SoCalShordie
Bluelight Crew
I’m nearly done writing my memoir. It’s a collection of autobiographical short stories, all that actually happened in my real life. I’d love any feedback if you have the time to read one. Thanks. XO Shordie
-
✍️ WORDS ✍️
Welcome Guest!
-
-
Words Moderators: Shambles
Scorpion: A Memoir
- Thread starter SoCalShordie
- Start date
SoCalShordie
Bluelight Crew
Waste Your Time In California
Vegas ain’t anyone’s home. The Strip radiated the same steady hum as every night, but that night, it felt different. Like it knew I was trying to slip out without saying goodbye. I looked around like I was seeing it for the first time, the illusion of it all. Neon and bad intentions bleeding into pavement. Dreams being realized, then slipping through fingers before they ever get a chance to be. And for a second, it all felt so small. Like whatever had a hold on me before, didn’t hit the same. I was already gone.
I’m coming off the worst year of my life—stuck in this soulless cardboard city with another dirt bag who put his hands on me like it was normal. But something in my soul is urging. The universe calling. A pull from somewhere both familiar and foreign. It’s time to make a change. And stand on it.
It’s July 9th, 2022. I’m on a Greyhound bus, headphones on, staring out the window. I’m feelin’ like the main character in one of those neon noir films. Drive or Neon Demon. I’m vibin’ to “Goodbye Earl” by The Dixie Chicks. Gotta have a sense of humor. If you can laugh at your pain, you take some of its power back. I’ve always believed in that. The bus rolls past the Strip—all neon and lies—and I lift my hand, flip the window off, and smirk.
It’s been real, Vegas.
On my lap: a bottle of Hennessy. At my feet: a duffle bag with just a few items of clothing. That’s it. That’s all I could grab before I made my great escape. Last night, out of nowhere, I got a text from AB. We hadn’t spoken all year, though he was always on my mind.
Remember when you said you’d dip on your man if only I was single? Well, I’m single. So what’s good? Lol. I miss everything about you, Delilah. Bring your ass back to Cali.
He sent me fifty bucks for a bus ticket back to California. He was blowing my phone up while I packed, swearing I was gonna flake. But the second I made it to the station, I called him.
AB, I’m here! I made it to the bus stop! I’m gonna see you in just a few hours, can you believe it?!
I can hear the smile in my own voice.
Damn, he says. I’m relieved. I thought you’d flake on me. Just promise me you’re getting on that bus.
I promise.
Okay. I’ll be at the station downtown to pick you up right before midnight.
A pause.
Hey…
Yeah?
I love you, Delilah.
I hear the smile in his voice now too, and I already know he means it.
I love you, too.
And I do. This feeling floods my chest, my veins, my whole body. But it’s more than that. For the first time in a long time, I feel alive. Like I’m standing on the edge of something. The verge of greatness? Like everything is about to change. Like this, whatever this is, is fate.
The bus finally stops, and the second my feet touch California soil, I feel it. Something electric. It’s a warm summer night. A soft breeze wraps around me like a welcome home. I’m in black Versace leggings, matching Versace crop top, and size six Retro Oreo Jordan 4’s. I’m feelin’ myself. I can’t wait to see AB. But then, I look around. This doesn’t look like downtown L.A. at all. The excitement got the best of me. I got off too early. Way too early. I’m in fucking Pomona?! My phone battery is at five percent. Fuck me… I mutter under my breath, already dialing. He picks up.
Hey—you won’t believe this. I got off at the wrong stop, I don’t even know where I am, and my phone’s about to die.
Hey, it’s cool, he says, calm as ever. Just drop your location.
I send it. A pause.
Oh damn… you’re all the way in Pomona. It’s gonna take me like an hour to get to you.
My stomach drops.
My phone’s not gonna last that long.
It’s okay. I’ll be there. Might take a minute… but I got you.
The call ends. My screen goes black. Dead. Fuck! And just like that, the feeling creeps back in. That familiar, sinking feeling. Lost. Alone. Then— Headlights flood the street behind me. A car pulls up fast, tires crunching against the pavement. I jump a little, heart racing.
Sike. I’m already here.
I spin around. It’s him. AB. That crooked, sideways smile, the one that makes him look like trouble and comfort at the same time. I squeal and run to the passenger side, hop into the Tacoma like no time has passed. Like old times. I lean across the seat and wrap my arms around him, and he pulls me in just as tight.
I missed you, I whisper, pressing a kiss to his cheek.
He’s wearing a beanie over his dark curly hair, one of those flannel shirts with a hood, and his hands are dirty from working on cars all day. I always liked that. We pull off into the night. And just like that, it’s there again. That feeling. Something in my chest starts to swell, growing bigger with every second. It feels like I’m experiencing love for the first time.
We’re cruising down the 5 freeway, merging onto the 14 northbound. The road stretches out endlessly in front of us. Empty. Quiet. Just us. Above us, the Mojave sky glows with moonlight and scattered stars. And as I stare down that dark, open highway, something settles deep in my spirit. The possibilities in front of me feel endless. Just like the road. His gaze locks onto mine, steady and warm, like it’s traveled across the whole universe just to land right here—on me. Like nothing else matters. Not the road. Not the past. Not the chaos I just escaped. Just me. His eyes hold something dangerous. Belonging. They make me feel like I could be someone. Like I’m seen. Understood. Believed in. Like I’ve finally found a place to rest. A refuge from the world’s chaos. And for the first time, I feel safe. No fear. No second-guessing. Just safe.
He rolls all the windows down, and cool desert air rushes into the Tacoma, wrapping around us, lifting my hair, carrying the night with it. How does it feel to be back in Cali?! He shouts, grinning, his hand cutting through the midnight air like he’s trying to grab a piece of it. I laugh, leaning back into the seat, letting the wind kiss my skin like it missed me too.
