, he knelt over the pictures that were scattered about his room, contemplating if this is what it means to be sentimental.