I put on a t-shirt and old jeans, my slip on sandals, grab my phone, suck down my coffee, and dash out the door. I almost make it out alive, until my Dad calls me.
“ARTIE!” he glares at me from the top of the staircase.
And me, already knowing what his inquiry will be, reply with,
“I'm going to Scott's apartment.”
He shakes his head and waves his hand in my general direction.
“Don’t.. do drugs and stuff.”
“Right on.” I skip down the hall and raise my hand to knock on his door, and just take a moment to admire the paintings on the walls.

Our building is called “Luna Gates.” Yeah, it has a name. We moved here because, basically the whole complex was an art project in a real life build battle between architectural artists here in the city. My mother is obsessed with the constellations and artsy stuff. Ever since she went missing, I've kinda taken up sketching and drawing and painting and stuff like that. She left three months ago. We can't contact her, she won't answer. The cops can't find her either. It's like she simply.. vanished. But, she really wanted to move in the building once it was finished. She's always had a fascination with anything to do with space. The hallways are decorated with stars and planets. Every apartment/suite has different windows, and layouts. In the courtyard, there's a statue of our solar system, and near the front entrance, there's a model  spaceship statue that you can walk through. It’s pretty amazing, and since this builder won the so called battle, rent is extra cheap because he’s basically a millionaire. So, since I was 12, this has been home. Some people say, “It’s not much, but it's home..”
But I'm just like, “Its too much and it's home, so there you go.”
And, apparently my mom didn't want to live here anymore I guess, because she’s been gone.

I knock.
“COME IIIINNNNN!!”
I walk through the door and pop some toffee in my mouth. He always has a bowl near the door. Since his trip to England, he’s  been bragging about all the doo-dads that he brought back. Like, the toffee and authentic stereotype tea.
“Where's the pai-”
I cut myself off in the middle of my sentence, and he kinda looks at me weirdly. All his furniture has been moved from the living room area, to the side with the fireplace.
“I just never noticed how much space was in here.”
“Oh, yeah, only because the sofa and coffee table are massive.”
“Just like your personality.”
“HEY!” he exclaims. He takes one of the smaller brushes and flicks towards me. Paint splatters all over the front of my shirt.
“SCOTT!!” I grab my own paint brush, and attempt to flick it towards him. He ducks behind his couch, and vibrant yellow paint makes a mess of the back of the couch.
He looks at me with a shocked expression.
“Oh my god Artie, Why’d ya do that!?”
“I'm so sorry!” I can't seem to close my mouth.
He pulls a smile and laughs, “It's fine. We can go to Ikea to get another one.”
“You sure?? Want me to pay for it?”
“No, it's fine. I needed a new one anyways. And while we're out, you need some winter apparel. Shopping in New York City, especially this close to Christmas, is just magical, yknow?”
I peer out the window. “Yeah. It really is. Something else that's magical is how you can change the topic of any sentence into your pride of living in the greatest city in the world.”
“What can I say?” he raises his hands in the air. “I love it.”
Then, we proceed to strip the walls of posters, and paintings. We put everything on the kitchen countertops, and then paint the walls. One of them is lime green, and the other two are lemon yellow. We agreed to stay in the fruit section.
About halfway through painting, and jamming out to George Michael, there's a knock at the door.
“OOH!” Scott runs to the door, grabbing his wallet on the way.
“Must be my Postmate!!”
He answers the door, and a slightly short, yet very muscular man stands in the hall holding a Whole Foods bag. He hands Scott the bag.
‘Thanks. Hey, I like the new paint job.”
“Aw, thanks! Yeah we wanted to revamp the living room.”
The man smiles. “It's nice to see a brother and sister spending quality time together.”
Scott looks back at me and laughs. “Yeah, because we’re soul sisters!!”
The man smiles. “Have a nice day..” and leaves almost faster than he arrived.

We decide to take a break, and dig into organic guacamole and gluten free bean chips.
“You're such a health freak, y'know.” I snap a chip in half with my teeth.
“Well it's not a bad thing that I care about my appearance.”
“Oh, like I don't?” I tease.
“You should come to the gym with me sometime. Might be fun.”
“Yeah maybe. Christmas break starts soon, so we can go then.”

We then watch Oprah and finish our healthy food.
Later that day, we venture to Ikea. Scott pulls up in his car, and I hold my jacket tighter around me, as it starts to snow. The air smells of frost, and my lungs fill up with cold. We walk in the doors. We go straight to the furniture area.
“There's so many choices Artie, helppp.”
“What color scheme are you looking for?”
“Maybe like a beige, or a light brown would be ideal.”
I walk over to this light green L-shaped sectional sofa.
“Hey Scott, take the L”
“Oh my Lord, we HAVE to. It's even the Leafyishere color!”
And next thing I know, we purchased the cringe couch.

