DAY 30.

When the night comes, she moves. It’s winter and her body aches. Her joints feel all wrong. Stiff. Tired. There’s been too much weight settled on her back. Her body is put into motion.

All of the thoughts she has in her head can be laid out on the road. The car is warm when she climbs inside. She traces her hands down over the steering wheel, feeling the power she has behind the wheel. The streets are slick. The wind bites at her face. Her cheeks are left red and stinging. She wishes she brought gloves.

The hint of frost is in the air. Her windowpanes are caked with ice. The heater is turned on and she waits for the defrost. Her car is stalled in a busy parking lot. This is where she starts her night. Shoppers are spilling out of the grocery store, carrying their bags of food and holiday items. They all look angry about the weather. They are bundled up in scarves and jackets. They have people to go home to and sit with next to a fire. She imagines they’ll relax in their living rooms and drink hot cocoa. The car is warming and she watches them from where she sits. Her breath catches in her chest when she sees him.

Tall and thin. Shaggy hair. Loping walk. Huddled against the wind. That blue corduroy jacket. The stubble on his chin.

It’s not who she thought, but the similarities make her feel uncomfortable. Nauseous. Completely sickened. She remembers why she got in her car. This ride has become something of a ritual. The only way she knows how to relax. She pulls away from the parking lot and begins to feel her heart breaking. The first tiny flakes of snow are hitting her windshield. They lie for a second on the glass before evaporating. She turns her music on. Each song has been hand-selected. The notion of the mixtape might be dead to some, but she’d never believe it. The volume is turned up and she begins to drive.

At this time of night, the streets are emptier than usual. She knows the route she’ll take. All of the stop signs, the neighborhood houses, the restaurants, they’re all familiar. But she barely sees them. She is functioning on auto-pilot.

Gas. Brake. Left turn signal. Windshield wipers. Volume control.

She’s done this drive before, almost a year ago to the day. When he hurt her for the first time. The new year was meant to bring change. Happiness. Wisdom. She had that for awhile but it’s gone away again. The same person stole it from her. He sucked the happy dry like a vampire. It’s winter and she’s lonely. She goes down side streets. She passes his house and slows only for a minute. His bedroom light is on and she tries not to picture the posters on his walls. The hot chocolate on his stove. The wrapping paper in the trash. His favorite book still lying on her dresser. He won’t get that back.

She continues her drive further out of town. The snow is picking up. The flakes are a little bigger now.

This is the part of the drive she likes best. All of the songs remind her of him and she lets herself cry. There are no oncoming headlights exposing her. This road is the blackest she’s ever been on. She drives a steady speed, still wary of black ice. Every mile that gets put behind her is another mile to forget everything. She can’t see more than a few feet ahead of her. This is how she likes to keep things. Only the darkness for the next long stretch of road.

Tags: breakups, driving, loneliness, memories, music, patterns, pessimism, relationships, sadness, sanity, unrequited love, winter, youth

DAY 29.

The ocean crawls across the sand, reaching their bare feet. The sun is just going down for the day. All the locals have gone home. Only the tourists remain. The smell of salt hangs in the air. Her skin feels sticky, like the taffy that was sold on the boardwalk. He holds her too tight. She steps away, not wanting to feel him. His hand is too much. The sun is a small sliver on the horizon now. With every second that passes, it gets a little lower.

“You wanna go back to the hotel?” he asks her. He bought her a necklace earlier today. On a thin string hangs a sand dollar. It rests against her chest now, pale white against her tanned skin. She can’t believe something so fragile, this little piece of the ocean, managed to make it to the shore. It never chipped. It was never broken. It is perfect and smooth. Bleached from the sun. Unblemished. He had fastened the clasp around her neck while they stood eating hot dogs on one of the docks. He’d pulled her hair a little by accident.

“I think I want to stay out here a little longer,” she says, walking away from him. She moves down the sand. Her feet sink in a little more with each step. She doesn’t like thinking about the hotel. That is the place where she doesn’t recognize him. She has no idea who she lays next to every night. In the dark, she can’t remember herself. The days before him.

