Kris believed wholeheartedly that her journey of life, being a late bloomer and all, took a little time before she could understand what making a choice meant. For example, she came to a junction which a single road became two divergent roads, exactly like Robert Frost's "The Road Not Taken," metaphorically speaking. When she chose the path less traveled, as the person chose in the poem, her path led to a dead end. For a time, as it turned out, she kept acting on things in a state of ignorance before she realized that (it) the thing missing would eventually come. How would she know when she made the right choices? She kept thinking, as she sat in an old brown recliner patched up from the cracking of the old upholstery, in a small run-down green wooden house, near the strip in Las Vegas.
Kris's personality matched that of a Millennial instead of a Gen-x'er. She desired acting the age her birth date categorized her as, because she thought (it) would automatically come with a number instead of a state of mind. Las Vegas became a dead end town. Her rented house embodied the creepiness of death. Perhaps someone got murdered or died an agonizing death here, she thought. At night, with the dim lit lamps, the walls turned a putrid yellow color each time dusk fell as she sat in wait for something, anything that could cause a reaction. During the day, before work and after work the walls looked white. On the job, she picked up customers one by one ushering them around from place to place making the sea of faces blurred weapons in her armory.
Since (it) seemed so elusive, Kris decided she would begin building something within herself while waiting. She focused on the town; her dead end, a path she chose that couldn't go any further. But first, the idea of intravenous confidence struck her like a fastball against her head. She thought, "build it and they will come." She figured if she started building a foundation, then everything would fall into place. All that she needed would come, (it) and everything else. She changed her appearance by cutting her long brown hair short, and dying it red. She gave up mini shirts and crop tops, dressing in vintage dresses. Kris began exuding the power and aura of a Gen-x'er, a kind of independence and self-reliance emboldening her. No more parental conferences and aid.
Kris slapped a coat of blue paint on the walls inside the house. She couldn't stand the unpleasantness of the wall coloring at night. While sleeping the other night, she awaken to a ghastly mist emitting from the walls in the bedroom. She couldn't trust her eyes, though she wanted to. Even with her new found confidence, she witnessed what looked like a vast swath of land, consisting of barren tress as if a wasteland. It drew cowardice from a place inside her. She couldn't get under the blanket fast enough. In the morning, her memory of the incident sank below an ill-defined consciousness like a dream. Her memory left a residual recall linking the dream to death, hence the blue paint.
The summer promised new beginnings for Kris. Kris's Kriss-Krossings began with the simple acts of assertiveness. Building canceled out the fears that laid on the surface bringing out what hid within. Perhaps death to her old self realized she made the right choice all along, and found the road ended at home.