PULSE [H.S]

026

"We are all connected by a thousand invisible threads, and along these sympathetic fibers, our actions run as causes and return to us as results." — Herman Melville

"Why's it green?" Harry asks me.

He's holding the drink up in front of him, inspecting it. I made a peach mango smoothie and put spinach in it, which made it green. I learned the trick from my brief time working at Panera and constantly making the Green Passion Smoothie. I drink it all the time.

I tell him, "There's spinach in it. Come on, it's healthy. You live for that shit."

He says, "I'm perfectly content eating spinach in its solid form."

"Just try it. You won't even taste the spinach."

He questions, "Then what's the point of the spinach? To make it look unappetizing?"

I roll my eyes, taking a sip of my own smoothie. He's being so ridiculous right now. I say, "For the nutrients, you idiot."

Harry tries it and says, "It's alright." I roll my eyes at him once again, knowing it's the best I'm going to get out of him. It's still snowing outside, and I really just made the smoothie to get over my ice cream craving.

He enters the kitchen again later, holding up a bag of weed and saying, "Want to have more green shit?"

We bring some blankets out on the balcony with us because it's cold, but Harry doesn't want the smoke in his apartment. I watch him grind the weed and roll the blunt, his fingers making quick work of it.

The first hit makes my body feel good. I love weed. I think the world would be a better place if everyone smoked it; it helps make everything better.

I say, "It's kind of nice not being able to do anything. It makes me feel less guilty about being lazy."

"I disagree," Harry says, "I have shit to do."

I pass the blunt to him. The first time I smoked wasn't until college, when my roommate introduced me to it. The first time I tried it, my life changed. It was the first time I felt like I could calm my mind. I loved the feeling of being free.

All I've ever wanted is to be free. Free from foster care, from my mind, from Aaron, and now from this fucking drug cartel.

"How long were you in the foster system?" he surprises me by asking.

I say, "Only 3 years. My mom died when I was 15."

"Sorry," he says as he offers me the blunt, which I happily take. The familiar calm starts to come over my mind.

I say, "It's alright. She struggled with addiction for a long time. I always knew it would take her life eventually. I just hoped she would make it until we—until I turned 18."

Harry plays with the lighter, flicking it on and off in one of his hands. He keeps his eyes on the flame, watching it snuff out just to relight it moments later.

He asks me, "Was the system bad for you?"

"My foster family was really nice. I got lucky. They paid for me to go to school, and they weren't even mad when I dropped out. I've been paying them back slowly, even though they told me not to." I say, "I know a lot of kids that didn't get as lucky as I did."

The foster system is so fucked up. There are so many foster parents that only do it for the monthly checks, and then they neglect the kids. I was terrified when I first went to my foster home.

"I had a nice foster home once," Harry says, and I almost choke as I take a hit of the blunt. I look at him, stunned. He says, "They were an older couple, treated me right, bought me things. I even had my own room. They never made me feel like I was a stray. They just welcomed me into their home like I've lived there my entire life."