Junk Love.

thirteen.

Mel doesn't believe in promises. That's what Carter was. A buoy to keep her afloat in uncharted shark infested waters. Oceans very different from ones she'd mapped out before his path crossed hers. Meeting Carter gave her direction yet no destination.

She remembers, as a young girl, sneaking behind the Church then crushing pop rocks into Coca Cola to fizz up her tummy. When her father caught her, he bullied young Mel into believing if she kept doing it the chemical reaction would put a hole in her stomach.

Another empty promise.

Now, ducked behind a trash-bin in a reeking alleyway, Mel crushes then smokes a foil for the pop rocks fix. A sharp inhale smoke sends her reeling back against the wall. Mel's hands quiver. She has her guitar case slung over her shoulder but no energy to play.

Despite shaking uncontrollably, she strikes the lighter to hit twice more. Missing Carter has given "the sad Eeyore" more weight, morbidly obese now, and collapsing her from the inside out. Never before has she gotten so high she couldn't function to sing. Her tongue clicks at the back of her throat when she tries but no sound comes.

Mel doesn't remember fading out. When her eyes flit open again she realizes afternoon has receded to tinged dawn. A puddle of a human, she's collapsed onto the pavement wedged between the dumpster and building at her back.

Alarm spikes her heart. It's a day of reckless firsts. A void without song where she's been absent from her camp too long. An invisible cord of panic tangles round her insides like razor wire, pulling her back. She struggles to tug from where she's wedged behind the dumpster.

A searing pain tightens Mel's chest and her breath is as brittle as the fall leaves crunching under her feet. How could I be so careless?

Once she finally stumbles through a lopsided iron gate, leading to her home at the park, the sun has long saluted the horizon. It's nearly too dark to see.

Frantic, Mel forgets to scout the area properly. Instead she marches directly to her camp in a hurry to secure her belongings from any hood-rats who could have scavenged the area. A sudden barking of a dog stops her before she gets to the tent. Diluted, she stumbles backward into the dewy grass, landing hard enough on her rear for shocks of pain to go up her spine.

Crouched awkwardly behind a tree, she peeks around the bulky trunk to look towards the playground. Her breath had been rattling loud as a chain collector. Now each exhale stays awkwardly suspended like a lump at the back of her throat.

A pair of uniformed men patrol around Mel's tent with dogs walking alongside. The German Shepard has caught a scent and strains against its leash, rearing up and barking madly. All the blood drains from Mel's cheeks, leaving her as weak and colorless as tissue paper.

Surprisingly, the men wave their arms in a signal to fan out before walking further on into the park. Perhaps they realized her place was undisturbed for the majority of the day and decided to search on further for other squatters.

They disappear into the inky mouth of the night.

Mel has had a share of close encounters. None as close as this though. The roof of her mouth is as rough as sandpaper. The world is tilting like a demented funhouse. And she can hardly breathe past the marathon her heart runs. Should I risk it?

With feral darting eyes, she sweeps a cursory glance across the park trying to determine where the police have tracked off to. Before Carter was arrested she'd been smarter. Now, influenced by "the Eeyore", she's grown wilder. More reckless.

"Fuck." Mel hisses between her teeth. Then she breaks into a sprint. Her boots pound against the ground as loud as a marching band but there isn't time to slow down. The guitar grinds against her hip but even that pain doesn't slow her stride.

Desperate, she dives into her tent and scrambles to gather the first belongings she gets her hands onto.

Mel hasn't bought enough time. Fractured pieces of light skitter off the tent canvas. A noise of rapidly approaching footfalls accompanies the rabid barking of the dogs.

Mel clutches her bag against her chest and flees. In her haste she bonks her head against one of the drawings she's hung. She's forced to untangle herself from the strings of her own art like someone caught in a jungle noose.

Adrenaline diminishes her surroundings to a blur of green. It's a narrow head start but, soon, all she can hear is her own running feet and pulse thrumming in her ears. Perhaps Mel would have ran fast enough to catch flight if her guitar case hadn't caught in a low hanging tree branch.

Mel manages only a strangled gasp when the strap tightens around her airway. She's slightly suspended with her shoes dangling inches off the ground. Swinging and gripping wildly she struggles to free herself but only scrapes the skin off her fingers. Now the barking is so close she can practically feel saliva dripping down her neck like hot goo.

She has to leave, now, or risk being caught. Sobbing, she unclips the guitar strap from around her chest, finally crashing down to earth on her knees. Barely sparing a glance back, she starts at a sprint again, narrowly slipping off into the wilds of the night untouchable once more.

☯