chap 1

An Irish woman perched on the edge of a balcony in a low class inner city neighborhood as the sun began to rise from beneath the fertile earth. Her long dark reddish tresses were gathered up into a loose bun as she watched the first signs of life, human life, flow into morning routine.

Inside the cramped apartment, her two other roomies were already up and murmuring rude remarks to one another about who used the other's eye liner or who borrowed the other one's scarf but never gave it back.. If it wasn't that, then it was something about stolen money or wasted beers or used toiletries.

The Irish woman kept her distance, unable and unwilling to get involved this morning. She usually tried to intervene because something inside her couldn't stand to see people unhappy or hopeless. Seeing others happy drove her somehow, made her feel more complete. Incidentally, she wouldn't get off without being dragged into their ritual dispute.

"Monica, have you seen my nose ring?"

The redhead turned toward the sound of the voice, the oldest of the women and the angriest, Jaime. Her blond hair was shaved on the one side of her head so that the scythe tattoo was visible to onlookers. Monica offered a slight smile.

"Um, I don't think I've seen it. What did it look like?"

Jaime rolled her eyes. "It's a nose ring. Either you've seen it or you haven't."

Monica shook her head, apologetic. "Sorry. I haven't."

"Figures." Jaime stormed back into the house, cursing. Monica mused silently that maybe Jaime wouldn't keep misplacing her things if she would show up sober once in a while or not high on some recreational drug. Just as she was about to drift back into the sanctuary of her thoughts, she heard shouting behind her.

"Monica," her other roommate, Caryn came out, dreadlocks tangled about her dark head. "Can you tell Jaime that I didn't take her nose ring. First of all, I don't even have my nose pierced – and secondly, why would I even want to touch that thing?"

Monica tried to be sympathetic, but the negativity was getting the best of her. These girls made life almost impossible to enjoy. Their constant bickering came second only to their constant partying, and the partying was even worse than the fighting because at least they were relatively safe during the fighting. They generally limited themselves to harsh words and gestures, but it was harmless for the most part. The partying, on the other hand, seemed to be deliberately destructive. There were always strange men and women in the apartment, liquor, drugs and sex. Jaime played in a band whose lyrics were intentionally meant to hurt or anger the masses with talk of suicide or killing and disrespecting ones mother or uncle.

Caryn, on the other hand, was a compulsive gambler who was basically a decent human being, pudgy and sweet but who'd been disowned by her parents for gambling away their funds and causing their home to be foreclosed upon. Now, however, she and Jaime seemed to be locked in constant battle, except when they were drunk or high or laying tangled with some strange body they picked up at a club the night before.

Monica was always dismayed to find herself caught up in the whirlwind of it all, but she did her best to stay strong. She did most of the chores around the house because she didn't mind and because she brought in less money from her job than the other two. She offered as much encouragement as she could to the other girls, feeling, somehow, that it was her duty to keep up morale when things got especially stressful. She hated to admit it, however, but she was glad when they were out of the house so that she could have a bit of serenity and peace of mind. And she enjoyed to do her paintings.

When she was all alone, she loved to paint, glorious landscapes of places she always wanted to visit, nooks and crannies of places in such intricate detail that others would have sworn she'd been there – only she hadn't. The images came to her in dreams almost like memories. It filled her with joy to do this, and it made her feel like she was offering something back to the world, or something to God – like a prayer.

Before coming to stay with her two current roommates, Monica had no recollection of her past except that she'd been found sleeping in a bus stop by a policeman and offered a place to sleep in a women's shelter for the night. Everything had seemed so foreign to her, but she was in mostly good spirits except for the loneliness. She could scarcely recall her life before waking on the street that night, but she could never remember being completely alone.

"If my mother calls, tell her I died." Jaime told Monica as she lit a cigarette and stepped out into the hallway closely followed by Caryn who made a face.

"And I'm pretty sure, my mother won't be calling." she said as she shrugged, a sad smile on her lips as she waved a bit and pushed a dreadlock out of her face.

