Making it Through

I walked through a long dirty alley with a flower pinned to my jacket. I was drunk and stumbling over broken glass, gum wrappers and the laces of my shiny shoes. It wasn’t a joyous inebriation; the stars seemed distant in the brown city light. I had half convinced myself the alley was a short cut, but really I just wanted to walk through a dark alley. I wanted to break my skin on the sharp edges of the world and let the pain spill out. Getting knifed is a good remedy for a broken heart. 

I kicked at an empty can, but missed. My cursing echoed, unnaturally loud. I cringed, but cursed again. And again. Slumping against an alley wall, I bent down to tie my shoes. The strings wouldn’t fit together. I gave up, looking down at my flower instead. It was red, delicate. I wanted to rip off its petals one by one and let them fall into the thick alley abyss. But I didn't. I don’t know why I didn’t. 

Somewhere, in the distance, I heard someone scream. Reluctantly, I pushed myself from my wall and trudged onward. It was four in the morning when I finally made it back to my apartment, unscathed, except perhaps, for a few stubbed toes. Under the fluorescent lights, I unpinned my flower, casting it carelessly into my clean plastic garbage can, then I fell asleep on my overly cushy loveseat. 

The next morning I called Charlotte.