May 07, 2008

wip novel

I left her there. Left her there to fend for herself, to figure out how to get herself out of this mess we got ourselves into. The bag of pot and the smack was in her pokcet, the seven hundred in cash was in mine, and I fucking left her there.
I heard the sirens, and not mere seconds later, the walls were already flashing with red and blue, but her feverish eyes reflected the lights the brightest. I stiffened my body but loosened my grip on her arm. I stared into her brown eyes for a second - maybe I would been lost in their depths longer if they hadn't rolled back into her head, the whites jarring me from my trance.
Fighting the urge to run, I questioned whether or not she had just died. I couldn't tell. She let out a soft, hoarse moan, and somehow, that gave me the reason to run. She was alive, iI'd find her again. I ran. The whole thing must have lasted less than a minute, but it felt so much longer. I was sure I could hear the shouts of police and glass smashing as I fled out the back door.
I never knew that you could actually have coherent thoughts while in such a desperate situation, in such a panic. But there I was, running so hard that my lungs felt as if they had just taken a breath of hot lava. My worn sneakers were pound so violently on the wet concret thta i could feel droplets on my hot cheeks. I should have been screaming, crying, praying for God sake. Instead, I was thinking. Reflecting. Reminiscing. Wondering how I got here in the first place. The first reason that came to me was "because I never thought I would."

Just a few years ago, I was a good student, B average, slightly preppy, slightly punk. I considered myself to be on the verge of rebellion, dreaming of the type of person I thought I was or should be while neatly copying vocabulary for history class. I was fifteeen years old, and the only thing I had done to rebel so far was to pierce my belly-button.

My body made my mind realize that I had to stop running or I would pass out. Yellow and red spots swam in my vision as I gasped for air as discreetly as possible, leaning against the cook brick of an abonded building in an alley. I force dmyself to start walking, rounding a corning where i was confronted by familiar purple and pink neon lights. Those alone told me where I was. West 107th. The one place you could go for a lap dance, booze, prostitutes, drugs, and a great cheeseburger all in one mile stretch of road.
I reached into the pocket of my leather jacket and found a lone cigarette floating around with with gum wrappers, paper scrawled with random phone numbers, and a wad of hundred dollar bills. Seven of them.
I put the cigarette in my mouth, waiting for someone to come by and give me a light. Realizing that I didn't have a lighter on me made me jerk. The person who had my lighter and had smoked with me not an hour ago was either dead or was in so much trouble she would probably want to die.
I patted down my pockets and looked concerned. Usually that alone will provok a passer by to hold that precious flame out to you for a moment so brief that you would never see their face.
Sure enough, a few seonds went by until I saw a spark and a flickering orange light dancing in the corner of my eye. I didn't blink or look at the person offrering me my fix, just leaned towards the flame until I saw the tip turn red. I nodded and closed my eyes, hearing the stranger walk away.
My cigarette lit, I was so possessed by my first dose of nicotine that all I can think about is that I'm calm now that i've got a smoke. I listed intently, my heart finally starting to slow. I heard whistling and loud music. Shouts and the hum of electric lights. I pushed myself off the wall and started walking down the boulevard slowly, acting as nonchalant as possible. I caught the thick, sour scent of alcohol and walked faster when I realized it was coming from behind me.

"Hey baby, can I pay you for a dance?"

I whirled around to discover the slurred voice was from a drunk, dishevled man in a suit, holidng a fifty out to me. I must have looked disgusted, but after a moment, I realized I just looked inconvenienced at worst.
"Dan, look, not tonight. I've got to get home." I said, my voice surely giving me away. It was shaking badly, not to mention my uncomforatble, fidgety stance and shifty eyes. I was nearly calling the police on myself.
I turned to leave, but Dan grabbed my arm violently.
"But Tuesday is our night baby. C'mon, I'll rub my back for you?"
I rolled my eyes.
"Well, it's Thursday night Dan." I said coldly, twisting out of his grip. I was gwoing more and more anxious to get moving again, to get further and further away from the seemingly unreal trouble I was in. I quickly took the gold band off my thumb and thrust it at Dan.
"I have to go!" I said, turning and wlaking briskly in the direction of my partment.
I heard him fumble for his widding band and curse. I glanced backwards to see him staggering towards a vacant, dark doorway to take antoehr swig of the whiskey in hsi pocket.
I was still panicking, as if the realization of how deep the shit I was actually in was just dawning on me. I started a mantra in my head, constantly reassuring myself that eveyrhting was okay and that nothing was out of ordinary. When that didn't work, I attepted to convince myself that everything was okay or out of the ordinary. I pulled the collar of my fur-lined coat up to my chin, not sure whether or not I was cold or if I was trying to look inconspicuous.