She walks along the coastline and leaves him standing where he is. An abandoned sandcastle is getting threatened by the waves. The tide is shifting. In a few more moments, the castle will fall. It will be swept away to the salt and the sea urchins, the colder water and the sharks. The other visitors of this beach won’t ever know it was here in the morning. The water will wipe it clean away.

Tags: beach, doubt, failed relationships, individuality, oceans, sandcastles, silence

DAY 28.

He’s got this power over everyone like he’s a priest. The stage is his pulpit. He’s delivering us from something but we’re not so sure what that something is. We all want to be saved.

Everyone is waiting with bated breath for the next line he’s gonna drop. Each lyric is like a prayer we’ve memorized before we go to sleep. His eyes are half closed the entire time. He never looks directly at the audience. He knows we’re there but doesn’t want to see us. Spit is flying from his mouth with every word he sings. It hangs in the air and shoots from him like a cannon. He’s got on a ratty, old sweatshirt and skinny jeans. A pack of cigarettes weighs down his left pocket. He holds his beer in one hand and takes a swig before returning to the microphone.

We listen hard. He makes us move and sway. His body contorts as he plucks the strings on his guitar. His fingernails are cut down to stubs. Callouses line his fingers as he closes his eyes and sinks down to the floor, letting the music surround us all. He’d break our hearts in a minute if he wanted to. We all know that. His voice has some edge to it. There’s grit there, laced in with the smoothness of his falsetto. The higher notes come as a surprise. He steals his violin player’s whiskey. Every few songs he stops and takes a few more sips. He says thank you a lot. He’s not a big talker. We cheer and we clap.

This is the closest we get to a religious experience. With his lazy stare, his unkempt hair, his preference of expensive beers, we all want to know him. We think he could be God, if he wanted to. Or a puppet master. He plays the music and pulls the strings. We love each cymbal crash. We adore each cracked smile he shares with his backing band. We’d believe anything.

Tags: alcohol, concert, music, priest, religion

DAY 27.

She remembers everything. Mainly the bad, but some of the good. She’d love to say she’s over you but it still hurts. There’s still that tiny bit of pain coursing through her when she thinks about you. She wonders what exactly went wrong. Despite all your excuses, she still wasn’t good enough for you. It won’t do any good to ask you now. She doesn’t have your number. You’ve moved on and that’s acceptable. That’s fine. She’s been trying but it has gotten her to all the wrong places. You’ve won the break up and that much is clear. You’re in a stable relationship and she’s still floundering. But it amazes her, what you once said. You told her you were no good at relationships. That you hated titles. That you couldn’t abandon her here in this town while you went away and graduated.

But look at you now.

She knows all about your girlfriend. The one that you don’t mind telling people about. She knows that your girlfriend is in the same town as she is. She thinks about these things and feels terrible about herself. She knows you were nowhere near good enough for her. But regardless, she loved you. You were the first everything. That doesn’t just fade with time. You’re one of those people that will stick with her no matter what she does. She can throw herself into these meaningless relationships but they don’t fix her. No one is capable of fully fixing her. She’ll drink away your memory. She’ll crawl into bed with a different person for the sake of forgetting you. But she knows that somewhere, in the back of her mind, your memory will never leave her. Not entirely. Not the way it needs to.

DAY 26.

The lights are dimmed and that’s when it starts. This crowd is tame. They don’t drunkenly bump into each other or claw their ways to the front of the pack. They just stand, patient, awaiting the moment when all the waiting is worth it. The clinking of bottles accompanies the opening acts. They’re trying hard to win us over. The sweat is flying off their skin and evaporates the second it hits the stage. Idle conversation settles over the crowd. We are buzzed. The room is hot and the energy level is rising. This crowd all looks the same. They are plaid and hipster, they are casual and coy. The waiting is drawn out and our feet start to ache. Members of the headliner band sit on the side of the stage. They watch their opening acts with pride. They clap when they finish. They sing along.