We placed an order, because his car is (US spec, bullet indicators, 11 window Standard VW Bus, chrome hubcaps, two tone 15" wheels) a vintage VW bus that his grandfather left in storage, his Dad patched it up, and then Scott inherited it. It works great, and it looks pretty radical. We drive down to the mall. It's still snowing, and there's decorations everywhere. Mariah Carey on the radio talks about how she wants you for christmas. We park, and walk in. The warmth of the indoor heating makes me smile slightly. We go straight into Forever 21. The place of his work, of course, today is his off day.
“Ok you go have fun, 150$ spending limit, and I'll be looking at the holographic phone cases.”
“Right on.” we high five, and I wander over to a fluorescent pink tight knit sweater. $25.99. I next pick out some pajamas, leggings, sweatpants, sweatshirts from the men's section, and check back in with Scott.
“Love it! Go try them on, and then we can get a smoothie or something.”
I walk over to the rooms, and most things fit me. Except the sweatpants. They're too loose. Everything I wear is loose. My whole life I've been so incredibly skinny. I eat the right foods, and I never put on weight. Doctors used to say it was ok, but now they get worried. Some people are jealous, but I don't have much of a chest, so I don't know why they would be. I decide to buy the pants anyways. I can always tighten them when I get home.

I exit the dressing room, and head over to where Scott is waiting, looking at the knock off beauty blenders and girly socks.
“Ready?”
“Yeah.” I stand in line next to him. “What did you pick out?”
“I got this sweatshirt and some socks, for my trip to Colorado.”
“Oh, yeah. I wish I could go with you. Making an educated guess, my Dad's probably gonna go get drunk and leave me home.”
“I mean, I'll take you if you want to, and my Mom's coming to see me on Friday, so we can all go together. And, you know how much she loves you! But I'd have to talk with your Dad obviously.”
“That would honestly be so much fun. Like a girl’s trip, except you're gay.”

He hands his debit card to the lady behind the counter, and then we leave. As we're heading to the car, freezing our noses off, I point to a salon.
“Hey, I know it's kind of a lot to ask, and I'll pay you back, but can I pick up some hair dye? I feel like an idiot with this bleach blonde grizzly roots look.”
“Oh my GOD what color??”
“Maybe like purple or blue.”
“Yeah, we could do it together!”
“You're down for that?”
“Why not?”
We drop things off in the car, I slap on some hand sanitizer, and we walk / jog to the shop. I love the cold, but I'm so done with being outside.
He holds the door open for me, like a gentleman.
“It smells like roses and bleach in here.”
He laughs. “Same.”
“Hi, how can we help you today?” The man at the counter has dark blue hair and literally the best makeup I've ever seen on anybody.
“I love your hair!” I smile, “Can I like, buy that dye here or do I have to get it done?”
“Aww , thanks honey. Yeah, it's on that shelf right there.”
He points to a wooden triple shelf by the door.
We buy two boxes, and then go back to the car.
A typical Sunday with my best friend.

As we drive through the afternoon traffic, we sit in silence.
“So,” he says. “Are you like, serious about coming with me?”
“Well, yeah, but it's only if my Dad lets me. I know he won't care but, he thinks you're like.. weird.”
“How so?” he says sarcastically. “Is it my glam?”
I snicker. “Yep.” I pause.
“Do you have water?” My mouth suddenly feels dry. I crack the window slightly, even though it's 40 degrees out. I feel hot under my jacket. My nose tingles, and breathing slowly becomes uncomfortable.
“Yeah, its under the seat.”
I bend over, and a pain that I've never felt in my life emerges from my chest.
“Wow..”  I lean back in the seat.
“Are you ok?” Scott sounds nervous but he keeps his eyes on the road.
“Yeah, its my chest again.”

Every week or so I get chest pain. It used to just feel like moderate heartburn, but every month I'm still living, it gets worse and worse. I'm used to the chest pain, but this was major. Something so extreme that it hurt to breathe, like the whole front of my abdomen had been beat with a sledgehammer. I try to drink water, but I can barely move.
“Do you need to go to the hospital?”
Scott stops once again in the traffic, then takes a second to look at me.
“Artie, your face.. You’ve gone pale.”
“Oh, is it?” The sarcasm seeps out of my mouth.
He sighs. Another four letter word can be heard under his breath.
“I'm taking you to the hospital.”
Traffic speeds up slightly and he turns down the street. I being to feel dizzy, and my left arm tingles..
“Just breathe, it's ok..”
“Scott.. I…”

