I knew quitting smoking would be a bad idea. Now I realize why my mother never even attempted. I have not slept for more than three hours since I started this battle two days ago.
When I closed my eyes, I saw her sitting cross-legged in front of me on the balcony of our Houston condominium. I gestured down the street, where someone had left their blinds open and their TV on.
“Other people need to sleep to the television too, I guess. It’s not just you.”
She laughs and turns to look while I stare at her—how her hair flows when her heads turns, how her body stretches provocatively and how the pajamas she borrowed from me accentuate every curve of her body. I wanted her so badly, I could feel my body temperature rising.
“Remember when you were kicking me off your bed and I knocked that shitty TV over? And you fell asleep on your living room floor because you were addicted to it.” We both laughed and fell into a comfortable silence.
“I’m glad we’re friends again, Krystal, and that you came to Houston with me. After everything that’s happened—it’s nice to know someone will be there when you really need them.”
She smiles because she never talks in my hallucinations. In real life, if she talks to me, it’s to yell or insult me or somehow hurt my feelings. That’s why my mind keeps her silent, I think.
I opened my eyes, a good idea since they’re swelling up with tears. When my sleeve wipes them, the fabric grazes my skin and it feels hard and cruel. It scratches me, bringing a new onslaught of delusions.
This one is more like my dream every night.
I sit on the same balcony I imagined she one did. My cigarette is almost finished, and the cherry is the brightest thing for miles once the morning fog settles in. It’s almost five in the morning. Doors are shutting from houses below the eleventh floor, where I watch. Little kids are waving goodbye to their mommies and daddies. A car rolls by with tinted windows and a base I’m sure is loud enough that even my house back home can feel. It sends vibrations through my body and makes me shiver, though there’s only a tiny breeze surrounding.
I look up at the clouds that are slowly fading away and in them, I can see her face. Her teeth, how insecure she was of them because the front ones are less straight than the rest, are white as the walls in this stuffy company apartment. Her skin is as tan as it was after the many beach trips we took instead of going to school. The best part about her is that she is smiling at me. She looks friendly, inviting. So, I stand up. My cigarette falls from my hand, almost in shock, that I’m seeing Krystal in the sky, and even worse, she’s being friendly. She gestures for me to take her hand, and I know she’s far away, but I step onto the railing and climb to the ledge anyways.
I let the air encase me and I revel in the excitement of being in her warm arms again, of being in her favor. I take a step forward and falter, because there’s no more ledge. She’s almost pleading with me now to join her, but, again, she’s silent so she uses her eyes; those damn copper coins I can’t avoid, lie, or stand firm against. I nod, and shrug in a careless way, before jumping to reach her outstretched fingers.
Then her face disappears, I wake up in panic, and realize how close the street below is coming to my face. I hit the ground before my screams leave my throat and I die. But my last thought is always that she didn’t mean to kill me because she loves me.
Writing this is a horrible idea. Talking about it is worse, true, but if this gets recognized as my life, my secret will be out. Talk about your walk-in closet—mine has everything I need. I’ve lived in that closet for about two years now.
I built it when I kissed Lucy at her sixteenth birthday party. That was a lifetime ago, but still detrimental to the forming of my decaying heterosexuality.
However, this story doesn’t start at the beginning. It cant. Nope, this sordid teenage saga begins with a great American symbol for the end of the childhood and the start of a new frightening journey: Graduation.
When I closed my eyes, I saw her sitting cross-legged in front of me on the balcony of our Houston condominium. I gestured down the street, where someone had left their blinds open and their TV on.
“Other people need to sleep to the television too, I guess. It’s not just you.”
She laughs and turns to look while I stare at her—how her hair flows when her heads turns, how her body stretches provocatively and how the pajamas she borrowed from me accentuate every curve of her body. I wanted her so badly, I could feel my body temperature rising.
“Remember when you were kicking me off your bed and I knocked that shitty TV over? And you fell asleep on your living room floor because you were addicted to it.” We both laughed and fell into a comfortable silence.
“I’m glad we’re friends again, Krystal, and that you came to Houston with me. After everything that’s happened—it’s nice to know someone will be there when you really need them.”
She smiles because she never talks in my hallucinations. In real life, if she talks to me, it’s to yell or insult me or somehow hurt my feelings. That’s why my mind keeps her silent, I think.
I opened my eyes, a good idea since they’re swelling up with tears. When my sleeve wipes them, the fabric grazes my skin and it feels hard and cruel. It scratches me, bringing a new onslaught of delusions.
This one is more like my dream every night.
I sit on the same balcony I imagined she one did. My cigarette is almost finished, and the cherry is the brightest thing for miles once the morning fog settles in. It’s almost five in the morning. Doors are shutting from houses below the eleventh floor, where I watch. Little kids are waving goodbye to their mommies and daddies. A car rolls by with tinted windows and a base I’m sure is loud enough that even my house back home can feel. It sends vibrations through my body and makes me shiver, though there’s only a tiny breeze surrounding.
I look up at the clouds that are slowly fading away and in them, I can see her face. Her teeth, how insecure she was of them because the front ones are less straight than the rest, are white as the walls in this stuffy company apartment. Her skin is as tan as it was after the many beach trips we took instead of going to school. The best part about her is that she is smiling at me. She looks friendly, inviting. So, I stand up. My cigarette falls from my hand, almost in shock, that I’m seeing Krystal in the sky, and even worse, she’s being friendly. She gestures for me to take her hand, and I know she’s far away, but I step onto the railing and climb to the ledge anyways.
I let the air encase me and I revel in the excitement of being in her warm arms again, of being in her favor. I take a step forward and falter, because there’s no more ledge. She’s almost pleading with me now to join her, but, again, she’s silent so she uses her eyes; those damn copper coins I can’t avoid, lie, or stand firm against. I nod, and shrug in a careless way, before jumping to reach her outstretched fingers.
Then her face disappears, I wake up in panic, and realize how close the street below is coming to my face. I hit the ground before my screams leave my throat and I die. But my last thought is always that she didn’t mean to kill me because she loves me.
Writing this is a horrible idea. Talking about it is worse, true, but if this gets recognized as my life, my secret will be out. Talk about your walk-in closet—mine has everything I need. I’ve lived in that closet for about two years now.
I built it when I kissed Lucy at her sixteenth birthday party. That was a lifetime ago, but still detrimental to the forming of my decaying heterosexuality.
However, this story doesn’t start at the beginning. It cant. Nope, this sordid teenage saga begins with a great American symbol for the end of the childhood and the start of a new frightening journey: Graduation.
