Handwritten (One Shot Collection)

Gone by November

It was October, the month of ghost stories, playful frights and costumes. Despite being the hallmark time of the year for dressing up and spending the night as something we aren't, this October taught me that not all demons need masks.

Denver was my home. It hadn't always been, but any memories before tended to slip away before they were cemented into whatever long-term brain lobe was nested up in my head. To me, memory had always been somewhat of a sore subject. I wasn't a daughter from the deep south who embraced mom's southern fried steak, or a trust fund receiving love child of two Californian business moguls. I was a kid from Florida who enjoyed ripped hoodies, edgy music, and the occasional horror movie. I had a mediocre job, a stupid morning routine, and a pocketful of cash that seemed to bulk up and waste away at a fairly steady rate. That wasn't all though, for there were a few months during that dull block of life that happened to twist, bend, and break every bone that made me who I was. The time when I became brand new.

It all began in the early days of October. My city had a beautiful environment, an impressive creative sector and a food scene that was steadily growing. Additionally, weed was legal, the altitude was about as high as the people, and crime rates were low. From my mid-sized apartment in the downtown core, I could walk from point home to point tea shop in a matter of minutes, grab a cream of earl grey, add a splash of milk, then prance off to my tech-y IT office. I would sit through a rather quiet day, accept a few hardware repair jobs and poke and prod at some stranger's dusty machine before tacking a paper bill onto the outside. It was a decent job in it that I was able to put my college major to work and help out the rather desperate owners of some very broken laptops. There was a girl who came in once and a while with a keyboard covered in some kind of liquid, claiming it was for her boss and requesting a quick repair. She was cute, and often the subject of much taunting from my coworkers right up until the open sign twisted around and all the teasing jerks of the office went home.

On the first day, I received a phone call on my way out and answered it with a monotonous greeting. On the other end, my high school best friend Lucy had done as she often did, and layered far too much sugar on her breakfast cereal. "You, me, a few beers, and the mile high horror film fest tonight. You in?" She chirped, omitting any kind of response to my greeting.

"I didn't even know that was a thing that existed." I told her back, tossing away my cold and empty to-go cup on the way down the street. I also took a moment to place a few coins into the cup of a shivering homeless man, and received a toothy smile in return.

"Oh stop it, of course you did." Lucy's enthusiasm didn't let up. "It's Friday Lauren, we're going to leave around ten, pop over and stop in on a few indie films, then grab drinks."

I wasn't about to argue with an energized Latina, and instead agreed with a mumble of compliance. That night, she ushered me through a crowd of equally as enthusiastic fright-lovers, promoting movies and showing off some gory makeup techniques. September was the month of fresh starts, and while that was well and good, October happened to be the month of scares, whether it be for the young and spry, or old and bored alike. It was one of the things I loved most about the crisp and autumnal time of year, the city's weather coming in close second. The festival itself sat at a good balance of panels, B-list celebrities and home-spun movies. The two of us lasted a little longer than Lucy's initial predictions, but I wasn't one to complain.

She forced me to thank her on the way out, walking backwards and avidly discussing to me some movie frame that involved a child being tortured against a tree. Half listening, I resulted to putting on a kind smile and ensuring she didn't trip over her feet.

The bar Lucy chose was modest, half filled with drunken alleycats and a handsome bartender that resembled Clark Kent if he had gotten frozen mid-smirk. We ordered a few drinks and sat down, Lucy still going off about the events of the night.