Red Eyes and Butterflies

Joyce

The bakery around the corner of 11th Street, the ocean coast, the sting of alcohol on my lips, and the uncontrollable laughter that echoed across the dorm hallways. These are the things that help me pull through colledge. I was a junior, taking classes at the Art Institute of Chicago. I wasn't nearly as talented as the other kids there, but my parents beleived I could become somebody using my talent.
I always dreamed of going to this Institute as a highschooler. Unfortunately, it had turned out to be a lot more boring then I thought it would be.
I have endless hours of homework, woth little time at night to work at the bakery. Who goes to a bakery at 11 pm to 1 am anyways? Me. I usually just bake with my very close friend, Joyce. She was the only other worker with the night shift. We would make countless cupcakes and doughnuts for the people who worl the day-shift, so they have releif when a rush of people come in.
Joyce was my roomate in our dorm, too. Our friendship blossomed, and we soon became very close. We both had the same dream to do something better with our lives then what we've been doing.
We were planning on moving to Europe together before she died. She got leukimia, and she was in stage four before any doctor could do jack squat. This was a month ago.
Now, my dorm feels hollow and tight. I have night terrors some nights, dreaming that the walls are caving in. The bakery has an eerie feel to it. I have to work double now until they find a replacement.
I used to paint with her in the studio that we share. It doesn't cost that much, since it's a very small one. Without her help me fight off my claustraphobia, the Studio is terrifying to me.
I miss her blonde curls and ominous green eyes. At first look you would find her as the kind of girl who would smash your windsheild if you so much as looked at another girl. But she's the complete opposite.
It took me by suprise when I got a new roomate so early.