Like I can finally breathe again, I say, smiling over at him. Like I actually made it out. Like I survived something I wasn’t supposed to. I stick my hand out the window, like him, letting it glide through the night air. We’re both just, there. Laughing. Free. The kind of free you don’t question. The kind you don’t overthink. Just feeling it.
The desert stretches out around us, quiet and endless, like the whole world hit pause just for this moment. He turns the music up a little louder, bass humming through the truck, and I close my eyes for a second. Letting it all sink in. No yelling. No walking on eggshells. Just the road. The music. And him. I open my eyes and look over at him again, really look this time. And I swear, I’ve never seen him look so good.
I don’t know where this road will take me, but one thing I know for certain: this feels like it could be my happy ending, or the beginning of my destruction. And I don’t know if I can survive another wreckage. Fuck it. For the first time in my life, I loosen my grip on something I can’t control, and let love in. A cactus flower, blooming reckless and radiant in the harshest conditions. Not knowing if it’ll survive the sun. Just knowing it finally chose to open.
Vegas ain’t anyone’s home. The Strip radiated the same steady hum as every night, but that night, it felt different. Like it knew I was trying to slip out without saying goodbye. I looked around like I was seeing it for the first time, the illusion of it all. Neon and bad intentions bleeding into pavement. Dreams being realized, then slipping through fingers before they ever get a chance to be. And for a second, it all felt so small. Like whatever had a hold on me before, didn’t hit the same. I was already gone.
I’m coming off the worst year of my life—stuck in this soulless cardboard city with another dirt bag who put his hands on me like it was normal. But something in my soul is urging. The universe calling. A pull from somewhere both familiar and foreign. It’s time to make a change. And stand on it.
It’s July 9th, 2022. I’m on a Greyhound bus, headphones on, staring out the window. I’m feelin’ like the main character in one of those neon noir films. Drive or Neon Demon. I’m vibin’ to “Goodbye Earl” by The Dixie Chicks. Gotta have a sense of humor. If you can laugh at your pain, you take some of its power back. I’ve always believed in that. The bus rolls past the Strip—all neon and lies—and I lift my hand, flip the window off, and smirk.
It’s been real, Vegas.
On my lap: a bottle of Hennessy. At my feet: a duffle bag with just a few items of clothing. That’s it. That’s all I could grab before I made my great escape. Last night, out of nowhere, I got a text from AB. We hadn’t spoken all year, though he was always on my mind.
Remember when you said you’d dip on your man if only I was single? Well, I’m single. So what’s good? Lol. I miss everything about you, Delilah. Bring your ass back to Cali.
He sent me fifty bucks for a bus ticket back to California. He was blowing my phone up while I packed, swearing I was gonna flake. But the second I made it to the station, I called him.
AB, I’m here! I made it to the bus stop! I’m gonna see you in just a few hours, can you believe it?!
I can hear the smile in my own voice.
Damn, he says. I’m relieved. I thought you’d flake on me. Just promise me you’re getting on that bus.
I promise.
Okay. I’ll be at the station downtown to pick you up right before midnight.
A pause.
Hey…
Yeah?
I love you, Delilah.
I hear the smile in his voice now too, and I already know he means it.
I love you, too.
And I do. This feeling floods my chest, my veins, my whole body. But it’s more than that. For the first time in a long time, I feel alive. Like I’m standing on the edge of something. The verge of greatness? Like everything is about to change. Like this, whatever this is, is fate.
The bus finally stops, and the second my feet touch California soil, I feel it. Something electric. It’s a warm summer night. A soft breeze wraps around me like a welcome home. I’m in black Versace leggings, matching Versace crop top, and size six Retro Oreo Jordan 4’s. I’m feelin’ myself. I can’t wait to see AB. But then, I look around. This doesn’t look like downtown L.A. at all. The excitement got the best of me. I got off too early. Way too early. I’m in fucking Pomona?! My phone battery is at five percent. Fuck me… I mutter under my breath, already dialing. He picks up.
Hey—you won’t believe this. I got off at the wrong stop, I don’t even know where I am, and my phone’s about to die.
Hey, it’s cool, he says, calm as ever. Just drop your location.
I send it. A pause.
Oh damn… you’re all the way in Pomona. It’s gonna take me like an hour to get to you.
My stomach drops.
My phone’s not gonna last that long.
It’s okay. I’ll be there. Might take a minute… but I got you.
The call ends. My screen goes black. Dead. Fuck! And just like that, the feeling creeps back in. That familiar, sinking feeling. Lost. Alone. Then— Headlights flood the street behind me. A car pulls up fast, tires crunching against the pavement. I jump a little, heart racing.
Sike. I’m already here.
I spin around. It’s him. AB. That crooked, sideways smile, the one that makes him look like trouble and comfort at the same time. I squeal and run to the passenger side, hop into the Tacoma like no time has passed. Like old times. I lean across the seat and wrap my arms around him, and he pulls me in just as tight.
I missed you, I whisper, pressing a kiss to his cheek.
He’s wearing a beanie over his dark curly hair, one of those flannel shirts with a hood, and his hands are dirty from working on cars all day. I always liked that. We pull off into the night. And just like that, it’s there again. That feeling. Something in my chest starts to swell, growing bigger with every second. It feels like I’m experiencing love for the first time.
We’re cruising down the 5 freeway, merging onto the 14 northbound. The road stretches out endlessly in front of us. Empty. Quiet. Just us. Above us, the Mojave sky glows with moonlight and scattered stars. And as I stare down that dark, open highway, something settles deep in my spirit. The possibilities in front of me feel endless. Just like the road. His gaze locks onto mine, steady and warm, like it’s traveled across the whole universe just to land right here—on me. Like nothing else matters. Not the road. Not the past. Not the chaos I just escaped. Just me. His eyes hold something dangerous. Belonging. They make me feel like I could be someone. Like I’m seen. Understood. Believed in. Like I’ve finally found a place to rest. A refuge from the world’s chaos. And for the first time, I feel safe. No fear. No second-guessing. Just safe.
