"So, ever sucked dick for cocaine?"
It was the ideal summer day and the most beautiful of people walked by my side, fingers locked with mine. Strolling along the never ending shores of South Beach, warm sand tickling in between my toes, and the typical hot Miami sun glaring down at us from above, Gerard had finally given in to my many pleas and joined me for a romantic walk on the beach. We had been walking silently for the past time, letting the roaming of the waves fill our heads. Upon asking the such, I did not know if he was being serious or not. I remained silent.
Gerard took a moment to reach down and catch a pretty, lavender colored seashell before the waves swallowed it. He examined the object with a pondering look and said, "I certainly know I have."
Now, this did not quite surprise me, for Gerard was a jokester and there was higher chances of him pleasing other men to attain what he wanted than of me not believing what he spoke. He loved to mess around and didn't mind a good laugh. I spread a towel on the sand and sat down, the water barely touching my toes. "Why ya asking?"
He laughed, sounding like a kid. The sun shining onto his smiling pale face giving off giddy vibes, Gerard was acting rather different.
"You probably have sucked dick for coke or whatever it was that you used to take. After all, everyone's got the free will to do as they please."
"The only thing I ain't pleasing is you tonight."
He grabbed me, picking me up bridal style and ran along the sand, struggling a bit. Hesitating for a second and going against my giggling complaints, he head towards the salty water. Warm yet refreshing, the ocean water felt nice soaking through my clothes. I allowed myself to be free for once.
We stayed at the beach just the two of us, laughing and messing around. My old man was a bad man, a tough one, too. But he's got a soul sweet as blood red jam, he knew everything there was to know about me. Gerard loved me with every beat of his cocaine heart, and I couldn't help but to return his feelings, although he had not confessed them. All I was ever good at was raising hell everywhere I go, but for once, my shitty life was like a living fantasy. I was living life as the true Queen of Coney Island.
I sat practically on top of him as we observed two little kids poking at some sting ray that happened to wash on the shore, it's tale still flickering around. Gerard scoffed, "Aw, look at 'em; so young and willing to get themselves killed."
Sprawled on the towel in an attempt to absorb some of the warm sunlight, Gerard kissed me on the cheek and got up.
"I'm heading to whatever outdoor bar I find. Want anything?"
"Actually, a really spiked up piña colada doesn't sound half bad now."
With that, he left , going off into the distance, in his dark, long sleeved shirt and a pair of shorts, which I had coaxed him into wearing. I chuckled aloud to myself.
I sat up on the sand, marvelling at all the seashells I had managed to collect. There were different shapes and colors, each being completely different. Some shells were pretty enough to have on a necklace. I was holding one, the most odd-looking shell, up high, admiring how it glittered in the bright rays of sun, and that's when I saw her.
She was standing in broad daylight, hand on her hip, staring off into the bouncing waves, and her sundress billowing in the salty breeze. On a patchwork quilt in the shade of a pam tree sat a baby with a bubblegum pink bonnet on her head. The woman walked back to the spot on the sand and said something sweet to the baby. As the baby laughed and clapped her hands, the mother bent down , picked her up, and twirled her in a circle.
The vision of them was like a gunshot to my chest. I tried to close my eyes, but they were pressed wide on the image of the mother and her baby girl. A low hum vibrated in my ears, and I started to fold in on myself, until I was the baby and it was my granny holding me.
My hands began to tremble, and, like a slow-motion clip from a movie, I watched the seashell fall from my fingers, sending droplets of seawater whirling in the air as it spun toward the ground. I hurt way down deep, my granny's last words to me when I last saw her alive echoed around me, "You'll be sorry if you don't go.. you'll be sorry...you'll be sorry..."
She was trying to get me to go to the homecoming dance at my school with some boy who had been brave enough to ask me. I didn't want to go of course, but my grandmother dreamed of seeing me in a dress since she loved a good old party. I had refused to go, and every day when I visited her at her hospital room, she would turn the conversation to the topic of parties, dancing, and dresses. One day I got sick of hearing her trying to convince me to go to the damn homecoming dance, and little did I know that that would be the last time I would see my sweet granny alive with a gleam in her eyes.
I reached for the handle of a car that seemed familiar to the one that Gerard had been driving around in Miami, blistered with guilt. I crawled onto the seat, tucked my knees to my chest, and clamped my hands over my head. But the sound of my own voice inside my young head, telling myself again and again how I would never become a mother, that I would never bear a child into this evil world. Sweat poured off my forehead. I was burning up. Then, like sugar, the image of the mother and her child melted away. All bad thoughts were gone, just gone.
In the distance I heard the jangle of keys. The trunk was opened then closed, and a singing voice floated over my head, "What the- Francesca? Is that you? Que pasa chica?
The voice belonged to a familiar person. Rita Carmen. Sweeter than honey, she was a total badass. She was the kind soul who was helping me out with my choreography for my shows here in Miami. With a lively, perky spirit and at times exaggerated like the Cuban she truly is, by far getting the chance to meet this Rita Carmen was one of my most favorite experience whilst in the sunny city.
Upon meeting such a person, it was at the theater I was sent to down here in Miami and I had been quite nervous since I had to show off my dancing skills in a room full of sober professionals who were there to judge. I was backstage when from behind me a woman had spoken- had it been a color, her voice would have been a velvety shade of purple, a slight. There was a slight hint of a Spanish accent to her voice. "Choose your favorite seduction."
I had looked over my over and sucked in my breath. It was like the universe had cracked wide open. Poised in the doorway, one perfectly manicured hand on her hip and the other resting on the door knob, was the reigning empress of some strange, exotic land. Unmistakable remnants of a mysterious beauty oozed from the pores of her golden tan skin. Swirling around her ankles, as light as smoke and the color of midnight, had been a silk lounging robe with flecks of shimmery silver. Her wavy blonde locks of hair were pinned up on top of her head like the plumage of an alien bird. She extended to me a tiny glass with some amber hued drink within, and perched on her right pointer finger was a deep green ring the size of a walnut. "Here have a drink before your performance, it's sure to help out all those nerves. No te preocupes, I am positive you will do lovely."
I felt her hand on my back. Her voice sounded as if it was in a tunnel. "What is it? Francesca, di algo, hablame!"
Then everything went black.
