Salvation

       "I started when I was seven,"  she tells me. Tears slide down her flushed cheeks and glisten softly on her jaw.   "I didn t begin with harder stuff for a couple more years. My mom hated my father, or so it appeared, and escaped to nightly bingo games down at the hall. I used to lay in bed at night and wait for the headlights to know she made it home safe. But I never wanted to be saved."  
         I envy her.
        She looks serene with the trails of silver that fall softly onto her shirt. Even crumpled against the wall, in the corner of the bathroom, she looks so calm and composed. The cracked tile that lays beneath her was probably once an off-white or fair color, but the years of ill usage and water damage have turned it a disgusting shade of yellow.
         She cries silently as her voice trembles and cracks. She takes a deep breath and sits up.  
         "I couldn t take it any longer. I would have broken. I would have ended it. But I never wanted to be saved. I never wanted to be rescued. "
        She picks up the gun beside her and turns it over and over again in her hand. A smile creeping upon her lips as she runs her fingers along the handle.  
        "The first gun I ever fired was my grandfather s. I was rummaging through his closet and it fell out of the holster. It could have gone off. It was loaded. I could have been killed. All the same it was exhilarating. I had to feel it s power   her smile is almost hideous."
       She puts down the gun and takes another deep breath.
       She disgusts me.
       The short, sandy brown locks frame her face. Stray hairs fall down around her eyes and she pushes them back effortlessly. The white of her socks peek out from beneath her olive green pants and she shifts her body.  She twists the ring around her finger and clucks her tongue.  
       "He was supposed to be different,"  she pushes the hair back from her face again,   "and he was. He really was."  
      Her arms slide down her thighs and the bracelets around her wrists make a soft sound against the fabric of her pants.  
       "He was probably the one thing that kept me going. But it made me hate every waking day. It made me hate everyone." the tears are gone and her face is only a little damp now. She folds her legs beneath her and crawls over next to me.
        " I never wanted to be saved. I never wanted to be rescued."  
       She s cold and her body is rigid. Her skin feels like cool glass against my own.  
       My white socks peek out from beneath my olive green pants and my bracelets slide gently against my thighs. I ball up my fists and scream, shattering the mirror before me. As I twist the ring around my finger, I push the short, sandy brown locks behind my ears and cluck my tongue. I lie down against the cracked yellow tiles and cry softly...    
       "I never wanted to be saved, I never wanted to be rescued."    



(Edited by Fallen at 10:20 pm on Jan. 15, 2002)