He rolls all the windows down, and cool desert air rushes into the Tacoma, wrapping around us, lifting my hair, carrying the night with it. How does it feel to be back in Cali?! He shouts, grinning, his hand cutting through the midnight air like he’s trying to grab a piece of it. I laugh, leaning back into the seat, letting the wind kiss my skin like it missed me too.
Like I can finally breathe again, I say, smiling over at him. Like I actually made it out. Like I survived something I wasn’t supposed to. I stick my hand out the window, like him, letting it glide through the night air. We’re both just, there. Laughing. Free. The kind of free you don’t question. The kind you don’t overthink. Just feeling it.
The desert stretches out around us, quiet and endless, like the whole world hit pause just for this moment. He turns the music up a little louder, bass humming through the truck, and I close my eyes for a second. Letting it all sink in. No yelling. No walking on eggshells. Just the road. The music. And him. I open my eyes and look over at him again, really look this time. And I swear, I’ve never seen him look so good.
I don’t know where this road will take me, but one thing I know for certain: this feels like it could be my happy ending, or the beginning of my destruction. And I don’t know if I can survive another wreckage. Fuck it. For the first time in my life, I loosen my grip on something I can’t control, and let love in. A cactus flower, blooming reckless and radiant in the harshest conditions. Not knowing if it’ll survive the sun. Just knowing it finally chose to open.
SoCalShordie
Bluelight Crew
White Knight, Black Tacoma
I’m alone in my room, stuck between two worlds—like Sylvia Plath. Maybe it’s just the Scorpio condition.
I’ve been staying at my grandparents’ house ever since the hospital released me after a joyride on GHB left me with a fractured spine. Now I’m laid up here, trying to recover a piece of myself.
I’m miserable.
Depression ain’t even a deep enough word to cut it. Every day feels like a gut-wrenching freefall. I’m hollow inside, numb to everything except the constant shame over my inability to exercise self-control. The guilt sits heavy in my chest—putting my family through the same shit year after year. Something’s gotta give.
I stopped messing with heroin about two years ago, but lately I can feel my will slipping. The urge creeping back in.
I hit up AB. He’s one of the only real friends I’ve got left. AB used to sell Xanny bars and I was a loyal customer. But he’s not like most people. He’s solid. More than that, I trust him. That’s more than I can say for just about anyone.
I shoot him a text.
Hey, what’s good with you?
He hits me back pretty quick, asking how I’m doing.
I’m in a world of pain, bro. I really need some painkillers. Oxy, heroin, anything. Can you help me out? I’m fucking desperate.
I see the typing bubbles appear. Disappear. Then appear again. Finally he replies.
He says he knows someone who’s got fentanyl, but he doesn’t want any part in helping me cop. Says it ain’t for the weak. Says he cares about me. I almost believe him.
Maybe he just feels sorry for me, because I almost died in that crash. Because the hospital sent me home with nothing for the pain. Because I always end up with guys who drag me through the mud. Because I’m broken.
But I know AB’s got a soft spot for me. And I fully intend on taking advantage of it. I lay it on thick until he finally caves and agrees to pick me up and take me to the plug.
AB pulls up in a lowered, blacked-out Tacoma. My stomach flips with that familiar mix of excitement and nerves as I climb into the passenger seat.
Fetty is crucial right now.
He glances over at me, locking eyes. His voice is smooth, but laced with concern. His big brown eyes radiate a genuine kindness you don’t see much out here. For a split second I actually feel bad for putting him in this position. Just for a moment. Then I shut that feeling down. That’s something I’ve always been good at, turning my emotions off. Compartmentalization is one of my greatest assets.
AB isn’t like that. He wears his heart on his sleeve. He gives me that look he always gets when he’s worried about something—one eyebrow raised, his forehead scrunching into a V.
I just don’t want anything to happen to you, bro.
A lump forms in my throat, and a deep pang of guilt settles in my gut. I brush it off.
Nah, I’m good. You know I was on the needle, right? This is light work.
AB doesn’t look too sure, but he leaves it alone.
I’m good, I promise. Trust me.
We drive for a while in silence. It’s That Gas by Young Mike is knocking through the speakers, but my thoughts drown it out. I roll the window halfway down and stare out into the desert twilight. The sky stretches wide and black. Stars sparkle like diamonds scattered across velvet. For a moment I imagine grabbing the sky and pulling it down around me like a blanket. I imagine hiding underneath it like a child.
I think about the irony of the moment. AB is scared enough for the both of us. While I’ve spent years gambling with my life like it’s nothing. Risk never bothered me, as long as the end result was pure oblivion.
Ain’t like you got anything to lose, anyway.
We pull up to a trap house somewhere between Pelona Vista and Anaverde. AB parks the truck and pulls a blunt from behind his ear, sparking it like it’s part of a ritual. He always looks so cool. The front door swings open and a smoked-out white boy staggers toward the truck. He’s wobbling like gravity works different for him. AB leans toward me.
See this fool? See how he’s moving?
The kid sways like seaweed in water. AB shakes his head.
He’s got a heavy tolerance too. Look how it still hits him.
Then softer:
Just be careful, bro.
For a moment, regret flickers inside me. Then the monster wakes up. It starts as a whisper. Then louder. And louder. Until it’s the only voice I can hear. The darkness creeps back in, thick and hungry.
If you move through shadows like a ghost, you’re already dead.
Fuck it.
The white kid finally reaches the truck. AB rolls down the passenger window.
Hey, this is Delilah—my little white girl. She’s never done this before. I just want her to be as safe as possible, you feel me?
He hands over the dub I gave him. The kid passes back a small baggie half-filled with off-white powder. It looks completely foreign to me. He carefully measures out an amount that’s suitable for a first timer, then drops it onto a piece of foil.
The wobbly white boy passes me a straw and a BIC lighter.
Don’t hit it like heroin. Fetty’s a different animal.
