Butterfly

           I hopped in my brand new car and started to head home.  It was only a month old, but the dirt and smog just sat there on the pearly white paint mocking my efforts to fit in.  I couldn’t afford this car.  I couldn’t even afford to give it the $10 car wash that it so greatly deserved.  But I drove it like I had the money.  Like I didn’t need the money setting me back almost $500 every month for the next six years. 

A few short minutes later, I arrived home.  Trudging up the front steps, I fumbled through my purse looking for my keys.  Unlocking the front gate and then the front door, I pushed it open and found him sitting there on the couch watching television.  When he saw that I was home, he immediately muted the TV and got up to give me the greatest teddy bear hug and kiss on the forehead, just as he always did.  He offered to make me breakfast for lunch and although I was exhausted and not very hungry, I let him.  There was something about the way he always cooked for me that made him so much more attractive.  It was his way of telling me he loved me, without ever having to actually say the words.  He promised to take me with him to Germany and as he sautéed the spinach and onions and folded together the tomatoes and eggs to make the most perfect omelet, I watched him and I fantasized about our life together there.  He promised that we would be leaving very soon, within the next couple of months.  Foolishly, I let my head and my heart agree to follow him.  There was nothing holding me back.  As much as I loved my friends and roommates, I hated living in that house.  I hated sleeping on the couch.  I became dependant on the idea that we were going to escape all our troubles together.

            I was basically hooked on him.  Addicted to how he made me feel- like I was the only girl in the world who understood him, who cared for him, who loved him.  At nights, we would sneak out through the kitchen door, passing the laundry room, to the side of our house for our nightly routine.  He would pull from his pockets a small clear baggie, the tiniest little pipe he claimed gave you a quicker, better high, and his blue lighter.  It was the one he said matched the color of my eyes when I was happy.  He packed the bowl and I stared straight ahead into the winding vines and thick brush of leaves that covered the fence we shared with the neighbors.  Every time we came out here I stood in disbelief that I was about to smoke. Again.  The first time I smoked with him was because he told me it would help me sleep.  He said I would be able to tune out all the background noise of the video games that were being played until dawn the next day.  The first night I excused myself to the bathroom to splash water on my face.  Looking up, I noticed that my eyes had become puffy and red from sleep deprivation.  I decided to give it a try. Almost two months later, I came to rely on the sleep I got when I was high.

            So there we were outside in the dark once again.  The side of our house was our safe little alley way, hidden from streetlights and passer-bys.  He took a hit and passed it to me.  My turn.  I always turned away as I lit it up.  I don’t know if I didn’t want him to see me because I was more embarrassed of my techniques or ashamed that this became the one thing I needed to calm myself down at nights.  I lit the smallest green plant and watched it cherry in the dark night signaling that it was ready for inhalation.  I brought the pipe to my lips and took a deep breath in closely watching the red consume more of the green.  The vivid colors and the way it burned fascinated me so much so that I got lost in time.  I held my breath for as long as I could and passed it back to him.  Slowly, I began to exhale.  The smoke made one long strand to the sky, wisps through the air like a spider web.  It began to swirl around in the night leisurely taking the form of a claw that made its way into my mind releasing it of any clarity I thought I had.  It reminds me of the melodic accent of Ariel’s voice curling towards the seashell necklace when Ursula seizes it by making her sing.  That’s how I envision it happening anyways.  I soon became consumed with everything around me.  I could hear even the tiniest of details in the night- the conversation taking place three doors down, the crickets chirping, the news that played on the tv. I felt everything.  The slight breeze rustled through my hair, which I had let fall ever so softly across my shoulders and down my back.  At times, small strands made their way across my forehead and he reached up to sweep it off my face.  The wind raised the little hairs on my arms sending a chill down my spine. At the same time, he rested his hand, equally strong and gentle, on my shoulder.  He let his fingertips trace my collarbone as they found their way up the flesh of my neck, lifting my chin ever so slightly.  My eyes met his and the wings of the butterflies inside my stomach began to flutter.