She.

The first thing I noticed about her, was her complete unwillingness to give a shit about anything. Honestly. Upbeat, vocal, energetic as all hell, but totally care free in regards to consequences. It’s hard for me to describe her, because I haven’t met a person like her since. Anyone remember Lori Singer’s character in the 1984 classic, ‘Footloose’?

Well, that’s the closest I can get. Fearless. Rambuncious. Flirtatious. Rebellious. Down for anything. Like I said in my previous post, the first time we met was at the building. She stopped by, with an old friend of mine, who I grew up before my life went in spirals. We’ll call this old friend Red.

Red had brought her over, to use her in a credit card scam she was trying to pull. So, this is how we met, and the connection was instant and obvious. I remember sitting with her, drinking, railing pills and I notice this huge gash on the top of her hand. It’s open and infected, obviously had needed stitches. I ask her what happened. She tells me, she was breaking into a house in the suburbs, and, after smashing in the window, a piece of  glass had fallen down and stabbed her on the top of her hand. She laughs. Proceeds to tell me she found this gnarly battle axe in the house, and she has it on her if I want to see it. I say sure, lying, because I’m not really into weapons so much. I held a gun once, and it felt, like I was lying, it felt absurd. Not my thing.

She pulls this rediculous hatchet out from inside of her jeans, and I laugh. Ask her why the hell shes carting this thing around in her pants, like she’s Jefferey Dalhmer or something. She says, why not, if something were to happen she’d have what she needed. Cool, whatever. It’s medium sized, and full on silver. Even the handle, and holding it makes me ill at ease. Like I said, I don’t dig weapons and this thing looks like a serial killers choice pick. Eerie.

The night continues on, the burning whisky, the little orange pills. Shot, crush, rail.

She tells me, she can’t stand her parents and would do anything to live in a place like this instead. Idiot. I tell her she’s more than welcome to stay but, were all leaving in two days. Tell her, Tyler’s getting kicked out, and were gonna hit the streets. It takes all of two seconds for her to decide that shes coming with us. We’ve only just met, and she’s already taken by Tyler’s charms, and my false confidence. In order not to feel guilty, I tell myself she’s a big girl and can make her own choices. Plus, I need her. Nothing worse then being out on the street hustling, without another female at your side. I need the comfort, the sisterhood. The back. The wounded hand to hold. Someone to take care of, besides myself. Someone to help me define and make sense of my foolish choice to leave. Her young minded optimism and hippy mindset, adding perfectly, to my jaded, fearful pessimism. Water and Fire. Yin and Yang. I’m Mickey, she’s Malory. Except, instead of going out in a blaze of gunfire, the last time I’ll ever see her is through a plexi glass window, an unexpected run in, during a transfer. Her, to the adult dorms, and I, to the young offenders unit. She smiles and winks at me as we pass, almost one of those slow motion moments we all have in his life at some point. The look, the eyes, the mannerisms I’ll never forget. Her long brown curly hair, a mess, the forest green jumper, I’ll get to know so well in the future. I have the thought, that right from the beginning we never had a chance. To quote Natural Born Killers… Like Mister Rabbit says, a moment of realization, is worth a thousand prayers.

Two days.

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