I’m getting irritated. They keep lecturing me anyway. I roll my eyes. And as soon as I take that first hit, I start bitching.
That was weak. The wind messed it up. Roll up the window, I need another.
The second hit? I rip that shit. Hard. There’s nothing left on the foil when I’m done.
Woah, woah, woah!
The guys are trying to slow me down, but it’s too late.
The last thing I remember, is muttering:
Oh, fuck…
After that, everything tilts sideways. It’s like I’m watching the world from somewhere behind my own head. My body is still in the passenger seat, but I’m not really inside it anymore.
Kiss me!
I lean halfway over to AB’s seat. He chuckles nervously.
But you got a man. And I got a girl.
I laugh.
I don’t give a mad fuck!
I kiss him, in a bold attempt to feel something. Then, everything fades to nothing.
Not peaceful. Not dramatic.
Just black.
A darkness so thick it swallows everything whole. No tunnel of light. No memories flashing. Just silence. And the feeling of falling.
down…
down…
down…
Meanwhile, back in the truck, my body is dying.
At first, AB thinks I’m just nodding out.
Delilah, he says, nudging my shoulder.
Nothing.
Delilah. Wake up.
My head is slumped forward now. My breathing slows.
Then stops.
Oh, shit.
He grabs my face, shaking me.
DELILAH!
My lips are turning blue. My eyes rolled halfway back.
No response.
He throws the Tacoma into reverse and tears back toward the trap house, tires spitting gravel. The truck screeches to a stop outside the plug’s spot. AB jumps out and starts pounding on the door.
YO! OPEN UP!
No answer.
He bangs harder.
OPEN THE FUCKING DOOR! SHE’S OD’ING!
A light flicks on.
The door swings open and the same white kid stares out.
AB grabs him by the shirt.
She’s not breathing!
The kid sobers up instantly.
Fuck— Hold on.
He runs inside and comes back with a small orange box. Narcan. They drag me across the passenger seat. The kid tilts my head back.
Pssshhht.
First spray.
They wait.
Nothing.
My chest doesn’t move.
Again!
The kid fumbles with the second one.
Pssshhht.
Second spray.
Nothing.
AB starts doing CPR, pumping down hard on my chest.
Still, nothing.
Bro… The kid mutters, now completely panicked.
The silence in that moment feels endless.
You got the shot?!
The kid nods, digging through his bag.
His hands are shaking so badly, he can barely load the syringe.
Hurry the fuck up!
The kid misses the vial. The needle clinks against the glass.
AB loses patience, and I’m losing time.
Gimme that shit!
He snatches the syringe from the kid’s hands. Then grabs my leg. And jams the needle hard into my thigh.
Somewhere deep in the darkness, my body gasps. Air slams back into my lungs like I’ve been underwater too long.
You really scared me, dude.
A voice cracks through the void. The darkness begins to lift. I feel movement beneath me—the rumble of tires on asphalt. Shapes slowly return. Headlights. Streetlights. The clicking rhythm of a turn signal.
Delilah… talk to me.
My eyes snap open. I’m back in the passenger seat of AB’s truck. My lungs burn.
What happened?
My voice sounds small, like it belongs to someone else.
AB glances over at me, disbelief written all over his face.
You overdosed.
The word lands heavy.
I had to run back and bang on the plug’s door. We hit you with Narcan twice.
He shakes his head.
Then I had to stick you with the shot.
Outside the windshield, the desert road stretches endlessly into the night. I lean my head back against the seat. The darkness I just fell through still clings to the edges of my mind.
down…
down…
down…
For a moment, neither one of us speak. Then AB exhales.
Don’t ever scare me like that again.
I stare out the window at the desert sky. Stars glitter across the black like broken glass. Somewhere out there in that endless night, I know exactly how close I came.
I should’ve died that night in the passenger seat of AB’s Tacoma. Maybe a version of me did. But something stubborn inside me kept breathing. That’s the thing about scorpions. They don’t die easy.
I’m alone in my room, stuck between two worlds—like Sylvia Plath. Maybe it’s just the Scorpio condition.
I’ve been staying at my grandparents’ house ever since the hospital released me after a joyride on GHB left me with a fractured spine. Now I’m laid up here, trying to recover a piece of myself.
I’m miserable.
Depression ain’t even a deep enough word to cut it. Every day feels like a gut-wrenching freefall. I’m hollow inside, numb to everything except the constant shame over my inability to exercise self-control. The guilt sits heavy in my chest—putting my family through the same shit year after year. Something’s gotta give.
I stopped messing with heroin about two years ago, but lately I can feel my will slipping. The urge creeping back in.
I hit up AB. He’s one of the only real friends I’ve got left. AB used to sell Xanny bars and I was a loyal customer. But he’s not like most people. He’s solid. More than that, I trust him. That’s more than I can say for just about anyone.
I shoot him a text.
Hey, what’s good with you?
He hits me back pretty quick, asking how I’m doing.
I’m in a world of pain, bro. I really need some painkillers. Oxy, heroin, anything. Can you help me out? I’m fucking desperate.
I see the typing bubbles appear. Disappear. Then appear again. Finally he replies.
He says he knows someone who’s got fentanyl, but he doesn’t want any part in helping me cop. Says it ain’t for the weak. Says he cares about me. I almost believe him.
Maybe he just feels sorry for me, because I almost died in that crash. Because the hospital sent me home with nothing for the pain. Because I always end up with guys who drag me through the mud. Because I’m broken.
But I know AB’s got a soft spot for me. And I fully intend on taking advantage of it. I lay it on thick until he finally caves and agrees to pick me up and take me to the plug.
AB pulls up in a lowered, blacked-out Tacoma. My stomach flips with that familiar mix of excitement and nerves as I climb into the passenger seat.
Fetty is crucial right now.
He glances over at me, locking eyes. His voice is smooth, but laced with concern. His big brown eyes radiate a genuine kindness you don’t see much out here. For a split second I actually feel bad for putting him in this position. Just for a moment. Then I shut that feeling down. That’s something I’ve always been good at, turning my emotions off. Compartmentalization is one of my greatest assets.