Another few blocks and my building came into view. I was beyond thankful that tonight was my night off, I wouldn't have made it in high heels and a mini-skirt. I went in the back door, grabbing the key from under the rock, seoncd boarded up window on the right. it was getting easier to calm down. My legs stopped vibrating the more stairs I climbed. I smashed what was left of my cigarette out on th wall in the stairwell. By the time I got to the fourth floor, my limbs hung at my sides and my eyelids drooped, but it was a million times better to look exhausted than guilty.
As soon as I opneed the door to my drafty studio however, I broke down. My muscles tensed again as I eyed the phone nervously, my ears attentive to every sound psosisble. Tears streaked down my face, sliding down the grease and landing on the wooden floor with a disturbingly loud plip. I started skaing and guiling in air, too much congested, contaminated air that never left the room. Tears were literally making a small puddle on the floor, and even as ai watehced the liquied sink into the warped boards, i couldn't pull myself away from the door. behind y back i laid my palms against the paper think door, exerting pressure onto it in an effort to get rid of the lead weirght tht threateened to crush my heart and lungs. I fi could take it out on something outidie of me that maybe it cou'd'nt destrop me from the inside.

Too long I cried, sinking down into a fetal position on the ratty welcome mat that sat crumpled up at the entrance to my apartment, pressing my face into the mashed fibers, gripding my cheek into it, abusing my flesh and rubbing it raw. Finally I exhauste dmyself. I pused aside the mat and laid my ear on the floor, feeling tiny splinters embedding themselves in my skin. Instead of listening to myself cry, I listened to Mrs.McMurtie's soap apears playing below me, or her "stories" as she called them. Seveal times she had caught me in the foyer, struggling to carry her papy bag of groceries up the three flights of stairs. She w0ould eye me shyling, waiting until I felt guilty about not helping an old lady, tuntil I would give her my bggest smile and carry the bag upstairs for her. She would talk non-stop the while way. About her son, who lived in California, her cat that died two yeasr ago from an unknown casuse, and about how much she loved tuna fish.

She taped at least four different soap operas a day while she bought herself cans of tuna and Metamuscil at the dumpy little market down the street. After that, she would spend the next couple of hours lounging in the plasic folding chairs near the counter, chatting with the smelly old couple that owned th estore. Then she would go to be "beauty parlor" and get her hair curled. More discussion about social security as well as new and old health problems would be the close to her evening.

So just when her hair looked perfect, she would go home and watch her soap operas for the rest of the night. She would be up past one on certain nights. I thought maybe she had someone of the episodes twice in one night since her memory wasn't so sharp anymore.
Even in my pathetic state, I felt sorry for old Mrs.McMurtie, sitting alone with her knick-knacks and and tuna, wathcin gdaytime television at night and popping pills.

The thoguht of "I hope I never become like her when i'm old" crept into my head and sat there for a few minutes before I realzied that I already was. I turned that over in my head a few times, then shifted and rolled onto my back, staring at the water stained ceiling that creaked above me. I considered my daily routine.
I would wake up around two in the afternoon and complain out loud to myself about the pain I was in, usually a hangover and an aching cunt. I would down some mills, get myself all dolled up and head oustide, talking and dealing and buying. While I'm out I ususally burn some Pink Floyd on my computer or tape some cult classic running on cable. I come home alone, in more pain. A few more pills and a baloney sandwich. I shoot up, smoke a cigarette, and litter my studio with my prized possessions. A carton, a bag, a box of condoms. A handful of jewelry and a wad of cash.
I collapse on my futon, watch a movie or l isten to music. Sometiems the phone rings and I listen to whatever the other person is saying.
"Fuck I'm Mrs.McMurtie." I said aloud, breaking the most tense silence I've ever wrapped myself up in. I dared yself to look up at the clock on the table across the room. the bright red "12:52" illumiating a used syringe laying in front of it. For some reason, I flet calm. I was safe at home. Even if I wasn't really safe, I was home. It was easy to forget what had just happpened when i was home. I came here to get away from everything. Everyone I had ever met or was friends with had never seen my apartment. I didn't let anyone in. This was the place I went to get away, it was the oly thing that was mine. Not even my body was my own anymore....but this studio, which I padi for in blood money each month, was all mine.

I felt relaxed, and I love dit. I took great advantage of the brief euphoria, and plulled myself up. I swayed a bit and walked into the bedroom. I laid down on my bed and smoked weed from a pipe while my head dangled over the side of the matress, mixing the head rush with the high. I was asleep in no time.

