Look to the Stars

Mr. Wall

Pushing Smith off me, I cough from the stench, brushing myself off and surveying the room. It was adorned with a saggy, beat up couch, a rug that looked like it used to be a dog, a TV split down the middle by a large crack, and a flickering lamp.

"Beautiful," I mutter to myself. I can already tell this will be the very best placement yet. Smith, who is already halfway up the stairs shouts down to me in a sickening tone,

"Come on lovely. I'll be showin' ya where you be sleeping for the time bein'." I take a deep best, prepare myself for the worst, and march up the stairs, only after contemplating if they were safe or not. But I figure that if they can take Smith's weight, they sure as fluff can take mine. At the first creak I freeze, not moving, and fearing sudden desolation. I look to Smith for help, but he only chuckles at my discomfort, running a pudgy hand through his sparse oily hair. Sighing, I decide that dying is better than living in this place anyway, and I tread carefully up the remaining steps to my own personal hel- room. He stop at a hole in the wall, and points at it, grunting as if to signify something. I don't move, confused.

"That's your room, sweetheart," he says, drawing out the words as if he were talking to a child. I gape at him. "That's right. Go on in."

"B-b-but it doesn't have a door!" I exclaim in frustration.

"I know." He smirks, but when I don't make a move, it turns into a frown. He once again grabs me by my wrist, and hauls me through where the door should be, into a room with a couple pillows and blankets on a thin mattress. Smith gives me another push, and stomps downstairs, muttering something about being grateful. Numbly, I walk over to my bed, if you could call it that, and plop down.

"Owwwwww," I whine as my butt slams on the hard surface. I am pretty sure that this bed is harder than the floor. Just to test my theory, I reach down and press my pointer finger against the floor. It gives way slightly with a deafening creak. Yep. I was right.

Suddenly my eyes tear up, and I pinch myself, ball my hands into fists and shove them in my eyes to keep myself from crying. I must be strong. For Monica. For my mother. For my father. They couldn't be strong. They didn't have I choice, I did, and I failed them. It was my fault. I shove my fists harder into my eyes as the tears well up even more, and I whimper, remembering.

One and a half years ago:

                    I stumble through the masses of people on the dance floor, hardly able to walk in a straight line, let alone being able to see well. The purple and blue lights surveying the crowd don't help my vision as it blurs and swirls in front of my ice blue eyes, and the concrete floor starts to dance along with the people. Once I make it to the middle of the chaos I stop, and survey the club for potential dance partners.

"Staria!"

I can make out that one word through all the noise, and I turn quickly to find the source but only succeed in running into a wall, completely discombobulated.

"Stuuuupiiiddd WALL!" I chuckle as if what I just said was funny, and the wall seems to chuckle back, in a deep, vibrating sort of way. I shake my head, and giggle at my drunk logic and sexy chuckling walls, staggering to my feet. I attempt to hug the wall and cry with the enthusiasm of a toddler,

"Mr. Wall, you are my beeeesssst friend." I slur my words, and twist in a circle to the beat of the song. I spin and spin and spin with my waist long hair fraying out like a ring of sunshine, until I am so dizzy I can see nothing but a slur of purple and blue. The wall chuckles at me again. I smile to myself, then frown as I hear my name again,

"Staria! We got to go! Your parents are here!" Once again I ignore the annoying voice, until a small but extremely powerful hand latches onto my wrist, pulling me away. I whine, halfheartedly hitting the extremely evil person that is ruining my fun, and screaming,

"PUT ME DOWN YOU TURD MUFFIN! I WANT TO DANCE WITH MR WALL!" At that, I hear Mr. Wall chuckle one last time, and mutter,

"See you babycakes."

"Babycakeseses!" I laugh again at the funny word and call, "I LOVE YOU MR WALL," as I am pulled through the club entrance to a small white car,  shoved on the seat, and am buckled in.

Hope you like it!

~Claire