AB isn’t like that. He wears his heart on his sleeve. He gives me that look he always gets when he’s worried about something—one eyebrow raised, his forehead scrunching into a V.
I just don’t want anything to happen to you, bro.
A lump forms in my throat, and a deep pang of guilt settles in my gut. I brush it off.
Nah, I’m good. You know I was on the needle, right? This is light work.
AB doesn’t look too sure, but he leaves it alone.
I’m good, I promise. Trust me.
We drive for a while in silence. It’s That Gas by Young Mike is knocking through the speakers, but my thoughts drown it out. I roll the window halfway down and stare out into the desert twilight. The sky stretches wide and black. Stars sparkle like diamonds scattered across velvet. For a moment I imagine grabbing the sky and pulling it down around me like a blanket. I imagine hiding underneath it like a child.
I think about the irony of the moment. AB is scared enough for the both of us. While I’ve spent years gambling with my life like it’s nothing. Risk never bothered me, as long as the end result was pure oblivion.
Ain’t like you got anything to lose, anyway.
We pull up to a trap house somewhere between Pelona Vista and Anaverde. AB parks the truck and pulls a blunt from behind his ear, sparking it like it’s part of a ritual. He always looks so cool. The front door swings open and a smoked-out white boy staggers toward the truck. He’s wobbling like gravity works different for him. AB leans toward me.
See this fool? See how he’s moving?
The kid sways like seaweed in water. AB shakes his head.
He’s got a heavy tolerance too. Look how it still hits him.
Then softer:
Just be careful, bro.
For a moment, regret flickers inside me. Then the monster wakes up. It starts as a whisper. Then louder. And louder. Until it’s the only voice I can hear. The darkness creeps back in, thick and hungry.
If you move through shadows like a ghost, you’re already dead.
Fuck it.
The white kid finally reaches the truck. AB rolls down the passenger window.
Hey, this is Delilah—my little white girl. She’s never done this before. I just want her to be as safe as possible, you feel me?
He hands over the dub I gave him. The kid passes back a small baggie half-filled with off-white powder. It looks completely foreign to me. He carefully measures out an amount that’s suitable for a first timer, then drops it onto a piece of foil.
The wobbly white boy passes me a straw and a BIC lighter.
Don’t hit it like heroin. Fetty’s a different animal.
I’m getting irritated. They keep lecturing me anyway. I roll my eyes. And as soon as I take that first hit, I start bitching.
That was weak. The wind messed it up. Roll up the window, I need another.
The second hit? I rip that shit. Hard. There’s nothing left on the foil when I’m done.
Woah, woah, woah!
The guys are trying to slow me down, but it’s too late.
The last thing I remember, is muttering:
Oh, fuck…
After that, everything tilts sideways. It’s like I’m watching the world from somewhere behind my own head. My body is still in the passenger seat, but I’m not really inside it anymore.
Kiss me!
I lean halfway over to AB’s seat. He chuckles nervously.
But you got a man. And I got a girl.
I laugh.
I don’t give a mad fuck!
I kiss him, in a bold attempt to feel something. Then, everything fades to nothing.
Not peaceful. Not dramatic.
Just black.
A darkness so thick it swallows everything whole. No tunnel of light. No memories flashing. Just silence. And the feeling of falling.
down…
down…
down…
Meanwhile, back in the truck, my body is dying.
At first, AB thinks I’m just nodding out.
Delilah, he says, nudging my shoulder.
Nothing.
Delilah. Wake up.
My head is slumped forward now. My breathing slows.
Then stops.
Oh, shit.
He grabs my face, shaking me.
DELILAH!
My lips are turning blue. My eyes rolled halfway back.
No response.
He throws the Tacoma into reverse and tears back toward the trap house, tires spitting gravel. The truck screeches to a stop outside the plug’s spot. AB jumps out and starts pounding on the door.
YO! OPEN UP!
No answer.
He bangs harder.
OPEN THE FUCKING DOOR! SHE’S OD’ING!
A light flicks on.
The door swings open and the same white kid stares out.
AB grabs him by the shirt.
She’s not breathing!
The kid sobers up instantly.
Fuck— Hold on.
He runs inside and comes back with a small orange box. Narcan. They drag me across the passenger seat. The kid tilts my head back.
Pssshhht.
First spray.
They wait.
Nothing.
My chest doesn’t move.
Again!
The kid fumbles with the second one.
Pssshhht.
Second spray.
Nothing.
AB starts doing CPR, pumping down hard on my chest.
Still, nothing.
Bro… The kid mutters, now completely panicked.
The silence in that moment feels endless.
You got the shot?!
The kid nods, digging through his bag.
His hands are shaking so badly, he can barely load the syringe.
Hurry the fuck up!
The kid misses the vial. The needle clinks against the glass.
AB loses patience, and I’m losing time.
Gimme that shit!
He snatches the syringe from the kid’s hands. Then grabs my leg. And jams the needle hard into my thigh.
Somewhere deep in the darkness, my body gasps. Air slams back into my lungs like I’ve been underwater too long.
You really scared me, dude.
A voice cracks through the void. The darkness begins to lift. I feel movement beneath me—the rumble of tires on asphalt. Shapes slowly return. Headlights. Streetlights. The clicking rhythm of a turn signal.
Delilah… talk to me.
My eyes snap open. I’m back in the passenger seat of AB’s truck. My lungs burn.
What happened?
My voice sounds small, like it belongs to someone else.
AB glances over at me, disbelief written all over his face.
You overdosed.
The word lands heavy.
I had to run back and bang on the plug’s door. We hit you with Narcan twice.
He shakes his head.
Then I had to stick you with the shot.
Outside the windshield, the desert road stretches endlessly into the night. I lean my head back against the seat. The darkness I just fell through still clings to the edges of my mind.
down…
down…
down…
For a moment, neither one of us speak. Then AB exhales.