-and then darkness-

I wake up. I'm not in the hospital. I'm not in the car. I'm not really fully awake, but I can hear faint talking. The static of a television. A cats purr. A dog's bark. The engine of a motorcycle, the murmur of a dishwasher. I can hear it all. I try to speak, but I can't. My throat is tight. It's not cold, and it's not warm.  I try to move, but I can't. I can't feel a single thing. I can't focus on one thing. My brain is racing, but yet. I stay calm. I try opening my eyes, and it's like they're glued shut. Even though I can tell that my eyes are closed, I can see everything. Things pop up in my “sight” that I can't comprehend. Colors. Shapes. My ears ring, with ominous chants playing over and over again. I am in no pain. This is not heaven. This is not hell. My heart stops pumping.

-and then light-

“Artie… hey..”
It's my father. I'm in a hospital room.
“Dad?”
“It's ok. I'm here. Just try to sleep.”
There's beeping machines. Tubes, cords, lines attached to me. It hurts.

I sit there. A distorted version of reality. That’s all I'm seeing. I don't know what day it is. I don't know what time it is. My head hurts. My eyes hurt. My chest hurts. I don't want to be here. My body is an orthodoxy of corruption. Everything is working against me. I'm tired. Every day.

-and then darkness-

I'm in a house. All the lights are on. All of them. It's nighttime. Cupboards, doors, cabinets, drawers, all of them opening and closing. I look in the mirror. This is not my house. I look in the mirror. I look dead. I'm all bloodied up. What happened me. I don't know. Nobody ever seems to know. I'm not scared. I'm not calm. I scream for my mother. I scream for my father. I scream for Prescott. And I scream reluctantly for anybody who might give the slightest care about what's happened to me. About what happening to me. Things cross my mind that I cannot comprehend. The mirror in front of me shatters. I scream to the universe. GET. OFF. OF. ME.
People surround me in this tight knit room. The doors all slam. The crash of a car, the cry of a newborn. The air is stuffy. The clotted blood of a lonely suicide. Cannibals. Vampires. Police. Butterflies. My mother looks through the mirror at me. She smiles. I, on the other hand, do not. The lights flicker, But they stay on. Silence again. They all disappear.

-and then light-

But, not really light, because it's night time. I look out the window. The city shines. It's gorgeous. My Dad is asleep on the chair in the room. Snoring, but not too loud. Light comes from the hall. I try to stand. I can't. I stare at the ceiling. When will this be over? I want to go home. So badly. I have school, and I can't miss it. I don't care  about my stupid heart, I just want it to be over. My chest still hurts, and it pains me even more to admit that I secretly don't want to leave. Knowing, that when I return home, it's all going to be the same. He drinks. He smokes. He shoots. He never scores. Just comes home lonely. Where’s my Mom? I just want my Mom back. I miss her, and even though she may not miss me, I miss her. My Dad’s going to California. I’ll be home. All alone. Because there's nobody that thinks and or cares about me. Scott, actually cares, but it's only a fraction of a chance my Dad will let me go with him. He thinks he’s a bad influence. If he were really concerned, of course he would call the police. But he doesn't. Why? Because the heathen doesn't care.
I sleep. Dreaming of a better life. One with people who care. One, that I’ll possibly never know. Wishing, I could sleep forever.

My father is already awake, talking with a doctor by the door. The man notices that my eyes are open, and he says, “Good morning Arthur. I’m Dr. Paulmann. Are you feeling better this morning?” he walks over to the bed, my father following.
“Just kind of thirsty I guess.”
“Oh, I'll get you some water.” my Dad leaves the room, and the doctor sits in the chair next to the bed. I look into his eyes.
“What happened to me?”
“Well we’re actually not sure. We contacted your regular doctor, and they confirmed a heartburn prescription. However, you show signs, and..”
He pauses,
“And??” my eyes widen.
“Well, you have a heart defect.”
I lean back in the bed. “Of course I do.”
My father returns with a bottle of water, and sets it on the bedside table.
“Arthur, I have to go to work, but they’ll take care of you when I'm gone. I might not be back tonight, though.”
I glare at him, snapping inside. “Really? You may not be back? So you can't give up your vodka for one single night? What if I die, Dad? You’ll be out, acting like everything is ok, then sob at my funeral, and then what? You’ll be alone forever because your wife won't even come back for reasons we don't still know, because you don't care about the case anymore and my damn head hurts and I feel dead. But, go on. Drink away your pitiful pain. And, act like you have pain, because it's just as nonexistent as your love for me.”