The anticipation is killing us.

We pick at our cheap wristbands. One beer turns into three. The restroom looks miles away but no one moves from their spots in the crowd. The band equipment gets set up and we hold our breaths. When the lights go down, we grin without meaning to. The lead singer looks smaller in person. His voice is so big, it smacks us in the face. There’s a swell of violin. The drummer’s hands are all a blur. Each lyric sung out gets tangled in our bloodstream. The bass line kicks in and we feel it in our teeth. It reverberates in our entire bodies and we can’t think of a better feeling. We bob our heads along with the beat, every single one of us.

Tags: alcohol, anticipation, bars, concert, music

DAY 25.

She watches everyone as they fall in love with you. It’s not even just the girls. The guys do it too.

They fall all over themselves. They fall at your feet. They fall into something unfamiliar. They want to know everything. They want to know how you do it.

It’s not hard to do, the falling part.

She stifles back a laugh as it all starts; as everyone begins to realize what she realized months ago.

Maybe even years.

This is no grand revelation to her. It’s old news.

They hang on your every word. They grasp at the ends of your sentences, the weight of your voice, holding on so you don’t slip through their fingers.

It doesn’t even matter what comes out of your mouth anymore, as long as you’re speaking or thinking or shaping the words. You give off a sense of urgency. A danger. A darkness.

If they don’t listen hard enough, they could just miss you. One blink and you’re gone. You’d sail right by and leave a trail that burns in your wake.

She wants the fire. Everyone wants that spark that you have. The one that pushes you forward when everyone else is stuck. They wade around in the ashes while you catch fire to everyone’s minds.

She watches all of this happen and she bites back a smile. Every so often, she falls a little bit in love with you too.

Tags: envy, fire, lust, praise

DAY 24.

She still remembers the way his voice sounded that day. It echoes in her mind even now, years later.

“I have to go.”

The words were forceful. They were trembling and uneasy. There was a tinge of horror somewhere in his voice. She didn’t pick up on it then. Only later.

He dropped the phone. He slammed it down and hung up on the 13-year-old girl waiting on the other end of the line.

“He must’ve gotten another call,” she said to her mother as she put the phone back on the hook. She stood in her kitchen, confused.

It didn’t make sense then. Not at all.

She peeked her head around the corner of the foyer. The view was clear of her front yard, the main road. The leaves were brown and dry, barely hanging onto the limbs of trees. Their small town was well into the season of autumn. Thanksgiving Break had come and almost gone.

“Was that her dad on the phone?” her mother asked her from the fireplace room. She nodded and sat down on the couch, dismissing it all. She’d wanted to call her best friend to hang out for the evening. They had one more day of freedom before going back to school on Tuesday. She only lived a few streets down in the same neighborhood.

When the ambulances passed her house, her mother wondered aloud if there was a fire. This was a rare occurrence. There was never much commotion in their neighborhood. The sight of an ambulance was cause for the phones to start ringing. Someone was sure to know what was happening.

She stood near the front door, gangly and tall, with her nose pressed against the glass. She watched the ambulance come back the way it had came. The sirens blared and drowned out the television in the living room. It looked to be in a hurry.

Nobody ever really knows how to handle death. To a 13-year-old, the concept is almost impossible.

She was called down to the counselor’s office the day after everyone heard the news. School had begun again. Her mother insisted she stay home. She refused. They wanted her to talk. They wanted her to say things because she had been directly affected. That girl who died, she was her best friend after all. People stared at the empty desk in science class. A counselor was sitting where her friend used to sit. It was all wrong.

At the funeral, more people came than the number of people who knew her. Some viewed it as a way to get out of class. Others stood silent, numb to everything going on around them. The sadness was indescribable.

She had never been to a viewing. A rush of nausea hit her when she saw the body. She could no longer look her friend’s parents in the eye. There was a ripple of shame within her. Of feeling like she could have saved her. If she would’ve called the house earlier, like she’d planned. She hated thinking of her friend as just a body now. It felt unnatural. Her glasses were still on. The casket was open.