Don’t ever scare me like that again.
I stare out the window at the desert sky. Stars glitter across the black like broken glass. Somewhere out there in that endless night, I know exactly how close I came.
I should’ve died that night in the passenger seat of AB’s Tacoma. Maybe a version of me did. But something stubborn inside me kept breathing. That’s the thing about scorpions. They don’t die easy.
SoCalShordie
Bluelight Crew
Where The Tumbleweeds Grow (Introduction)
Tumbleweeds drift across the wasteland with the Santa Ana winds, rolling past endless lots of unfinished tract homes in barren paper towns. Only a sliver of moonlight cuts through the black-lit sky.
Girls who are nobody’s daughters disappear into the desert night, wading into the riptide where good girls go to die.
I was born here— a phoenix rising from ashes, resilience forged in flame. This is the place that nearly killed me, and yet there is a strange, undeniable beauty in it.
Late summer skies burn tangerine at dusk. Clouds melt into shades of cotton candy pink. And beneath a midnight desert moon, on some endless stretch of road to nowhere, I sometimes felt like I finally belonged.
How can a place exist that tastes of sulfur and smells of orange blossom at the same time?
Tumbleweeds drift across the wasteland with the Santa Ana winds, rolling past endless lots of unfinished tract homes in barren paper towns. Only a sliver of moonlight cuts through the black-lit sky.
Girls who are nobody’s daughters disappear into the desert night, wading into the riptide where good girls go to die.
I was born here— a phoenix rising from ashes, resilience forged in flame. This is the place that nearly killed me, and yet there is a strange, undeniable beauty in it.
Late summer skies burn tangerine at dusk. Clouds melt into shades of cotton candy pink. And beneath a midnight desert moon, on some endless stretch of road to nowhere, I sometimes felt like I finally belonged.
How can a place exist that tastes of sulfur and smells of orange blossom at the same time?
BK38
Bluelight Crew
- Joined
- Apr 2, 2009
- Messages
- 16,692
This is great and I can really relate to what you're saying. Very nice, flowery writing; but not pretentious. Keep it up.
SoCalShordie
Bluelight Crew
Trap Queen
I’m living out of an old Dodge Caravan that hardly runs, with a man who beats on me, in the middle of a high desert summer. This life ain’t for the weak, and it ain’t for the good. Out here the sun doesn’t shine — it stalks. By noon the metal on the roof of the van is so hot you could fry an egg on it, and the dense air inside tastes like dust and old pennies. Sweat glues my shirt to my back. My mouth is so dry my tongue sticks to the roof of it. I’m starving. I’m thirsty. I’d trade a small piece of my soul for a real shower; not a bird bath in a Jack In The Box restroom where you have to keep looking over your shoulder.
But first things first. The monster needs to eat.
Addiction is patient like that. It doesn’t scream. It just sits there, tapping its fingers in the back of your mind, glaring into your soul, waiting for you to hand over another piece of your dignity. So we drive. The van rattles down the cracked roads on the east side, every loose bolt complaining with its own little rattle. Hot wind drags ribbons of dust across the pavement. Tumbleweeds roll down the asphalt like ghosts. Joshua trees stand crooked in the distance like they’re watching everything and minding their business at the same time.
He doesn’t say much while he drives. He never does when the craving is loud. His jaw tightens, fingers drumming against the steering wheel like he’s trying to keep time with something only he can hear. I know that mood. I know it well enough to stay quiet.
We pull up to a trap house that belongs to an OG named Ruger. Everybody knows Ruger. He’s the kind of man who’s been around the block so many times the corners recognize him. Slow-moving. Calm. The type who stands on business and commands respect without having to say a word.
The house looks like every bad decision I ever made moved in together and signed a lease. Sunburnt paint curling off the walls. Blankets nailed over the windows. A plastic lawn chair melting into the dirt like it gave up on life sometime around 2003. Inside, the air smells like cigarettes, chemicals, and something sweet that turns your stomach if you breathe it too long. Ruger’s in the kitchen whippin’ up crack. The stove clicks. The Pyrex starts bubbling. Everyone in the room watches like it’s dinner and we’re all starving. And in a way, we are. Out here in the desert, everybody’s hungry for something. Some of us just choose the kind that eats us back. In Ruger’s kitchen, the stove stayed hot and the monster always got fed.
Among the usual fiends and a few unfamiliar faces, I notice a girl I’ve never seen before. Brown-skinned. Mexican. Pretty. Moon-shaped face dusted with freckles, just like mine. Her long black hair falls all the way to her elbows. Winged liner sharp enough to cut glass. She’s wearing Mac lipstick, Ruby Woo. She looks like she’s going somewhere a lot nicer than this living room. I watch her slip in from somewhere in the back of the house. She moves like she belongs here. She sinks into the couch and pulls out a glass bong. Packs it with crystal meth like it’s routine, like she’s done it a thousand times. The torch clicks. Blue flame. The glass shards melt into a puddle. Everyone in the room goes quiet for a second.
She takes one long hit.
The bong crackles. Smoke fills her lungs. She holds it, eyes half-lidded, then exhales slow like an old Hollywood movie star. Then she looks up. Her eyes land on me— sharp, narrowed, suspicious. Something about her hits a nerve in the back of my brain. A weird flicker of recognition. But my mind is foggy, scrambled from being dopesick. Everything feels like it’s happening underwater. Still… Something about that face. That nose. Those freckles. And then it hits me all at once, like a wave knocking me off my feet.
“Lu?” She squints at me, confused. “Yeah?” she says, a little attitude in her voice. Now people are looking. I step closer, my heart beating faster. “Luna,” I say. “It’s me.” Her face tightens. “Your cousin.” For a second the whole room feels smaller.
The desert is big, but somehow the mess always finds its way back to your bloodline.
