Part Four~ "Keep Your Friends Close"
Our blink trip takes us to a little apartment in a different part of LA than I live.
Little gold lights hang from the windows, suggesting a warm glow in the cool night air.
But as I step closer to the door, I notice that it is coated in a thick layer of dust.
Who lives here?
There's only one way to find out.
I push open the door and am surprised to see Francie inside, in a small kitchen. She's humming a sad, slow tune and spreading red and green star shaped sprinkles onto a tray of sugar cookies.
Everything inside this apartment, Francie included, looks tired, fading, and strangely unkempt.
I'm about to say something to her when I hear a familiar voice call her name. "Hey, Baby."
Oh, God. No. Charlie.
"Hey," Francie quietly says back.
Charlie walks up behind her and puts a hand on her back. Francie whips around.
"I saw you with Carla this morning," she tells him accusingly.
"Babe, I'm not cheating on you. We've been through this."
"I know," Francie answers.
"Frankly, I'm getting tired of you accusing me. We've been married for a year. You still don't trust me. You know what? Learn to trust me or I'm gone."
"Charlie-"
"I just need some time to think right now." And he exits.
I watch in horror as a man I despise shuts the door, leaving my best friend standing alone, her eyes glazed with tears.
I want to help her. I want to comfort her. Gently, I try to lay a hand on her shoulder. It floats right through, clear to the other side like a knife through butter.
Francie doesn't even flinch.
"Fran...?"
"She can't see you or hear you. You can't touch her. You don't exist," Kate reminds me, emerging again.
Francie pulls a can of beer out from the fridge and swills it down.
"Francie doesn't drink..." I slowly whisper.
Kate's silence is the only answer I need. She does now.
I ignore her comment about invisibility and try again. "Francie! Francie, listen to me! It's me, Sydney! Your best friend Sydney!"
Kate gives me a sympathetic glance as I desperately call Francie's name, scream, do anything to get her attention. "Come on," she says, touching my arm. "We should go."
Before I have time to argue, we are somewhere else again. This room is cleaner in appearance than Francie's broken down apartment, but I sense that not all is right.
There are lots of people in this spotless, white room. Most of them are around my age, but some seem even younger and a few are older as well. All of them have one thing in common.
They all seem miserable.
I watch closely as each one in the group takes a seat in a plastic chair, all of which are arranged in rows in the center of the room.
And then I see the person seated in the first chair stand hesitantly, a black muscle shirt about four sizes too big enveloping the top half of his body, and covering also the top part of ripped, faded blue jeans. I'm shocked when I recognize the face.
He opens his mouth and speaks, "My name is Will..."
His facial features are clouded and he stops, not sure if he should go on. Everything is silent, and there's a naive voice in the back of my head trying to convince me that everything is okay here. That Will is here even when I do exist.
But I notice the light reddish scars dressing the inner part of his arm, and I know the truth.
"My name is Will and I am an addict."
Our blink trip takes us to a little apartment in a different part of LA than I live.
Little gold lights hang from the windows, suggesting a warm glow in the cool night air.
But as I step closer to the door, I notice that it is coated in a thick layer of dust.
Who lives here?
There's only one way to find out.
I push open the door and am surprised to see Francie inside, in a small kitchen. She's humming a sad, slow tune and spreading red and green star shaped sprinkles onto a tray of sugar cookies.
Everything inside this apartment, Francie included, looks tired, fading, and strangely unkempt.
I'm about to say something to her when I hear a familiar voice call her name. "Hey, Baby."
Oh, God. No. Charlie.
"Hey," Francie quietly says back.
Charlie walks up behind her and puts a hand on her back. Francie whips around.
"I saw you with Carla this morning," she tells him accusingly.
"Babe, I'm not cheating on you. We've been through this."
"I know," Francie answers.
"Frankly, I'm getting tired of you accusing me. We've been married for a year. You still don't trust me. You know what? Learn to trust me or I'm gone."
"Charlie-"
"I just need some time to think right now." And he exits.
I watch in horror as a man I despise shuts the door, leaving my best friend standing alone, her eyes glazed with tears.
I want to help her. I want to comfort her. Gently, I try to lay a hand on her shoulder. It floats right through, clear to the other side like a knife through butter.
Francie doesn't even flinch.
"Fran...?"
"She can't see you or hear you. You can't touch her. You don't exist," Kate reminds me, emerging again.
Francie pulls a can of beer out from the fridge and swills it down.
"Francie doesn't drink..." I slowly whisper.
Kate's silence is the only answer I need. She does now.
I ignore her comment about invisibility and try again. "Francie! Francie, listen to me! It's me, Sydney! Your best friend Sydney!"
Kate gives me a sympathetic glance as I desperately call Francie's name, scream, do anything to get her attention. "Come on," she says, touching my arm. "We should go."
Before I have time to argue, we are somewhere else again. This room is cleaner in appearance than Francie's broken down apartment, but I sense that not all is right.
There are lots of people in this spotless, white room. Most of them are around my age, but some seem even younger and a few are older as well. All of them have one thing in common.
They all seem miserable.
I watch closely as each one in the group takes a seat in a plastic chair, all of which are arranged in rows in the center of the room.
And then I see the person seated in the first chair stand hesitantly, a black muscle shirt about four sizes too big enveloping the top half of his body, and covering also the top part of ripped, faded blue jeans. I'm shocked when I recognize the face.
He opens his mouth and speaks, "My name is Will..."
His facial features are clouded and he stops, not sure if he should go on. Everything is silent, and there's a naive voice in the back of my head trying to convince me that everything is okay here. That Will is here even when I do exist.
But I notice the light reddish scars dressing the inner part of his arm, and I know the truth.
"My name is Will and I am an addict."