You can smell the fresh, grassy spring smell. You stretch out your legs and the grass stems prickle your bare legs. Bright sunshine is warming your skin: you haven’t been outside for so long and the beauty of the day stuns you. You can hear birds singing from high in the blue sky and if you narrow your eyes against the sun you can see a couple whirling through the clear air.

A breeze blows through the branches of the tree you have your back against. The sound is so relaxing . . . your eyes fall shut, and in the increasingly dusky heat you fall asleep.

#description #prose #secondperson #summer

I tucked your clothes away today. I wanted to hold them to my face and take in your scent that I loved, but it had long since faded. These clothes have not touched you in so long. I really should return them to you. Maybe mail them or drop them off at your doorstep. But a part of me wants to hold onto them for a little longer. Hold onto the memory of us, that I ended single handedly, for a while longer. Maybe use them as an excuse to see you one last time. If I still have them, I still have a chance. I still can keep you in my life.

It’s been 3 weeks since we broke up, eleven days since we last talked. It feels strange. Unreal. I feel as though we’ll text again next week. We’ll talk and hang out like nothing changed when I get back home. Now that I’m free I feel like I’m spiraling, free falling. Before I pushed you away, I used to have someone to catch me. I’m not sure if I regret it or not.

I can still feel the chill from that Friday night, my first night home since moving into college. I remember the numbness in my legs from standing rigid and still in the cold. Maybe I was a bit hasty to make my first order of business be to break up with you, but you don’t know the whole story, the thoughts and feelings that have swirled in my head over the past year. I thought it was the only thing to do, the only solution.

I sat in your car and looked down at my shoes. You knew what was coming, but couldn’t believe it actually happened. You were in disbelief, asking me why. Can’t we fix this? I’d rather try together than give up. You were angry. At some point we got out of the car. I think you told me to leave, to get out of your car, but then you followed me out. I’ve never heard you swear so much. You didn’t understand how I could love you but not be in love with you. You told me it was fucked that I was throwing away something that made me happy. You didn’t understand. I told you I wanted to feel passion, to feel sparks on my tongue and butterflies in my stomach. Your tearstained face and hoarse voice didn’t care. I can’t erase your pain from my memory. All you wanted was to convince me to stay. And I would’ve. If only I hadn’t kissed someone else.

I remember your last grimace at me from that night. You started to drive away, then stopped and rolled down your window. I can’t remember what you said, something like “Do me a favor and don’t do this to anyone else,” or “Have a nice life.” This wasn’t what I wanted. I never wanted to end in ashes like this. I got into my car (parked a couple spots away in the high school parking lot) and drove home, exhausted and drained of tears. My Mom was home waiting for me, and I recounted what happened, flooding the tear gates again. I slept in my parents’ bed that night, wearing an oversized, football sweatshirt and baggy basketball shorts that did not belong to me. I needed the comfort.

I awoke from sleep and the first thing I felt was guilt. Wave after wave it haunted me, and haunts me still, threatening to drown me. I wore the tears on my face like war paint, surrendering to defeat. This war was doomed from the start. I looked like a girl ravaged by the wilderness but didn’t feel remorse, for I put myself there. Wearing your clothes like a cell, I hereby punished myself for the next 1000 years.

A day went by without any contact from you. I thought the silence would tame the torment inside. It didn’t. I thought maybe journeying to the eye of the hurricane would weather the storm. That Sunday, we agreed to meet again, in another parking lot.

We walked on the bike path, our hands in our pockets, shuffling along at a respectable distance from each other. It felt strange, out of habit, our bodies wanted to walk close to one another. As if on auto-pilot, our paths started to veer towards each other, but then we’d catch ourselves and right our courses. You were much calmer than the angry flame you were last time. This time, you were cold and closed off. And yet, you still tried. You still begged for me back. It crushed me seeing you in pieces.

We sat down on that bench and you planted a kiss on my lips, hoping to make me see that this was the way things should be. But still, as it has been for the second half of our relationship, I felt nothing. And with defeat, you put your head in my lap, looking for comfort from the one who hurt you. It devastated me, and still does.

“We’re not going to be close like we were. We can’t be friends.”