Monica returned the smile as she saw them off. She was still staring after them long after they'd left the building, and she felt a certain longing as the emptiness set in. Something about the two of them had drawn her in. When she'd interviewed to be the third roommate, they'd come across as a little too much for her. She felt certain that she'd never get any sleep with the two of them staying up late and carrying on with their daily lifestyle. In the end though, something had made her sign the lease.

Sometimes, something in Jaime's face made her remember something about her life before now. Maybe it was her grim view of life or maybe it was her sandy blond hair. Sometimes, the light would catch it a certain way and she would be reminded of someone, but she didn't know who. Caryn had a similar effect on her, the way her warm brown hand would rest on Monica's shoulder or the way she'd offer some encouragement in her steady deep voice. Also, she would hum sometimes, a soulful tune, and Monica would feel a tremble up her spine, gooseflesh up her arms. It was strange that these two women could bring her any sort of comfort, but in their own way they did.

When the clock was almost at three o'clock, Monica set out for her job, a mere two blocks away in a little coffee shop. She liked it there because she loved the smell and she didn't have any real duties aside from sweeping, changing coffee and stacking cups. For some reason, the manager never let her run register because he'd heard that she was living with a notorious gambler and didn't want to take any chances – but that was fine with Monica because she hated dealing with money. It seemed so pointless.

She was courteous to the customers, and often people complimented her on her accent or told her what a calming disposition she had. Someone once told her she had a golden aura, although she wasn't sure what they meant by that. Her manager liked her well enough and even let her hang some of her landscapes on the walls because they were so beautiful and held a nice rustic quality about them. She felt modest about them, but she also felt glad that others could enjoy them the way she did.

After a six-hour shift, she returned home, not exactly tired from being on her feet, not exactly hungry. She tended to acknowledge these needs because she felt it was the thing to do. Often, the need to sleep took her by surprise, almost as if she were just learning to do it; the same with eating. She imagined it had always been an enjoyable experience, but never necessary as it was now. Of course, she never voiced her thoughts on this matter because her roommates would look sideways at her and tell her she needed her head examined.

"I'm ordering pizza." Caryn said when she came in later. "I don't even feel like cooking anything." she glanced over at Monica. "You want anything special on it?"

Monica shrugged. "Black olives?"

Caryn smirked at her. "Black olives it is. You want sausage?"

Monica nodded. "Alright. A wee bit of meat never hurt anyone."

"Have I ever told you how cute your accent is?"

"Everyday, I think." Monica's smile was good-natured as Caryn grinned and dialed the number.

Jaime didn't get home until later, long after the pizza had arrived and been mostly eaten. She was flanked by two Japanese girls and a man in an Abe Lincoln costume. Monica watched in awe from the couch as they strolled across the living room, laughing, smelling of alcohol.

"Any messages?" Jaime asked Monica since Caryn had already gone to bed.

Monica shook her head, "No. Except one from the plumbing company. They said they would send someone out tomorrow." Monica glanced at the clock on the wall that said it was already after midnight. "Make that today."

"Cute accent." the man said, his black goatee a perfect touch. "You never told me your roommate was Irish."

Monica blushed and looked away from him as Jaime snorted. "She ain't your type, Eric, so give it up."

"How do you know?" he shrugged, winking at Monica. "You think she'd wanna join?"

Jaime smirked. "Hey, Monica, you wanna join?"

Monica looked baffled. "Join what?"

"Oh, me and Kiki and Amy and Eric were going to play in my bed." she paused for effect. "Eric wondered if you wanted in?"

Monica felt her ears blaze. She didn't even know how to respond. "No." was all she found it in herself to say. She was so thrown by the suggestion that she got up and stormed into her bedroom, the sound of giggling following her as well as the burn of Eric's stare. She closed and locked her door and sank into her bed, anger threatening to crush her. She could never remember her religious proclivities before now, but it seemed appropriate to pray, just for strength, if nothing else. Otherwise, she felt she might lose herself.