She stares at me for what feels like an eternity. Her eyes search my face like she’s flipping through old photographs in her head, trying to see if I match any of the familiar faces. For a second I think maybe I’m wrong. Maybe the desert heat and the withdrawals are playing tricks on me. Then it clicks. I see it happen right there in her eyes. “Delilah?” she says. Her voice lifts at the end like she can’t quite believe it. I let out a breath I didn’t realize I was holding. “Yeah.” She sits up straight on the couch, eyes wide now. “Damn,” she says, shaking her head in disbelief. “This is crazy.” Then she looks toward the kitchen.
“Ruger!” she shouts. “Ruger, this is my first cousin!” Now the whole room is looking at us. A couple of the regulars stare back and forth between our faces, trying to piece it together. The brown skinned Mexican baddie. The milky skinned “girl next door.” Same freckles, the same nose. The moment hangs in the air like smoke. We haven’t seen each other since we were kids. Years and years ago. Eight, maybe ten. Back when life still had the shape of something normal. Now we sit there in the middle of Ruger’s trap house, catching up like we ran into each other at a family barbecue instead of this place. She tells me where she’s been the past decade. I tell her where I’ve been. Or at least the short version. How we got from there… to here.
Time does something strange in moments like that. It stretches and freezes all at once. For a second, the noise of the house fades into the background. And I feel two things fighting each other in my chest. I’m overjoyed. And sick to my stomach at the same damn time. Luna is still looking at me like she’s trying to reconcile two different versions of the same person. The cousin she remembers. And the one standing in Ruger’s living room. She taps the glass bong with her a long acrylic fingernail. “You smoke?” she asks. The question hangs in the air between us. It’s not judgmental. It’s not curious either. Just matter-of-fact. Like asking if I want a soda. I hesitate for half a second.
The monster in my chest answers before I do.
“Yeah,” I say. She nods like that makes perfect sense. Because in this house, it does. The torch clicks. Blue flame hissing softly. The glass crackles while she melts the dope again, slow and practiced. She rolls the pipe in her fingers like it’s something delicate. Then she holds it out to me. Right when I reach for it, I feel it. That heavy feeling between my shoulder blades. Eyes. I don’t even have to turn around yet. I already know. Still, I glance over my shoulder. He’s standing in the kitchen doorway, watching us. Arms crossed. Jaw tight. That look on his face that says he doesn’t like not being the center of whatever’s happening. I’ve learned to recognize that look the way animals recognize thunder. Luna follows my gaze. “Your man?” she asks. I nod. He pushes off the doorframe and walks into the room slow, like he’s claiming territory. The room gets quieter. People pretend not to stare, but everybody’s listening. “Who’s this?” he asks. His voice isn’t loud. But it lands heavy. Luna doesn’t shrink. She leans back on the couch like she’s perfectly comfortable. She’s sizing him up the same way he’s sizing her up. “This is my cousin,” she says, nodding toward me. “We grew up together.” He looks at me. Then at her. Then back at me again. Like he’s trying to figure out how the hell I managed to have a life before him. “In Ruger’s house?” he says with a short laugh. It’s not a happy laugh. Luna lifts one eyebrow. “Yeah,” she says. “Funny how life works.” He doesn’t laugh this time. His eyes drop to the bong still in my hand. Then back up to my face. “You gonna smoke that,” he says slowly, “or you two just gonna sit here reminiscing all day?”
The room shifts again. Everyone can feel it now. Luna glances between us, reading the tension like someone who’s seen this kind of dynamic before. Time does that strange stretching thing again. Family on one side. Impending doom on the other. And me sitting right in the middle of it.
Before I can answer, Luna sits up straighter. “Relax,” she says, her voice cool. “We just realized we’re family.” He looks at her like he doesn’t appreciate being told anything. She stands up from the couch now, facing him fully. Not aggressive, but not backing down either. “I’m just saying,” she says, shrugging one shoulder, “she hasn’t seen me since we were kids. Let us have a minute.” He steps closer. Not enough to touch her. Just enough to make the point. “Your prima, huh?” he asks me without taking his eyes off her. The question hangs there like a loaded gat. For a second, nobody moves. Then a deep voice cuts through the tension from the kitchen.
“Alright.” It’s Ruger. He walks into the living room wiping his hands on a dish towel, moving slow the way men do when they know everyone else will stop once they speak. Which they do. Ruger looks from Luna… to him… to me still standing there with the bong like I forgot how my arms work. “What’s all this noise?” he asks. Nobody answers right away. Ruger sighs, like he’s seen this exact situation a hundred times before. “Look,” he says calmly, “this house ain’t for drama.” Ruger’s eyes settle on him. “You got a problem, take it outside.” Ruger nods toward me and Luna. “Let the cousins talk.” The room relaxes just a little.
He doesn’t move at first. His eyes are still on Luna. Then finally he exhales through his nose and steps back. “Handles,” he mutters, “I ain’t trippin’.” But the look he shoots me on the way back toward the kitchen says this conversation ain’t over. Not even close. Luna watches him go. Then she looks back at me, softer now.
“Damn,” she says quietly. “You been dealing with that?”
I don’t answer right away. Because the truth is… I don’t even know where to start. Out of all the places in the world… a trap house in the high desert. How did we get here?
Family. Sitting on opposite ends of a beat-up couch, while somebody’s cooking crack in a Pyrex a few feet away. And yet, amidst the chaos, I feel an unsettling sense of comfort. Real comfort. The kind that resonates within your soul the moment you hear a familiar voice, see the shape of someone’s face that looks like yours. Same moon cheeks, same dark hair, same blood running through our veins. For a moment it almost feels like being kids again.
But we’re not kids anymore. We’ll never be those kids again.
We’re two grown women sitting at rock bottom together. I’m happy to see her. Happier than I’ve felt in a long time. But the happiness comes with a knot in my chest I can’t seem to shake. Because I already know how this story goes.