“I know,” My lower lip quivered. More tears came.

Neither of us wanted to leave. We stood there, stalling; hugging each other for what we thought to be the last time. “You know why this is so hard to leave right?” you tried again. “You don’t want to. You know this is wrong. We’re supposed to be together.” I just sadly shook my head. Again, we said goodbye, but this time it was one I could stomach. You were nicer. You said you wanted to be mean but you couldn’t because it was me and you loved me. Again, I watched you go, second guessing what I had done.

That weekend was long. I didn’t leave the house. I barely ate. I felt like I didn’t deserve to. When I went to leave for school, gingerly I laid your garments on my bed, as if to monumentalize, commemorate your memory, like some sort of martyr. But I couldn’t turn around and leave them behind like I did to you, so I snatched the clothes back up, taking my ghosts with me, holding them close to my heart.

We’re broken up hoping to fall back together again. I won’t be able to feel anything for you but I don’t want to let you go. In your eyes, all I’ve seen is lust, but elsewhere in another’s eyes, I’ve seen love. All I want is for you to have happiness, but I can’t give that to you at the expense of mine. The only comfort I have is that I know I’ll see you again, for the bag of your clothes still sits, untouched, in my car.

You wake to the feeling of all-encompassing Need. It makes every nerve in your body scream out in twisted and sickly desire. Forced into consciousness, your mind swims in the chemical dregs of the self-induced coma you have devoted your life to.

You are sick. Malnourished, poisoned, and battered, your body wants you to slip back into oblivion, but the Need won’t let you. It twists your stomach and pounds at every nerve in your body with a trillion microscopic sledge hammers. You would vomit, but your stomach hasn’t held food in two days. The Need doesn’t care if you starve. It will not be resisted.

You haul your diminished self off of the filthy mattress and achieve a standing position. You try to steady yourself. You feel yourself sway like a dead tree standing against a hurricane. The world swims around you as your eyes adjust to your dimly lit motel room. You don’t notice the strong scent of old urine that perfumes the room or the roaches that shared the bed with you. The Need doesn’t care about your surroundings. The Need just wants to be met. It will hurt you to get met. It controls your body and will punish any resistance to it that you may foolishly attempt. Reveling in its power over you, it will make you wade neck deep through miles of shit, filth, and decay in order to get what it desires.

The first real thought that bubbles to the surface of your stagnant mind is, “How do I get the means to satisfy you?”

“I could steal,” you think.

The Need laughs at the desperate idea, “You can barely walk, you junky fuck. How can you possibly steal?” The Need wants without compassion or pity. It will berate and belittle you, but it rarely offers any ideas on how to satisfy it.

“I can sell my body,” you offer as a second idea. The option is less than palatable. It has worked in the past, but you don’t need the motel mirror to tell you that even the most desperate John wouldn’t want what’s between your legs or your mostly toothless mouth around his cock. The need robbed you of any beauty or physical appeal you may have possessed long ago. Your now greyish skin is speckled with open sores and hangs from the sad caricature of a human form your body has become. The watery, lifeless eyes that stare back at you from the the motel room mirror look as if they are being swallowed by the depths of your skull. Their once vibrant brown is being lost in a yellow, jaundiced haze. The price you pay for sharing needles. The Need laughs at you, “Nope. Whoring won’t work. Looks like you’ll have to sell it to satisfy me.”

You look down at your dirty hands and sadly admire the small ring that has been around your left pinky finger since you first blossomed into womanhood. Your grandmother gave you the antique gold and ruby ring and it is the last thing you have left from your former life. Your sludge-slow mind tries to think of another way, any way to satisfy the Need, but it doesn't have a chance. Impatient to be met, the Need twists your stomach and sends you lurching into the bathroom. You get sick in the toilet, but only a little blood flecked bile comes up, staining the bowl a dingy red. Staggering to your feet, exhausted from the effort of heaving, the Need strikes again and suddenly every muscle and bone in your body aches. The pain presses down on you and blinds you to everything except doing what you must to make the Need stop torturing you.