She only visited her friend’s grave once. There wasn’t enough money for a real tombstone, but there was a plaque inset into the ground. She ran her fingers over it, wondering.

There was no set cause of death. There were no answers to all of her seventh-grade questions. There was only the reality of the situation. Another sad story to run in the local newspaper. A memorial set up in the middle school lobby that would be forgotten the second she and her friends hit high school.

She carries this.

The images, the sounds, the memories. She carries it all and recalls it every so often, years down the line. Every November, it won’t go away.

Tags: death, friends, memories, regret, sadness

DAY 23.

There are two drunk girls from three towns over barricaded in one bathroom stall. One of them is slapping the other in the face, making her stay awake. That girl might pass out on the toilet. That’s what we hear anyway from their mutual friend. She’s giving us a running commentary of the events as she stands next to the sink. They drove forty-five minutes to go to this bar. One of those girls had a blind date with some guy who lives in town.

We are in line for the bathroom. We’d never drive forty-five minutes anywhere if our night was to end here. There are only three stalls. They are all occupied. If there was a 10th circle of hell, this would be ours. Dante couldn’t have written it any better.

We all stand, the six of us, watching in horror. Waiting. Nothing like a Friday night in a crowded bar. The bass is thudding and the walls shake. We don’t lean against them. We try not to, anyway.

“Becky, wake up!” the one girl screams from inside the stall. Someone is snapping their gum next to us. We can hear it popping and she chews on it with her mouth open. One of the bathroom doors doesn’t lock. Another girl’s friend stands holding it closed. She looks bored out of her mind. She is texting someone on her phone.

“If I don’t get laid tonight, I’m gonna go order some of those cheese cubes at the Corner Grill,” a different girl says to her friend as they wash their hands at the sink.

“I thought Josh wanted you to lose weight,” her friend responds.

We all smush closer to each other. The door keeps opening and more people spill in. Our bodies are warm and shiny with sweat. Most of us in here are drunk. There is a slight feeling of camaraderie as we all wait in line. The toilet paper has run out. People are using paper towels. Receipts from the bar. Whatever they can find. Cheers erupt when the two girls from out of town stumble out of their stall.

“Take me home,” says the girl who isn’t Becky. Her makeup is streaked on her face. She was crying. One of us gets beer sloshed on our t-shirt. One of us is in the process of breaking up with our boyfriend. Another one of us could really use a cigarette. We try to avoid puddles of piss. We don’t want to touch the door handles.

When we finally emerge from the bathroom, we feel like we’ve been released from prison. Everything outside is so vibrant. It’s ladies night. We all drink for free.

Tags: alcohol, bars, bathrooms, claustrophobia, college, frustration, youth

DAY 22.

But there you go for the last time
I finally know now what I should have known then
That I could still be ruthless if you let me
But there you go and I’m not done
You’re waving goodbye, well at least you’re having fun
The rising tide will not let you forget me

:::SOMETHING CORPORATE -RUTHLESS:::

_______________________________________________

We bruise when we fall. There are scars on our hearts. They fester and darken in color until they turn to black. We get our hopes up, only to be let down in the most terrible ways. We say we won’t make the same mistakes twice, and then we do. We forget who we are. We look in the mirrors and see the same reflections as always, but we can’t recognize who we are looking at. We dare to hope. We get that tiny bubble of excitement in the pits of our stomachs. We smile. We are overeager.

We feel alone. We walk around like ghosts. We do things we know are wrong. We don’t know why we do the things we do. We can’t stop. There is a pattern here that seems to be unavoidable. We are cautious. We are guarded. We give ourselves away like it’s the easiest thing in the world. We feign indifference. We pretend to be comfortable. We say words we don’t mean. We are utterly confused all the time.

