My lighter is trembling in my hands. I fumble with it blindly, hoping I can keep the flame alive.
My hands give up the battle and the lighter is drifting to the ground,
the image of the flame still burning in my eyes. Even though it lay on the cold dark tile now, it's done it's job.
A pearly white cloud of smoke snakes itself out from deep in my lungs. It burns like hell in my throat, but it tickles my tongue gently.
This is the only thing keeping me going. This is the moment I live for. The part where the fog of momentary relief creates a friendly swarm all around me.
Disorienting me. Obstructing my view of my world. Almost making me forget. In this moment I can almost see happiness.
Happiness. The word seems so distant. I know what it means, but I don't know what it is. I know I have felt it once before. All I can grasp is a quick glimpse of a bitter sweet memory. Then it goes away. Back where it came from. It comes and goes in a vast wave of emotion. Engulfing everything, then leaving me cold and miserable.
….
Small red beads are forming on my wrists. They grow, slowly, until they can't stand on their own and start streaming down my for-arms. My numbness leaves me for just a moment, but the burden comes back after the sharp stinging stops. I watch until the beads are dried. Then I take another take another strike at my wrist.
A swift, graceful, experienced movement. Careful not to cut too deep, because I know if I do I will be kicked out of my house again. I'll have to again depend on a friend, whether it's Mary Jane, or another friend from school. All because my razor fell too deep in my pale, bleeding flesh.
….
Drugs, laced with drugs, laced with drugs. Story of my life.
Cheap drugs. The only kind I can get. All of my drugs seem to be laced. I've grown addictions I don't even know I have. I have a gaping hole in my soul, but I can't find the source of the pain. All I know to do is keep feeding my beast.
How can I ask or forgiveness when I don't even know to be sorry for my wrong doing?
My head is screaming. It's telling me I need it. I know my head is right. It always is.
…
She keeps me breathing. Every day she comforts me. The smile she offers is the world to me. Every time I call with a bottle of pills in my hands, I hang up with a smile.
I love her more than anyone will ever understand. I love her as much as it is physically possible to and be considered straight. Like for real. Not a homo.
We don't just share a brain, we share a heart, soul, and everything in between. We finish each other's sentences, like all best friends, but with ours, we don't even have to say it out loud. Secrets are nonexistent with us. We tell each other anything and everything. She believes me, no matter what I say.
This kind of friendship is the kind people think only exists in Lalaland. If so, welcome to Lalaland, population: me and Ashley. The closest homosapiens in existence.
I don't know what I would do without that chick. I can't really breathe without my second set of lungs.
…..
No. I am not a prostitute. Everyone just assumes that I am, to support my addictions. No. I wouldn't do that. Never. I wouldn't just sell myself to a guy who doesn't know me, and doesn't give a damn that I'm only fifteen.
But I do, in fact, steal from my friends and family. You ask how I could do this to them. But answer me this, do you think they would rather lose some cash every once in a while, or have me sell myself to a stranger?
Which one would hurt them more?
…..
I may be addicted to drugs, but that doesn't mean I don't want to wait for sex. Just because of my life controlling addictions people assume I'm a whore, and that's all I could amount to. That's the why no one believes it was rape.
He was just the new kid. He seemed so innocent. I mean, why would he not? He played every card so well. How could you believe the addicted slut, compared to him, that sexy bastard with those deep blue eyes, slightly hidden by dark, well groomed, wisps of hair, hanging carelessly over his face. When I first saw him I fell. Hard. But it still wasn't as hard as I thought I had.
I was pushed over to that awkward corner where he was standing by my friends, who could read my thoughts through my eyes. I couldn't pull back or run
, there was too many people moving around us. They forced me to talk to him, otherwise I would've been to shy, like I always am.
I always seem to hide behind my unnaturally red hair, which is always teased to the max and falling over my face. My eyeliner doesn't help either. I always look like a stoned raccoon, and I hate it, but I need it, or else I won't be accepted in society.
But that point of view kind of changed when I talked to him.
He made me feel beautiful, without saying it. He complimented me without words. His smooth words seemed to come easily. They all just fell into place.