You leave the motel room and head towards a pawn shop you know of to sell grandma's ring. The Need rules the world outside of the motel just as it rules you. Dilapidated buildings, blinded by boarded up windows line the sidewalk. Only the liquor stores that thrive within the Need's realm show any signs of life. They are the Need's loyal subjects, benefiting from its merciless reign. Trash flits across the sidewalk, dancing in a stale breeze. Though the silence is only broken by the occasional, distant siren, you know that you are not alone. Other shattered souls lurk in the doorways of the hollow buildings that you pass. They too, are the Need's subjects, seeking only to satisfy their master. Gone is hope. Gone is joy. Only the all-powerful Need exists and it is jealous of anything that can cause rebellion against it.

You arrive at the pawn shop and pause at its door. Carefully, you glance down again at the ring and you are stunned by the sad memory of your last encounter with your parents and Brown Eyes. You had just wanted to see Brown Eyes. It had been too long and he was the only thing good that you have ever offered to the world. Mom and Dad said it wasn't good for Brown Eyes to see you like this. Brown Eyes was happy and you would just confuse him. They hadn't even let you in the door, but you could see Brown Eyes looking curiously at you from behind the protection of his grandparents. Those eyes, so like yours, only pure and innocent, stared questioningly at the stranger who had knocked on the door. They didn't know you. They hadn't seen you since they were barely a year old, but they were kind. They made you smile.

That joy was enough for you to try to push your way past your parents. You wanted to hold Brown Eyes, to hold something good against your frail chest. Your parents were stronger and held you back. Desperate to make you leave, your dad reached into his pocket and handed you a wad of money. "Here," he said, still barring you from his grandson, your son, "Take this and leave. It is what is really important to you anyway." He used the money to distract you from your goal. With one last push, you parents pushed you out the door and closed it in your face.

The Need howled in triumph. There was enough money to feed it for a few days and enough to hide you while it fed. So, you slinked back to where you now belong and did its bidding. Now, the money is gone and the need is unfulfilled. A wave of nausea and bone crushing ache ends your revelry and sends you into the pawn shop.

There is no negotiating. So long as the Need gets what it wants now it will be enough. You watch as the pawn broker moves grandma's ring to a locked cabinet behind the counter. Your last glimpse of your birthright is the ruby shining in the florescent light. It's red is dark, dark like the red backwash of blood that enters the syringe when you give the Need what it wants. The broker gives you a hundred dollars. Not enough to make up for what you have lost, but enough to make sure that you can momentarily forget.

Scoring the heroine will be easy. Which is good because the nausea and pain the Need inflicts is crippling. You wretch again just outside of the pawn shop. Just because you have a way to satisfy it, doesn't mean it will be merciful before you actually do. Still, the Need has taught you how to find what it demands. Even when you think you are in a place that the Need does not rule, it has led you to what it wants. You find a dealer standing outside of a liquor store not far from the motel. Not even a dozen words pass between you and the dealer. He saw you coming and knew what you wanted. One look at your face and the blood and vomit stains on your shirt leaves little doubt. Money and baggies change hands and you are finally able to satisfy the Need.

You have one night left in the motel and you are thankful for the roof and place to hide. Preparing the syringe is now a mindless ritual. Heroin is placed in spoon with water. A small piece of cotton to act as a filter is added. The water is heated until the heroin is dissolved, and you pull the heroine into the syringe through the cotton. Finding a vein isn't a problem. You just recently started to shoot into your hand. The hand that once wore grandma's ring. The veins are small, but still easy to find.

Within just a second of the needle biting into your vein, the Need screams in victory. You feel the warm, satin corruption of heroin course through your body. Every cell in your body reacts and seeks to find a state of oblivion. Still it is not like the first time. The first time brought you to your knees and made you cum as the heroin infected every pleasure center of your body. You remember giggling in pleasure and thinking that you could feel like this for the rest of your life. Now, the opiate just stops the Need from torturing you.

You lie down on the dirty bed and slip into a heroin induced stupor. As you lie there, you can feel your heart beat slow. It provides the background music for your thoughts as you float on a calm opiate sea:

Thump-lub...Thump-lub...Thump-lub...Thump-lub-"I am so tired."