We cry in our rooms at night. The truth is always the hardest thing to swallow. We disregard the advice we are given. Those words go in one ear and out the other. We want to be happy. We aren’t sure how to be happy. We settle. We settle more often than we’d care to admit. We care too much. We don’t care enough about ourselves. We are warped. We want to be worthy of something good. We want to feel safe. We hate when you don’t call.

We feel things too strongly. We feel so much that we wish we were numb. We drink away our problems. We talk around the bigger issues. We can’t admit things to ourselves. The things we hate about our bodies. We put on brave faces. We sit and keep our heads down. We stay quiet. We bite our tongues and draw blood. The taste is metallic in our mouths. We crave the feeling of having someone next to us. Our hands trace over the cold sides of our beds. We remember too much.

We get used sometimes. We make ourselves sick with worry. This wasn’t how it was supposed to be. This wasn’t what we ever wanted. We feel ashamed. We know we can say no. We know we can make our own decisions. We let these things happen to us. We get ourselves into these situations. We don’t know how to get out. We want someone to understand. We want someone to listen. We need someone to care. Our excuses sound tired to our ears. We are stronger than we believe. We read books. We watch movies. We lose ourselves in the unreal. It’s easier.

We’d like to give up. Some days, we seriously consider it. We bury our heads in our hands. We turn our stereos on too loud. We drown out all thought and replace it with music. The songs and the lyrics scream the things we dare not say. We lay on our carpets and stare up at ceilings. We try to remember when we were younger. When we were uncomplicated. When life made so much more sense. We wish things were cut and dry. We wish we didn’t get our hopes up. We wish a lot of things.

Tags: depression, fears, frustration, insanity, insecurities, loneliness, pessimism, reality, regret, sanity

DAY 21.

It’s a long walk, but they split a Coke along the way. The bottle is filled a quarter of the way with Coke. The rest is rum. If you shake it up, you can’t tell. It’s pitch black outside. They like the night.

They wince at the first hint of rum. Eventually they get used to it. You can smell it on their breath.

It’s only 9:00 PM. They had to start early. It’s the only way to get through this night. It’s the only way they know how to calm their nerves that bounce around like Pop Rocks in their stomachs. It’s the only way they know how to be more talkative.

Sometimes their throats close up in classrooms. Sometimes they feel like they’ve swallowed a jar of cotton balls. There is the distinct feeling of everyone looking at them. Waiting for them to utter something brilliant.

They never do.

It’s something about the walls. And the close proximity of desks. And maybe it has something to do with just one person. The sheer panic that runs through them if he even looks their way. It’s ridiculous.

They continue walking and talk to each other, because it’s easy. They can do that just fine.

The plastic bottle is passed between them. They pick at the label, tugging at it every so often for something to do. A lone car passes by them. They stop for a second and look around. They aren’t sure if they’re even on the right road. They’re going to a house they’ve never been to. It’s a party with people they don’t know. They were invited by that boy that induces the panic. They’d like to know him more. But these things are hard. They don’t make new friends so quickly.

The street names are unfamiliar now. They turn down a side street, guessing. Their bottle is almost empty. They can’t believe they drank it so fast. But then again, maybe they can. Their conversation rises and falls like waves. Their laughter ricochets off the vinyl siding of the apartment complex to their left. There are a pair of shoes dangling from a telephone wire above their heads. The walk has taken longer than they thought it would.

They walk by the house where the party is at. They pass right by it, knowing full well that it’s the right house. They strategize on a street corner. A heated discussion of who will lead ensues. Neither of them wants to go first. They don’t enjoy breaking the ice. Calling attention to themselves. They quickly swallow the rest of what’s in the bottle. A cat creeps out from beyond a parked car’s back tire. They stare at it as it cautiously approaches them.

Cheers erupt from the side lawn of the party they’re supposed to be at. There is music playing. Someone is singing. Their heartbeats move a little faster. They leave the cat behind, brush right by it. Their feet hit the lawn and they’re spotted. They’re seen. They greet the one person they know. They hope they don’t say anything stupid.

Tags: companionship, fears, friends, nervousness, parties