Her mother shakes her head. Guess some dreams will always stay out-of-reach.
I reach the ground entrance, then head out, before stopping on the sidewalk uncertainly. I don’t feel like going back to Ben right away. Even less to his creep of a friend who trades me the perfume for meth. I always feel like the creep is laughing at me, andone thing I refuse to be is a joke. I’d love to grab one of those stupid glass pipes of his, shatter it over his head and then gouge out both his eyeballs with the shards.
I really hate being made fun of.
Instead, I turn in the opposite direction, walking further into the depths of Astley. On the other end of town is a great blue lake surrounded by stretches of velvety lawn. Though the water is clear and clean, the weeping willows on the edges mar its surface in shadows. I love watching the sunlight flit over the crystalline blue before losing itself in the depths of that darkness.
But now, I see that the place is overrun by families. I remember today is Saturday, and it’s a bright, sunny day. I don’t dare stay in the middle of this crowd. Turning around, I begin the slow trek home. I don’t want to head back, but I have nowhere else to go.
I’m so lost in thought that before I know it, I’ve reached Ben’s apartment. As I walk in, I realize my mistake. I forgot to stop at the creep’s place for the meth. My backpack is still weighed down by the perfume.
Too late. The drugs have left Ben’s system, and he flies toward me, pinning me against the wall. His hold is shaky but firm.
“Where is it?” he screams, his rancid breath washing over me. “Where’s my hit?”
I turn my head, trying to avoid his breath, but with one hand, he forces my face back, while the other one lands on my neck in a chokehold.
“Forgot to unload the stuff,” I mumble. “I’ll go back.”
His hand pushes down on my neck, and darkness creeps into my vision. “You’ve been gone for hours!” he snarls. “What do you mean, you forgot?”
I close my eyes and count to ten, trying to take my mind offthe nausea roiling in my stomach and the lack of air that’s making me lightheaded. At last, he lets me go.
“Don’t come back till you’ve got it,” he spits out, and then tumbles back down on the mattress.
I hurriedly head back out. Reaching the front steps, I sit down, dropping the backpack with a thud beside me. I know what will happen if I don’t get the drugs, but I find myself not caring. With the passing years, fear is a concept that has grown more and more abstract. I’m not scared. I’m angry.
Fury, hot and harsh, boils in my veins. It’s been seething, just below the surface, for years. The only thing I’m truly been scared of is that anger. I know what happened the last time it was unleashed.
But I don’t care anymore. Zipping open the backpack, I grab box after box of perfume. I tear open each package, line up the pretty glass bottles on the steps, aware that I’ve already destroyed their reselling price. No one wants an opened package of perfume.
I stare at the bottles with a slight thrill of satisfaction, but it’s not enough. Grabbing them, I dash them one by one, with full force, onto the ground. I watch as the shards glitter in the summer sunlight. My one regret is that I haven’t bashed the bottles against someone’s nose.
Picking up my empty backpack, I start walking. I don’t know where to go. I don’t have anywheretogo.
I continue idly, my thoughts far away. I guess I’m not too surprised when I find, after a while, that I’m on the road to Astley again. Sheer habit, I guess.
Habit is also what pushes me toward the Devil headquarters. The thrill of danger, as well. Even though I tell myself there’s no real danger. I could probably burn the whole fucking place down, and no one would care.
I guess I’ll do some more shoplifting since I’m here. I mightas well, especially since it looks like I’ll be homeless from now on. It seems like the right time to head down to the grocery level and pick up a few things to eat. That would be the smart thing to do.
But smart people don’t drop out of high school to go live with their drug addict boyfriends. Instead, I head up to the third floor. I don’t usually come here because clothes are not easy to steal. But for once, I’m going to take what I want, and what I want is a dress.
I make a beeline straight for the sparkly pink dress I had spotted before. I sink my face into it and inhale its plastic, shiny scent. It smells like childhood.
I grab it and stuff it into my bag, goading the saleslady who’s currently folding jeans with my eyes. But she merely shrugs and looks away.
On my way to the escalator, I spot the fashion jewelry aisle, and grab a pretty heart locket.
The lights flicker then, as a booming loudspeaker warns that the store will close its doors in fifteen minutes.
I take the escalator, meaning to head down. But I realize I’ve taken the wrong one. Before I know it, I’m standing in the luxury perfume aisle, wondering why the hell I’m still itching to steal one of the pretty packages when I have no intention of going back to the creep. I’ve never even worn perfume.
Another habit, I guess, that’s become ingrained in me over the past years. A boring ritual that turns to frustration when I see a woman doing inventory and rearranging boxes. She’s already locked most of the perfume behind glass doors for the night. I might be a little crazy, but I’m not crazy enough to ask her to reopen them. Still, the frustration deepens until I’m ready to do just about anything to get my hands on one of the glitzy packages. Even though I’ve already decided I’ll chuck it the minute I’m outside.
Then I spot a single bottle of perfume on a counter, half-hidden by a handbag. The package is open, but it doesn’t matter. I’m not planning to resell it anyway.
I grab it, stuff it into my bag, and walk quickly away, just as I hear a woman cry out behind me, “Hey! Stop!”