I saw my house, nestled between three pines and flowing trees whose long brances cascaded to the flower beds next to the garage.

I stood contemplating the possible meaning of her shirt before I finally brought my eyes up to hers.

�Hi, sorry to bother you, but I was just wondering if you lost a cat?�

I must have looked dumbfounded or half-dead because she raised her eyebrows as if to prompt an answer from me.

She tried again.

�I found a female cat in the hallway earlier. A gray tabby?�

I squeezed my eyes shut and pursed my lips before I realized what I should say.

�Mmm...no sorry. It�s not mine.�

I thought about closing the door but the oddity of this girl appearing at my apartment on this morning with that shirt left me with an unsettling feeling. I tried to look as casual as possible, not sure if I had already left any semblance of normal behind the moment I opened my door.

�Do you know of anyone else who it could belong to?� She asked.

I didn�t think of all the possible consequences before I decided to continue this conversation.

�No actually, I don�t. But, um, sorry I thought I knew everyone in this building. Just wondering....who...you are?�

I had to concentrate on speaking slowly and clearly, without sounding like a suspicious bitch. Surprisingly, the girl smiled.

�Sorry, um, my name is Summer. I�m friends with Luke. Third floor? Know him?� She asked.

�Yeah...a little. He just moved in like, a few months ago right?�

�You got it. He�s a bit of a freak, but I love �em.� She laughed and then cocked her head to the side, giving me the feeling that she wanted me to say something.

�I don�t think he knows me. I�m Amy.� I said.

Summer stuck out her hand to shake mine. I slowly offered my clammy hand and she shook it tight and brief.

She raised an eyebrow. �Long night?�

�Just couldn�t sleep, you know.� I replied.

�I do know. Smoking helps.� She said, and I knew she wasn�t talking about cigarettes. However, I didn�t get the sense from her that she was the type who did any drugs. It probably tied in to the fact that she seemed very out of place in this building, which I think you could technically call a �crack apartment complex�.

�Anyway, thanks for your help. Stop up and say �hi� if you ever want to. We�re usually just hanging out. Apartment 311.� She turned to leave.

�Yeah, good luck with the cat.� I said as she started heading up the stairs.

She turned back. �Thanks!�

I slowly shut my door, thinking that if I do everything slowly and calmly I can avoid any and all suspicion in relation to last night. Or any night, for that matter.

I sat down and massaged my temples, thinking about how I got to the point I was at. It wasn't something I liked to do, but more and more often i've found myspef realizing my life was in shambles. I dug deep, coming to upsetting, disappointing and depressing conclusions. I realized tht what led me down the path i was currently on was not due to a traumatic childhood or troubled family life. if anything my childhood was too boring. While over-all a good and decent women, i didn't think that my mother, sharon, was capable of anything else as basic as that. she was unfortunately "blah." growing up, the only intersting things i experirenced were provided by other people. my parents had enough money to let me do anything i wanted, and apparenlty they thought it was the best thing for me to spend more time at school, camps, and extracurricular activities than at home. and when at home that's all we would talk about. there was no emotion, no true bonding or love in my family.

Again, not because my parents were bad people, just because that's how htey were raised. i saw the same conventiional, "blah" follower in my sister. she was nothing special, sorry to say. i felt as if i was a strong wind, desperate to move and create something, whether productive or descructive and i was closed up tight in a box. a free spirit held in place by nothing more than a family void of passion. i think they only reason my parents got married and had children was because it was the "normal" and conventioan thing to do. I don't think they understoond that they even had a choice regarding the matter. to everything else i'm sure my family seemed like every other suburban couple. they that's all they were. my mothers conversations could never go beyond small talk, and therefore never had any close friends or relationships.

my father was just too serious to make any friends. my parents' marriage and relationship wored soley because they tolerated a lackluster one. how my sister and i even came into existence is amazing to me. i can just picture my parents on their honeymoon.

"Paul, would you like me to light some candles? Should I?" my mother would ask.

"Yes, I suppose, if you'd like to. Just let me know when you're ready to have sex." he would respond.

I also recall that my answer to the child-like questions of honest and pure curiousity was "because that's what you're supposed to do." or "because that's what is supposed to happen."

No explaination. "Supposed" It's a curse of a wood. My parents lived by it.

As i became older, what i believe is a natural occurance (at least in most people) began to emerge in me. it could be best described as a longing. a craving. when you hit pueberty you don't, or can't, undesrstand what it is you want. i've come to believe that it's something only humans want. Drama. A more modern word these days for "excitement". Challenges, decisions, emotions, and interactions with as many people and places as possible.

needingalex at 1:01 a.m.

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