Thump-lub...Thump-lub...Thump-lub-"I love you, Brown Eyes."

Thump-lub...Thump-lub-"I'm going to quit. Quit for you."

Thump-lub-"But right now, I will sleep. Just for a while."

And the Need is finally silent.

My sleaves only get damp hugging the fog.

Where have they learnt such knowledge unsurpassed?

Well I was taught buy others.

I learn from the past and the present and they all know the future.

I could not make my own world so I followed them in theirs.

If these ideas were tangible I could use them to fill the holes in my driveway.

So maybe you weren’t taught by the best.

Or maybe you were and I have learned from the rest.

You feel so comfortably lost within this place. The sunset is pouring through tree branches, illuminating different areas of woodland around you - quiet. At first, you dare not move for fear of disturbing some resting creature, whether it be a sparrow, nestled in trees above, or unseen salamander hiding in the folds of dead leaves. After a while though- it may be hours or only seconds- you feel as if this silence is mocking you, and mild paranoia sets in. It’s this familiar feeling of ambiguity; of not wanting to cause a disturbance, while, simultaneously, wanting to shout and run to hear the sound of your voice echoing through the woods.

You feel a sudden burst of energy and can no longer contain this desire, running forth, chasing nothing. The woods come to life and seem to open up and swallow you, each wave of green becoming you. Your heart races and never before have you felt so alive, but knowing this too must end, you-

reach up and-

remove the headset. You blink back into this gray and harsh reality, surrounded by walls and ceilings and so much noise. After the accident, you have never physically left this space, and, knowing the limitations of your reality, you bought your way into another life. These short escapes- running through woods, trekking up mountains- serve as a second life. But you know better than to spend too long hooked up to the virtual reality system. It’s almost like a drug, what with the happy feeling it gives you. You know that it must only be taken in small doses; regulation is key.

So you leave this place too, closing your eyes, drifting into a third realm- sleep.

Take a stroll through the abandoned town next to the nuclear plant. You know, the one that had the meltdown in the mid eighties. All the residents were evacuated briskly in the days after the catastrophe. They left behind just about everything including radios, books, stuffed animals. The garbage cans on the street remained half-full because the garbage collectors were a part of the escaping caravan.

Watch where you are stepping on the crumbled sidewalks and don’t trip on the roots growing out from the cracks. Notice how nature has taken over all the structures. On your left is a 30 foot tall tree sprouting out of chimney! You probably shouldn’t touch the mossy stump by the fire hydrant. Though it looks so soft and inviting, it’s likely still not safe.

There is something missing as you gaze down the row of park benches. Listen closely to the wind blowing through the fence and the dreadlocked hedge. Do you hear any birds whistling? You don’t even hear the leaves rustling along the ground. There aren’t any.

Be careful as you enter the brick school house. Half the windows are broken and the other half are missing. You ask yourself “When did vandals make their rounds here? Was it worth it?” Peer into a few classrooms. This one must have been a chemistry lab. You notice several sinks along the perimeter of the room and lots of broken beakers and test tubes on the floor. Good thing you wore your boots today!

You walk down the long corridor to the swimming pool. There is only a few inches of muddy water in the bottom. You definitely don’t want to dive into that! You imagine the echos of children splashing and screaming and the smell of hot chlorine, but when you open your eyes again, all you see is stillness, grime, and crumbling wall tiles.

Your day is winding down when you reach the reason you came to this cursed town in the first place. The abandoned amusement park! This is surely on the top of your bucket list! You tilt your head up toward the rusty ferris wheel. You hear the creak of the bench seats when a gust of air rises. Most of the seats are frozen solid on the frame of the wheel, so the two or three moving parts give a distant and lonely groan.

A few yards past the faded park map sign you see the bumper car pavilion. The pastel colored cars appear to have no wheels anymore. The steel antennas rising from the backs of the pods reach up to a ceiling that isn’t the anymore. You aren’t sure that the cars would be able to make it through all the weeds growing up through the metal floor now, even if they could still roll.

When you finally wander to the back of the park, you feast your eyes on the decrepit steel roller coaster. Your excitement can’t be contained. You have loved roller coasters since you were scarcely tall enough to ride. You can even remember your first ride on a real roller coaster with your brother’s friend’s step-dad, Dave.

