westward grove

seventeen

"San Francisco is a godless place," I mumbled to myself as I continued my walk over the Golden Gate Bridge. I was at a club with Lauren all night, but ended up losing her. I had ample cash for a taxi, but I was tweaking and decided to walk back to the hotel in hopes I could tire myself out. Lauren was hardly drunk when we got separated, but she had this annoying habit of letting her phone die, so there was no hope of finding her.

I bought mace, a hoodie, and a pair of ear buds from a convenience store near the club, and I was overly prepared to use the mace on any homeless person that came near me. It wasn't very late, only around 11:30 pm, but no one was out. It was a cold and foggy Tuesday evening, so I was the only one walking. I was terrified and paranoid, gripping the pepper spray tightly in my pocket.

I saw someone sitting on top of the fence that separates the sidewalk from the ocean and my heart instantly began racing. For once in my life, I had my contacts in, so I could easily make out that it was a woman. I silently willed her not to do a flip as I quietly made my way over to her.

"Hey, what are you doing?" I asked softly, once we were in a moderately close proximity. She turned to look at me, but avoided eye contact. She was beautiful, her skin a lovely shade of caramel. "Should I call 911?" I asked after standing in silence for a few moments.

"No, do not call 911." She replied immediately.

We held eye contact for an awkward amount of time. I wasn't sure what to do. I wanted to help her, but doubted I could without calling the cops. "What's your name?" I eventually asked.

She looked back out at the ocean, though there wasn't much to see as the air was dense with fog. "I'm Marsha. You?"

"Karla, but I go by Camila."

She laughed, but I wasn't sure what it was out of. Certainly not happiness, perhaps it was spite. "You have an interesting accent. Where do you live? Somewhere in the south, right?"

I nodded, even though we weren't looking at each other. "Miami, yeah."

"Not originally, though. Where are you from?" She asked.

"Cuba," I replied. I was impressed by her ear. My accent wasn't heavy, especially not at the moment. "Let's discuss you, though." I suggested sheepishly.

"You don't have to talk to me that. I'm not going to jump. I want to, but I'm not going to." Marsha said. I tried to conjure up a convincing argument for her to come back to safety, but she continued. "What's going on with you? You're shaking really bad. Either you have Parkinson's or you're wasted."

My jaw dropped a little at how observant she was. I didn't reply right away, and she met my eyes once again. "I'm... Yeah, I'm... Coke." Was all I managed to say. I couldn't form the word addict in my mouth.

Marsha nodded and repositioned herself, causing me to flinch. "What do you do for a living, Camila?"

"I'm a struggling author and a stripper." I replied with hesitation. "Why can't we talk about you, though? What's your story?"

She sighed. "My name is Marsha Britney, and I'm eighteen. I've been an drug addict for three years. I come from a loving home, some Full House type shit." She took a pack of cigarettes out of her pocket and offered me one. I nodded and she threw it my way, along with a lighter. I offered the lighter back, but before she could take it, she hopped off of the fence, landing next to me and began walking, motioning for me to follow. Which I did hesitantly. "Anyway, I was born and raised here. I hate mayonnaise, my family, sunburn, and Meghan Trainor, in that order. I'm just a person trying their best."

I still wondered if I should call 911, but something told me not to. "Why are you considering killing yourself? I'm sure everything will work out."