I can has rights?

It came in the mail today. A thick, padded envelope. Cream, with my name printed on the outside, my address. The wood floor is cool beneath my feet, the house dark without the afternoon light that the small windows exclude. I sit in an uncomfortable chair that extra padding does nothing to disguise the hard surface, the splinters beginning to pop up from the wood. The table I lay my forearms against is dark, with light colored worm-like trails tracing complicated maps across the smooth surface. Potted orchids cover every windowsill in this room, their broad leaves devouring what scant sun comes through, leaving nothing for me to read by. I hold my breath, and slip my fingers beneath the glue that holds this envelope down.

I remove cardstock, and grin. I look over my absentee ballot, before setting it aside, according to the label, and read carefully over the set of instructions accompanying the ballot. I'm supposed to vote with another person present, someone who can witness my actions. I look around. Dust drifts silently, landing gracefully on the broad leaves. The garden is brown, this time of year, viewed through dismally dirty windows. I go into the kitchen, with the linoleum tiles that are the color of vomit, and the florescent light that buzzes threateningly over head, casting sickly green shadows to match the vomit colored floor. The microwave numbers glow in the dim yellow light. There's over an hour before anyone will come home. I fill and set a kettle of water on the ancient white stove.

I go back into the dining room, and reread the instructions. I pad around the house, with the oriental carpets and a mix of antique and Ikea furniture, all stained dark brown. There are books on every horizontal surface. Dust is visible on those books, this neglected household chore falls to whomever has the energy. No one has the energy after work; I'm to restless to even think about dusting. The water boils, and I make myself a cup of tea, and settle on the couch. Black leather, cool even in the summer, a splurge on my parents part. No cleaning, my mother explain, no need to vacuum, and no need to dust, because everyone sits on it. I get up, tea half finish, porcelain mug in my hand. No body's home, but I find a pen. I open the cardstock ballot, and read. I make a selection, dark ink on white paper. This is my vote. I close it up, and wait for someone to come home and give witness that I followed instructions. My mother signs the witness, and I seal my ballot.