He looks at me with a rather surprised expression. And silently leaves the room. I look at the doctor, and he looks puzzled.
“I'm done being nice to him. He’s a terrible person.”
He is silent for a moment. “It's alright. I’ll speak with him later. As for the heart defect. You were born with it. It's not your fault, and you couldn't control it. It’s honestly a miracle that your regular doctor didn't diagnose you with it sooner. Patent Ductus Arteriosus. (PDA).”
“Am I going to die?”
“Well, if you're not careful. We’ll give you meds, but you need to come immediately to the hospital if there's even a slight problematic eruption of pain, or discomfort. Ift could be another attack.  However, for now, you should be able to go home by the end of the day.”
I smile with a pissy expression. “I don't want to go home.”
“Well, is there anyone else that can pick you up besides your Dad? Perhaps, you could stay with relatives?”
“Well, the man who brought me here, Prescott Jenkins. He’s my neighbor.”
“We have to talk to your Dad about it then. Can't just go giving you away to people we don't know.”
I roll my eyes. “Ok.”
He quietly leaves the room. I sip the water. I watch the tv. I read on my phone. I sleep. And my chest hurts.

The day passes. I don't eat. I don't talk. I don't get out of the bed. Then Scott walks in the door.
“Oh hon..” he walks over briskly and hugs me. “Are you feeling better?”
“No, not really. Are you taking me home?”
“Well, that's why I came, but I'm not sure that I'm totally allowed to..”
“It's ok. The doctor should be in soon, but I kinda just wanna talk.”
So, that's what we proceed to do.
We watched Oprah, once again. It's a rerun, but we don't mind. He smuggles in a whole foods granola bar for me.
“See, this is why we’re friends.” I give a dorky, unnecessary thumbs up.
He smiles sadly. It's odd. A smile, and what follows soon after is just so sad. So depressed inside a mind that it cannot make itself pretend to be joyous for over a fraction of a second.

“Arthur, what are you going to do?”
“What do you mean?” I straighten myself in the bed.
“Your Dad. He’s.. I don't know, he’s not good for you.”
“Yeah, obviously, but I can't just leave.”
“Why?”
“Legal reasons. You're an adult, you should know this.”
“Yeah, but he’s such a deadbeat.”
I shrug. “He’s a money earning deadbeat. I keep the home clean and full of food, with said money. I'm alright.”
“Exactly, Artie. He doesn't take care of you. YOU, take care of you. You don't have a real Dad, he’s just a bank. Full of dirty money. I know you don't see him as that, but that's what he is.”
“Scott, really. I'm ok. I don't want to go home, sure. But, it won't kill me. He’s my Dad, and..” I trail off.
“Artie. Please, we need to get police involved.”
“No Prescott. I swear, if you do thi-”
“It’s final honey. I'm sorry but I don't want you living with him anymore. If we run it through the courts then, I think we can get you into a safer home.”
“No.” I can feel my tear ducts clogging.
He takes a deep breath. “I'm just concerned.”
“I don't care who’s concerned. You know who’s concerned? ME, Scott. I'm so done with dealing with this. I am NOT going into foster care. You hear me? I'm finishing high school, then getting the hell out. My priority is getting myself out of this bed, and walking out the doors.” I choke. “I'm so sick of being sick.”
“I don't want help from anyone.” at this point, tears stream down my face. My cheeks probably look flushed, and I have a rather ugly expression.
He stands up. I assume he’s leaving. But, he doesn't. He comes to the bed, and sits next to me. He puts his arm around me, and I cry into his sleeve. It's not romance, it's not an unconventional crush. I'm not in love with him, but I'll be damned if I say that I don't love him.

After a while, he checks his watch. “Do you wanna go home?”
I sit up and rub my eyes. “Yeah.”
He get up, and gives me his hand to help me out of the bed. I know I've only been there for a few days, buts it feels like I've never walked before. And obviously my chest hurts. No surprise there. I slip on my shoes and we leave. Yup. Just like that. He checked me out and we left. We get in his car. We drive in silence. I figure that I'll go home, and so will he, and that's gonna be it. Nothing more. But, as he’s walking up the stairs behind me, I hear him stop. I turn.
“What is it?”
“Can you call your Dad?”
“Yeah, why?”
“Ask him if you can leave with me today. You don't have school. And if he’s going to California in the morning then, it's not really proper just to leave you here.”
“What about  your parents?”
“I'll call them and say we're coming early.”
So that's what we did. He called his mother, and I called my father. Mrs. Jenkins was thrilled, and oddly enough, so was my Dad.
He seemed almost too supportive of me going on this trip. Saying that, he was happy for me and that he wanted me to have fun. Make good choices, and listen to the Jenkins. And me, learning from other people, parents aren't supposed to be like that. They’re ‘unfair.’
But whatever. I pack my things, and fill my cats water and food bowls. If my Dad has a shred of decency, he’ll feed him whilst I'm gone.

