Chapter 6
"Twenty thousand dollars now! Do I hear twenty-one thousand?"
Generally, upper class art auctions were silent, with silent bidding. Not as obnoxious as this. Jess's work was being sold along side ugly name brand jackets and jewelry. It wasn't like her painting showed any amount of talent either which only made the price of it more ridiculous. She had half completed a portrait of Lonnie, got angry when it didn't come out the way she had planned, and thrown the rest of her palet at it. Now it was selling for twenty-thousand dollars. Jess hated when people yelled. It was annoying. And pointless. It reminded her a lot of her mom, who would on occasion go off in anger about something as small as the dishes having not been done. She missed her mom.
"Twenty-three thousand! Twenty-four anyone, goin for twenty-four"
The bidding was dieing out. It was time to leave. She'd be able to afford her lease for the next twenty years of her life with that price. She slowly stood up, and having sat in the back, there was no one to witness her leaving, except for perhaps the auctioneer who gave her a silent nod and kept bidding going. Out the door, down the street, one left turn, and then to the bus stop. Lonnie stood there, quietly, she simply stared ahead, knowing there was no conversation tonight.
By the time her bus arrived at her stop, she had forgotten about him, and stepped into her favorite bar around the corner from her apartment in the Bronks. People gave a lot of shit about it, but she loved it here, and the crime wasn't even that bad, infect all the local gangs were quiet polite to her, they loved her, and she offered members of all to join her for dinner, sometimes they even ate together. No one knew that she was an accomplished cook, homemade meals fit for families of ten. And while it was occasionally uncomfortable, when they were in her presence, they behaved themselves. Once or twice she had even talked to the police commissioner about some of the minor charges brought against some of the younger members, ones who were honestly to young to even be members. They let them go at her discretion, and the promise to keep them in line. She held no favoritism, and was not bias to any side, and for that she was respected. For that, she loved the area, not like the snobby white folk in Manhattan, in their designer dresses, drinking their liquid diets so they could be so thin they didn't have a body, walking their little shit dogs who were so small she could step on it and not even notice. She hated people. Except those she lived near. Except the bartender, who often times would pay for her drinks, and allow her to crash in the loft upstairs if she was too drunk to get home. Every once in awhile during her binges he would stop by the apartment and clean up. making sure she showered and didn't let the sink pile up with dishes. But then as swiftly as he came, he disappeared back into the night, leaving her to herself. She liked that.
A shot of whiskey appeared in front of her. She didn't even have to order it. As she swirled the liquid the door swung open and then swiftly closed. What used to be a fairly vacant area was now filled with anger, and in the hands of that anger were five or six men with guns. She looked at Danny, the bartender, and then to the men who were now occupying the bar. She noticed one of the men was a boy she had wrapped and cleaned a knife wound for last month. He had promised that he would stay out of trouble. He certainly shouldn't be doing something as strenuous as holding up a bar. He shouldn't even be holding up this bar, it was out of the question, this was neutral ground. It had been agreed upon, much like Jess's apartment, that there was to be no violence here. Danny had strategically moved to the back, opting for the safest course of action in the alleyway, knowing that even if they fought back, there was no ending to the scenario that would be happy.
Jess stood up, defiantly almost, and waded her way through the tension in the air to the exit. Every one watched her as she walked past the med, shooting glares about the room. But no one stopped her. That was until she made it to the door, when a hand grasped hers, like a child holding a mother's hand when they were afraid of strangers or being lost. Turning she noticed it was the boy, but as she looked at him, he let her go, nodded and moved toward the bar. Jess slipped out the door.
Chapter 7
She was drinking again. And smoking. And shooting. Simply put, she was bingeing. Danny had stopped by a couple hours ago, and took away most of her heroin, but he didn't know about the stash she kept in her closet behind the clothes in the safe in the wall. Jess filled her syringe, and looked down at her arm. The vain was right there. But around it. Around were raised skin roads that criss crossed and intersected, discolored circular pieces of skin that were wrought with memories of infection, and various puncture wounds from before. She had started decorating her own body when she was 11, angry with the world she took it out on her arm like it was canvas. Lonnie would always clean her up though, his mom was a nurse, so he knew first aid. Sometimes when he was mad at her, he would pour rubbing alcohol or lemon juice on the wounds to make sure she knew the pain he was in. She was never mad at him for it, it actually made her stop cutting when he had died.
Jess slipped the syringe in, and pushed down. Patting her arm.
Lonnie was on the couch. Twelve again. Smiling the smile she had only seen maybe twice, when he was truly happy, when he had forgotten the horrors of the world, and was simply enjoying what he could, with her. He would laugh at her resistance to eat ice cream, cause she always felt fat, but he would shove it in her mouth resulting in a vanilla covered face, only resulting in her shrieking and shoving ice cream in his face, until they were both human popsicles. Her mom would then come in yelling at them for making such a mess, calling the dog over and letting him lick the milky treat off their faces. Lonnie never let her down. Jess patted her arm once more. She had neglected to take out the syringe. Reality told her that she should remove it before the blood started to clot around it, but Lonnie was right there. He would be so disappointed in her. Looking his way Jess noticed he was permeable now, pieces of wood sticking out from the couch piercing his body. She should get a new couch. More pieces of wood came out and began to penetrate the laughing boy's body. But he never stopped smiling, yelling gleefully "Jess, Jess, stop it! That tickles!"
Jess vomited. She knew what was happening. Her doctor told her when she was under a lot of stress she could imagine things. It was just her mind. Her imagination. Lonnie wasn't here. She had meds for episodes. She wanted to stand up, but was impaired by the needle that was lodged in her arm. Without thinking she yanked it out, breaking the formed minor scab, resulting in a steady flow of what appeared to be purple jelly like ooze. She knew it wasn't real. She probably wasn't even bleeding. Staggering she made it to the bathroom. She could hear Lonnie laughing back in the living room. Laughing laughing laughing. Open the cabinet. She accidentally knocked down her tooth brush and some advil, but located her meds swiftly. How many was she suppose to take? One, two, five? Had to be five, it would work faster if she did. Maybe she could take the whole bottle. No. That's how people die in the newspapers. Only five. It'll work fast.
After an hour, Jess was lying in an almost swimmable pool of her own blood. Within minutes of that, she was breathless.
Love doesn't exist. Not in the sense that it doesn't exist, but simply that it can no longer be called love. We've distorted the meaning of it so much that teenagers look at one another once, have sex once, and believe that they are in mad deep love. Crazy doesn't exist either. There is no definition of crazy because there is no definition of reality, because who, honestly, is able to decide what is and isn't reality. Albert Einstein claimed that reality is an illusion. The tragedy doesn't lie in death, or in the abuse, or in any of the events that have transpired. The tragedy lies in what society has done to a girl who could have very well changed the world. To all the girls who could have changed the world who were caught up in the idea that they will never be good enough. To people who have an unbreakable connection, but are unable to show it due to gay marriage laws. To the idea of love. Real love. The red balloon, held in the hand of little girl who floated so gracefully away from the city, from society, is what is love. Is the power that lifts up higher then anything else in the world. Where words are pointless, where beauty is needless, and where what really matters, is what lies in one's soul.