Tracing the winding path of the ride, you count all the places where the track is disconnected and smirk as you imagine the screaming riders flying off the rails into the pit of fire at the nuclear plant. You have always had a sick sense of humor.

Before you are aware, the sun begins to set, and a darkness slips over the houses and shops of the main strip. No lights awaken in this forsaken town. You need to hop in your car and scurry off before you are engulfed in darkness. You fantasize about the devilish mutant creatures that must emerge from the forest and roam the streets looking for victims at night. You must not become a treat for them!

You peek in your rearview mirror as you drive through the gate at the town’s entrance, feeling mildly relieved that you made it out in time. Then you exhale in a long gasp, because you were holding your breath the whole time. You didn’t want to inhale any potentially radioactive air!

As you come near the place, you can see the sign up front is in French. surly this is it. a place to buy high quality confections. As you enter you are bombarded with a happy children’s rendition of “we wish you a merry christmas” that goes on and on loudly in a loop, forever.

The signs for each kind of bread and cake are all in Chinese. But of course, you knew that coming in. this IS China, after all. and it’s not like you have a choice; you need to buy a cake for your kids. So..you go over your limied vocabulary and read the labels. Here the selection is great: Strawberry shortcake or strawberry shortcake OR...wait for it..strawberry shortcake. You decide to take the strawberry short cake. The one you pick is shaped like a baguette, with some cream in the trench that they lovingly cut in the middle, and strawberries stuck in a row. You put the cake on a tray and go to pay.

You look ahead, and you see that there is a line to the register and people constantly try to cut in. By the time you reach the cashier, another year has passed. It is then that they tell you that if you want to take the cake home you need to go to another line. (after paying, of course. nothing is free...)

Frustrated, you go to that wrapping up/takeout line. It’s really your fault. You should have known that this will not be easy. The line moves very fast..This is Strange, you think, Surly it takes more time to wrap a cake than to pay, right? Your suspicions trouble you, but not for long. Swiftly the line goes up, until a friendly aproned staffer takes the tray. You explain to her that you want the cake in a nice box for the party, and oh, please have it wrapped up with a nice paper while your at it.

She tells you that they don’t have boxes in the right size. The strawberry shortcake baguette is too long. she is very apologetic about this. when she sees that you are not going to take this lying down, she offers to cut the long cake to pieces and put each one into a separate miserable little box. the kind they have is only enough for one person, so you will need something like ten. Of course, this is how cakes are served and SOLD in France. no one has a large box for cakes in France. no one cuts a cake in France or blows the candles on a complete cake in France. and this is supposed to be a French cake shop. Resigned to your pathetic fate, you argue a bit more.. You try to reason.. you ask for the manager. But it’s all for naught. They can’t whip boxes out of thin air, and obviously you don’t know anything about the confectionery business. A woman behind you in the line has a strawberry shortcake shaped like a big crab. it doesn’t even fit inside the tray, looking a bit like the crab wants to escape. Her cake definitely won’t fit into these boxes. Guess that her birthday spread would look much worse than yours, you try to console yourslf..Who buys crab shaped cakes to begin with?! you saw this cake on the display. there were no other animal shapes. at least you chose something easy to cut. (was this some kind of intution?).

On the way out, they have a little display of samples to taste. All of them are more of the strawberry shortcake variety. You take a toothpick. You could never say no to free stuff. The cake has the right consistency of a strawberry shortcake, and looks good. But it tastes more like white bread with mayo.

The world seems to be caving in on you as you taste the foul thing. This is what it all amounts to. This and everything else.

You throw the strawberry shortcake on the ground, making a scene in front of the shop. The owner calls the police and they take you away in a padded van that looks like a baguette-shaped strawberry shortcake that was cut in half because there is no box that could fit it . The orderlies that take you are very polite. they give you a pink canvas shirt to wear. The inner padding of the van feels and looks like strawberry shortcake..

But the taste...oh..forget it...It’s not like you have a choice..

