Beautiful Bruises

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I perch on the edge of my bedroom window and let my legs dangle seventy-six feet above the ground. The cool air combats the warmth that the wine blushes into my cheeks. I wonder to myself what it would be like to slide into the darkness below. Not that I want to. The paint on my lips transfers to the mug with each sip of the Pinot Noir. Across the way in a dimly lit window, Jolie is tying her cascade of curls in a ponytail. I blink and she is gone.

I saw the beauty in her bruises, the purples and pinks and blues. They painted a scene of an enthralling sunset, dipping into the mountains of her knuckles. Her skin shimmered effortlessly, like a sandy shore illuminated by mid-day rays. Freckled patches of seashells found home here, like trillions of stars splattered in browns. New stars erupted every sunny day.

I remember the way she sang words. Nobody else seemed to hear her the same as I did. The cross around her neck always swayed with the notes, and more than often, I would hum.

Jolie knew I liked girls, but she didn't mind. To her, I wasn't the gay best friend. I was just the best friend who really liked wearing 80s pop culture tees. We met at a college baseball game. She was with her friends rooting for number five. I asked how she knew him. She said he was dating her friend and asked how I knew him, as if I was about to revel Iwas alsohis girlfriend. Gage is my cousin, I replied. Once I wasn't perceived as a threat, she invited me to dinner with them at The Dragon's Den.

She dropped out of Harvard because she decided she didn't actually want to be a lawyer. She wanted to be a therapist and have her own soup kitchen and buy all of the animal shelters in the world. Well, you're only twenty, I said, you have time.

I pour out the rest of my wine and crawl back inside. My studio is small to most, but it seems abnormally large to me. There is no longer a vanity by the bed, nor bags upon bags of makeup. There are blank spots on my fridge of photos, like missing puzzle pieces. Roosevelt, Jolie's St. Bernard, isn't sleeping at the foot of my bed, and his toys no longer litter the floor. I no longer sleep with a quilt her abuelita knitted for her. I'm conflicted if this is better or worse for me.

I drop my mug in the sink and it cracks. I ignore it and search for late night sustenance. My pantry and fridge are barren of anything besides wine, cheese, and bread. We used to stockpile snacks. I never ate anything sugar-free before Jolie. When I found out she had type one diabetes, I wanted to adapt to her. I remember staying up all night learning what she could and couldn't eat. I bought so many cookbooks on my credit card I got a fraud alert text.

I remember the first time she told me she liked girls and boys. A never-ending spiral of firsts then ensued. The first date. The first kiss. The first I love you. The first time she told me her kidneys were failing.

It was a domino effect of despair. She was in and out of hospitals, growing weaker with each day. The slightest bump would bruise her caramel skin. She had trouble sleeping at night and everything nauseated her. She easily lost fifteen pounds in a month.

Pretty soon heart disease followed. She was hospitalized that November. Her friends were in and out of the room a couple of times a week, but I was a constant. I was there every day. I brought my work with me and programmed in those uncomfortable hospital chairs while she watched YouTube make up tutorials on her phone. On Sundays, I laid in bed with her and watched her Church's livestream. We talked like nothing was wrong. I'm only twenty, she would say, I have time.

She was recovering well. Why wouldn't she? She was healthy and young. The doctors said it was her positive attitude. She should be out of here in no time. Christmas morning, she woke up with pneumonia. Her energy never wavered. Modern medicine is too advanced, she would say, the odds aren't against me.

I don't know what eventually killed her and I don't really care to know the details. She went to bed January 5th, 2019, three days before her birthday and decided not to wake up. She was only twenty.