We pulled up to the house. It looked like a country club. We were flash-bulbed getting out of the limo.

​“I thought this was a fucking party,” Lionel said, “not a premiere.”

​ ​“Whichever magazine’s covering it probably paid for almost all of it,” Anjelina said, “ignore it.”

​“Bottom-feeding motherfuckers.”

​ The living room was like a marble warehouse. A fountain, statues, and faces everywhere. I saw a free corner and stood by a bust of Spinoza. Billy and Amanda stood with us. Anjelina whispered in my ear that she was going to hunt for friends. Lionel motioned a server over, and we lifted glasses of wine off a silver tray. Two young blondes who had a reality show were being followed by a camera crew. They were famous for nothing. No talent, no souls. They came from rich families and nothing else. The taller one saw me, and she ran over with her friend. She looked at the camera, “That’s John Edmonds. He’s hot.” She looked at me, “You’re hot.”

The cameras and lights were on us. She went to hug me. I stopped her, “Beat it.”

​“Huh?”

​“Beat it,” I said, “you moron.”

The little one started to say something. I glanced at her, then back to the taller one, “And take your little brother with you.”

They walked off. The cameras stayed on me. I looked at Lionel, “Pieces of shit.”

I looked at the lead camera guy. They left. Billy broke up laughing with Amanda. Lionel looked at Christine, “So much for Anjie’s other woman theory,” he laughed and patted my back, “I love you.”

Christine took my elbow, “Same here.”

​Almost every face from celluloid, print, or the tube was floating around us. Mostly very short people. Cocaine was around.

Two actors buzzed by, then another one stopped and shook Lionel’s hand. He looked like he was about to fall over. He walked away. Lionel sipped his wine, “You know what they say, When in Relapse.”

“All the beautiful abuse. This is fucking great.”

“I know, a line right into the heart of the beast.”

Adel stayed motionless. Eyelids pasted together, his ears stretched towards a dull sound overhead. Tremors electrified his skin, shaking limbs like a promise of movement. Mind drifted through time, landing on a sunny afternoon, perhaps yesterday, maybe longer. Light on the floor...her face smiling across the room at him. Then a high whine, something sinister ripping the air. And black. Still, this sense of falling, into and on top of him. And black again.

There was nothing now. No rooms, no sun. Warmth without light. The scraping above, pushing into his cocoon, waking him from one long dream. The top of his head suddenly cool, eyes still immobile. His body shuddered, fingers wanting to grasp the hands surrounding his shoulders. Lungs, full of chalky air, but air. And he gasped. He breathed.

Angela sat with her friends at the lunch table. They all chatted and giggled and exchanged gossip while

I watched from across the cafeteria. Angela's light brown complexion and beautifully dark eyes and rich flowing hazel hair all complimented her in a beautiful way. I knew, though, that she was broken inside. I knew that she was simply getting by and not actually living. She didn't feel emotions, or at least not like I did. Instead, she would put on a pretend smile and act as if everything was fine. I knew things weren't, though. I could tell by her laugh that inside of her she was screaming for someone to save her. She was drowning in her insecurities, being suffocated by her mountain of superficiality. I could see, though, that she wasn't like the rest of the preps at school. She was honest and sincere, maybe even a bit of an in depth thinker. She knew that she couldn't be deep and popular at the same time. She had to sacrifice one or the other, and the decision she made was obvious. She held her pain behind her mask of makeup and fake smiles. I wanted to reach out to her, to implore her to become her own person and to help her branch out from who others want her to be. The question was this, though: what could I possibly do to save her from her illusion of popularity and to free her from her circle of artificial friends?

A hero was born today

Standing tall

Amongst the huddled masses

Becoming a shield

To protect innocents

Becoming their strength

To pull them through

A ray of sunshine

In this decrepit place

A beacon of hope

Which shone

So brightly

Even as the bullets flew

And pierced

He didn't move

Until they all made it to safety

Even when collapsing to his knees

His valor stayed true

He is the symbol of what we all should strive to be

A thing of beauty

Helping those in need

Although he gave his life today

Know that it wasn't in vain

For he saved so many

A hero amongst the flames

A slug

Leaving a trail

Of shiny, clear

Memories.

It moves

Incredibly slow,

But at least it's

Moving.

Forrest was out of sorts that day. Not the same. Her smile wasn’t there. That’s a big deal when even her cry held a semblance of smiling and laughter.

“What’s up man?” I’m not good with compassion.

“Nothing.” She walked to the back of the house and continued packing some black plates and bowls.

“Are you moving?”

“Nah man....”

The tension was thick.

“What’s up with the dishes?”

Forrest stopped packing briefly. She shrugged and said they belonged to someone who used to live there. She was going to throw them away.

“Why not keep them?”

Her revulsion was visible.

****

In the car, with the windows down, we drove down the country roads near Walters, Oklahoma and threw each dish with significant force at fence posts and electric poles and train tracks. I brought empty liquor bottles and we threw them recklessly into the parking lot of the high school as I cursed my angsty years with the punctuation of shattered glass.

Half-way through the box of emotional ammo, Forrest told me why she had been so willing to join with me in destroying something.

“That guy. He raped me.”

The smile was back and I was unsure how to respond. I’m not sure I did. I may have said an incredulous, “What?!” but the memory has faded under years of smoke.

“We were sleeping... I... was sleeping. I woke up and I knew he had...”

There was silence until I saw the train tracks ahead.

“This one’s you man.”

There are no words, even as a spectator, that can fully describe the glory in that vision: her dark skin in the moon on an empty country road, her arm raised with muscle taught and expectant, and the smile, huge and unwavering even as the thick ceramic-like plate crashed into the track and flew in all directions. Destruction becoming release, healing. It was like seeing the weight lift, even for that moment, from her shoulders.