The sun streams through your window. There are no curtains and the blinds are not closed completely. There are two windows facing the street. Between them sit a cherry wood desk upon which sits your computer monitor. It is off. The desk is clear except for the monitor. On the hutch are a laser printer, a number of CDs, and some books. Below the desk, to the right and the left, are three drawers, all closed.

On the wall to the left of your desk is a floor to ceiling, wall to wall bookcase. It, too, is dark cherry wood and is filled with books, some leather-bound, most not. To the right of your desk are a closet door, closed, and the door to the room, also closed. The skeleton key is turned in such a way that the door to your room appears locked.

There is a large comfortable looking, leather chair between the two doors and a floor lamp with a reading lamp hanging over the back of the chair. It is a dark brown with lots of cracks and creases and a small throw pillow tossed on the headrest. An ottoman of the same color sits in front of the chair, off to the side.

Opposite the windows, near the bookcase is another window that looks onto your small garden when the blinds are open. In front of the window is a high-backed leather chair, black, with an afghan thrown over the armrest. On the same wall but closer to the door, there is a night table of the same cherry wood as the other furniture. On it are a small lamp with a plum colored shade, a book of poetry that has fallen open to a page that you have obviously read many times, an answering machine, a full prescription bottle and a well-worn Bible.

On the hard wood floors there are two Karistan rugs. One runs the width of the room from the doors to the bookcase. The other, smaller, is in front of the night table. Upon it sit black slippers with gold tassels. In the four corners of the ceiling are fixed speakers from which the music of your favorite band, Pink Floyd, flows.

Between the night table and the high-backed, black leather chair, is a large sleigh bed. Its finish matches the night table and the desk. It is covered with a Ralph Lauren comforter with a paisley design in various shades of plum and green. There are also numerous throw pillows in greens, blues and plums.

You sit upon the bed facing the door. Your feet are in the black, gold-tasseled slippers. Your face is bloated from crying. Your eyes are red and swollen. Your chest rises and falls rapidly. Your lips move as if in prayer. In your hand is a gun. And in the gun is one bullet.

Your hand brings the gun to your rapidly moving lips. To your mouth that repeats not a prayer, but rather “I’m so tired.” Your eyes continue to spill tears. Your lips cease to move. Your mouth ceases to speak. You open your mouth. Your hands put the muzzle of the gun between your now quiet lips. Your eyes close. Your finger moves.

You grieve for them. You grieve for yourself. You live for them. You wish you had passed on as well. You imagine everyone you love will be taken from you. You move forward each day, even without choice, haunted by fear. You hide tears behind every smile as you celebrate each milestone and you wonder what life would be like if. If only you weren’t on this tattered path of sorrow, journeying alone.

You squeeze your eyes shut. The color of you see is almost black. As you relax your eyes and let in more light, the color lightens to magenta, then a dark, warm red. You hear the sound of creaking metal as you swing backward and tuck your striped leggings underneath the plastic seat. The calluses on your hands protect you from blisters as you grasp the metal chains holding you up, but they don't stop the chains from pinching you. Ouch! You grab another bit of the chain, one with smooth plastic on it. Your eyes are still shut, but you can see the red is changing to orange. As the swing reverses direction, you throw your legs out in front of you and lean back, letting your hair brush the tickling grass and hairy poppy plant behind you. A giggle escapes your chest. You lean further back and smile toothily, let the whole world around you see the big gap where your front tooth used to be. Orange changes to yellow, than yellowish green. The swing keeps going forward, back, creak, forward, back, creak... as you continue to pump your legs, going higher and higher. You could be an astronaut and be flying past the moon now. Or you could be a bird and have feathery wings to take you to the sky. You let your eyes open a little more and you can see the tiniest ray of sunlight, turned skinny and long like a needle. You look away from the sun because you remember that it hurts to look at it fully. Plus, your sister told somebody was blinded, and you don't want that to happen. Instead you let your eyes see the azure sky, an ocean with no waves or ships, a portal to outer space. The atmosphere. Ten thousand feet up there is a white stripe and an airplane, and if the people flying to Seattle looked just right, they would see you, a little dot swinging far down below near a little toy house that's too small to even play with. The sky is just so blue in summer.