He made the world fade away when I talked to him. It was all in moment. The minutes blended together like the colors of the ocean.
I knew it was too good to be true, but I refused to believe it. I had to believe those eyes. I felt like I could see his heart though the deepness of his eyes. It was beyond words.
But that moment had to end. The guy who threw the party kicked us out so he could crash on the couch and wait for his hangover. I checked my phone. It was 4:30 AM.
We decided to hang out in his old black van. (I know. Classic rape story. Stupid on my part.) he sat in the back seat, and we talked for a while longer.
His soft lips started caressing mine. It was so smooth, I didn't even realize what was happening. He got more passionate. Second thoughts were racing through my head. They didn't stop for a moment after that. He tried lifting up my shirt, so I pulled away. He just persisted.
I tried to talk him out of it and get him to drive me home. He just got angry. He grabbed shirt tightly and stared into my eyes. Despite the darkness, I could see myself in his eyes. Those deep blue eyes I will never forget, because I'm sure it's drilled into memory too far too erase.
He pulled out a switch blade and held it to my abdomen. It drove through my shirt and my skin and I immediately felt my blood wet my shirt. He wrenched the blade upwards swiftly and my shirt fell away. He cut the straps of my bra and ripped them off with his teeth, as if still trying to seduce me.
I screamed. Louder than I thought possible. He bounded back. I suppose I startled him, because when he jumped back and hit his head on something.
"God damnit!" he screamed.
He was furious. Then I realized that when he jumped the blade slipped through his hands and left a terrifying gash on his hand.
He jerked his head towards me. His hair shook in his face, obscuring his beautiful eyes. His veins were popping out of his neck.
He unfastened his skinny jeans. Blood from his hand flung into my face at the sudden movement. I scrambled over the seat and cowered in the corner. He suddenly lunged towards me and grabbed my hair. I screamed again but he was prepared this time. He didn't even flinch.
I could feel his blood trickling down the back of my neck. I could smell it too. It went all the way down my bare, naked back.
He commanded me to open my mouth, but I didn't. He thrashed my head around by my hair. I screamed again, and he took the opportunity.
Right then. That's when he claimed me.
…
Two lines.
That's all that is going through my head right now.
Why?
Why did it have to be two lines? I keep checking to make sure I read it right. The image is running through my head. Over. And over. And over.
The lines in reality are only about half a centimeter long, but in my head they run on for miles. They just single handedly ruined my future. The lines run, and run, without looking ahead. They don't think of the consequences.
But I mean, I can't blame them.
Pregnancy tests don't have that type of reasoning.
….
Deep breathing. That's the only sound that's comforting me right now. Deep breathing insures me that she's safe. She's saved me so many times. She's stayed up with me all night on the phone. She's made me drop the pills. Every time.
Tonight she showed up at my doorstep at 3:00 AM. She's done this a few times, but never like this. She had a huge welt by her eye, and bruises all over her arms and legs.
She was in fetal position sitting in the corner of my front porch, crying softly into her knees. I knew what had happened right away. Her dad had beaten her.
I curled up next to her and kissed her warm, tender head.
She broke into harder tears an explained how her drunken father beaten her mindlessly after catching her smoking again. As if his own hands were clean.
I wiped away her tears with my fingertips, then ran them through her hair, revealing all of her nasty scars that were hidden by her bangs. I laid my head on hers. I could smell old smoke in her hair, which wasn't unusual.
Her hair blew softly in the wind. It tickled my cheek, so I moved slightly. She looked up and stared at me blankly. This confused me. Her face was completely expressionless. Then she dropped completely. She collapsed on the cement of my doorstep. She was sprawled out limply. Her eyelids fluttered and she opened her eyes.
She was pretty disoriented for a while. Once she was back in focus she broke into tears again. She insisted she wanted to go home. There was no way in hell she was going home then.
I forced her inside and got her to lay down. She was resistant, but she laid her head on my lap. Her head was warm on my legs. I stroked her head, running my fingers through her hair.
After about half an hour her tears stopped. She insisted she was fine then, but I didn't think so. I knew she felt like shit. She was just too full of pride to admit it, but I would be too. Soon enough she was asleep. Breathing deeply.
…..