We drive. He passes the apartment complex.

And along with the pain in my heart, there is joy. I mean, no girl has it this good. From the outside it just looks like we're dating. But, inside, we know the truth. I crank up the radio and he opens all the windows. And I do something, I've always wanted to do. I open the sunroof, and stand up. I feel the wind in my face. The tiny flecks of snow circulating  in the air mingle with my hair.  Scott shouts, “COLORADOO!!”
And The Culture Club come on the radio. We look at each other.
“KARMAKARMAKARMAKARMAKARMACHALEMELOOONNN!!!”

And we drive to the airport. Figuring, it will take too long to drive, (5-6 days) His parents are paying for the tickets, and they were mailed to him prior to today. We go through security, and get on the plane. My heart pumps a little faster than normal. Which being my current state of affairs, is not a good thing. Before I know it, we take off. I'm holding his hand tightly.
“Oh god Artie, that's hurts.” he laughs.
“Sorry..” I loosen my grip. “I hate planes.”
“Why? The risk of impending death at any moment due to uncontrollable weather patterns?”
I lean back in the seat. “That's one reason, yeah.”
And we fly.
“Artie, isn't it weird that you can walk? You're not in a wheelchair, and you just had a heart attack.”
I open my mouth to speak, then close it. Yeah, it IS weird. I shouldn't be able to walk. But, here I am. On a plane. About 3 days after an attack. Even I, the straight C+ student, can't even explain this medical mystery. All I say is,
“Yeah. Weird.”

Scott's the first one to succumb to the temptations of soaring dreams. I always imagine, that when I die, it won't be a result of something heinous. But, a result of dreaming. Forever, and ever. And even though death is a painful truth, I vow to make it a honeysuckle sweet type of falling down. That soon, can be catapulted into a whirlwind of falling. Forever. But, at the same time, a dream. An illusion. Falling.
About an hour later, me being unable to sleep, feel Scott reposition himself in his seat. He wakes up, and rubs his eyes.
“How much longer do you think?” he yawns.
I check my watch. “Maybe like 2 and a half hours.”
“Mhm.” he opens the window latch. He has the window seat.
“It's like patchwork. The greens and yellows and reds and browns.”
“A quilt?”
“No, the ground you idiot.”
I smile. “Oh I'm sorry, not my fault I'd near faint if I sat in that seat.”
“You live on the top floor of a building, how are you scared of heights?”
“Because a building can't just crash down. But, a plane can.”
“Good point, but I feel like we’d know if there was something wrong.”
“Or, maybe not.” I smile. “Trippy dude.”

~~~Time passes and the weight of the world crashes down on a certain individual.~~~

A man in the front row stands. He clears his throat.
“Ladies and gentlemen. I want you to know, TSA didn't do a good enough job.”
People look around, murmurs rise from the uncanny audience. The man laughs.
He holds up a gun.

“Don't worry kids, I'm not a TERRORIST!!”
Then it's like everything was in slow motion.
He targets the stewardesses in the front. He shoots, he scores. One by one, killing the innocent.
He aims the gun at me.
His eyes were a thick gray.
They were looking at me.
ME.
He shoots himself.
People scream.
The man is dead.

~~~A stranger comes to town.~~~

A funeral. Not many people. A father, a friend, and a priest. Sounds like the beginning of a bad joke. A father, a homo, and a man of god walk into a bar, but, this is no laughing matter. She was lowered into the ground. She was buried. She was alone. Dressed in all white. Like a bride, that she would never become. Coated in beauty, that she would never see herself possess. And she was mourned. By the homo, and the father. The priest said a few words, and walked off. Another death in the city. Nothing exciting.

And, from the forest near the graveyard, he stands. The shooter. The dead man walking.

“You know, Mr. Jenkins..” he pauses. “When a person dies, it does not mean that they are dead. Not entirely.”
He looks at the stranger. With his hands folded around a tissue, and black lines running down his cheeks. “What?”
The man grins. “She’s still here.” he points a finger at my grave.
“If you listen, she speaks. In a gust of wind, her smile beams. In a stormy night, she weeps. On a summer's day, she sings. And, in the winter snow, she tells a story. She’ll tell you about anything. If you listen.”
The man leaves in a cloud of blue.
And, Prescott, not knowing exactly what just happened, knew what had happened.
He thanked God that he wasn't shot in that plane. He laid a hand on her grave, and thanked her for being his best friend. And he cried. For her, for the lives lost, and for what was indeed, debatable.