I know the man waiting for me in the doorway. I know the way his jealousy burns through every relationship I try to hold onto. Friends. Family. Anyone who might remind me there’s a world outside of him. People like that don’t like witnesses. And they definitely don’t like you remembering who you used to be.
So I sit there with Luna, catching up on a decade of life in the middle of the trap, pretending this moment can last. Pretending I’m not already counting down the seconds until I have to disappear again. The desert has a funny way of doing that. It brings people back together when you least expect it. But it also knows how to take them away just as fast.
I’m living out of an old Dodge Caravan that hardly runs, with a man who beats on me, in the middle of a high desert summer. This life ain’t for the weak, and it ain’t for the good. Out here the sun doesn’t shine — it stalks. By noon the metal on the roof of the van is so hot you could fry an egg on it, and the dense air inside tastes like dust and old pennies. Sweat glues my shirt to my back. My mouth is so dry my tongue sticks to the roof of it. I’m starving. I’m thirsty. I’d trade a small piece of my soul for a real shower; not a bird bath in a Jack In The Box restroom where you have to keep looking over your shoulder.
But first things first. The monster needs to eat.
Addiction is patient like that. It doesn’t scream. It just sits there, tapping its fingers in the back of your mind, glaring into your soul, waiting for you to hand over another piece of your dignity. So we drive. The van rattles down the cracked roads on the east side, every loose bolt complaining with its own little rattle. Hot wind drags ribbons of dust across the pavement. Tumbleweeds roll down the asphalt like ghosts. Joshua trees stand crooked in the distance like they’re watching everything and minding their business at the same time.
He doesn’t say much while he drives. He never does when the craving is loud. His jaw tightens, fingers drumming against the steering wheel like he’s trying to keep time with something only he can hear. I know that mood. I know it well enough to stay quiet.
We pull up to a trap house that belongs to an OG named Ruger. Everybody knows Ruger. He’s the kind of man who’s been around the block so many times the corners recognize him. Slow-moving. Calm. The type who stands on business and commands respect without having to say a word.
The house looks like every bad decision I ever made moved in together and signed a lease. Sunburnt paint curling off the walls. Blankets nailed over the windows. A plastic lawn chair melting into the dirt like it gave up on life sometime around 2003. Inside, the air smells like cigarettes, chemicals, and something sweet that turns your stomach if you breathe it too long. Ruger’s in the kitchen whippin’ up crack. The stove clicks. The Pyrex starts bubbling. Everyone in the room watches like it’s dinner and we’re all starving. And in a way, we are. Out here in the desert, everybody’s hungry for something. Some of us just choose the kind that eats us back. In Ruger’s kitchen, the stove stayed hot and the monster always got fed.
Among the usual fiends and a few unfamiliar faces, I notice a girl I’ve never seen before. Brown-skinned. Mexican. Pretty. Moon-shaped face dusted with freckles, just like mine. Her long black hair falls all the way to her elbows. Winged liner sharp enough to cut glass. She’s wearing Mac lipstick, Ruby Woo. She looks like she’s going somewhere a lot nicer than this living room. I watch her slip in from somewhere in the back of the house. She moves like she belongs here. She sinks into the couch and pulls out a glass bong. Packs it with crystal meth like it’s routine, like she’s done it a thousand times. The torch clicks. Blue flame. The glass shards melt into a puddle. Everyone in the room goes quiet for a second.
She takes one long hit.
The bong crackles. Smoke fills her lungs. She holds it, eyes half-lidded, then exhales slow like an old Hollywood movie star. Then she looks up. Her eyes land on me— sharp, narrowed, suspicious. Something about her hits a nerve in the back of my brain. A weird flicker of recognition. But my mind is foggy, scrambled from being dopesick. Everything feels like it’s happening underwater. Still… Something about that face. That nose. Those freckles. And then it hits me all at once, like a wave knocking me off my feet.
“Lu?” She squints at me, confused. “Yeah?” she says, a little attitude in her voice. Now people are looking. I step closer, my heart beating faster. “Luna,” I say. “It’s me.” Her face tightens. “Your cousin.” For a second the whole room feels smaller.
The desert is big, but somehow the mess always finds its way back to your bloodline.
She stares at me for what feels like an eternity. Her eyes search my face like she’s flipping through old photographs in her head, trying to see if I match any of the familiar faces. For a second I think maybe I’m wrong. Maybe the desert heat and the withdrawals are playing tricks on me. Then it clicks. I see it happen right there in her eyes. “Delilah?” she says. Her voice lifts at the end like she can’t quite believe it. I let out a breath I didn’t realize I was holding. “Yeah.” She sits up straight on the couch, eyes wide now. “Damn,” she says, shaking her head in disbelief. “This is crazy.” Then she looks toward the kitchen.
“Ruger!” she shouts. “Ruger, this is my first cousin!” Now the whole room is looking at us. A couple of the regulars stare back and forth between our faces, trying to piece it together. The brown skinned Mexican baddie. The milky skinned “girl next door.” Same freckles, the same nose. The moment hangs in the air like smoke. We haven’t seen each other since we were kids. Years and years ago. Eight, maybe ten. Back when life still had the shape of something normal. Now we sit there in the middle of Ruger’s trap house, catching up like we ran into each other at a family barbecue instead of this place. She tells me where she’s been the past decade. I tell her where I’ve been. Or at least the short version. How we got from there… to here.
Time does something strange in moments like that. It stretches and freezes all at once. For a second, the noise of the house fades into the background. And I feel two things fighting each other in my chest. I’m overjoyed. And sick to my stomach at the same damn time. Luna is still looking at me like she’s trying to reconcile two different versions of the same person. The cousin she remembers. And the one standing in Ruger’s living room. She taps the glass bong with her a long acrylic fingernail. “You smoke?” she asks. The question hangs in the air between us. It’s not judgmental. It’s not curious either. Just matter-of-fact. Like asking if I want a soda. I hesitate for half a second.
The monster in my chest answers before I do.
“Yeah,” I say. She nods like that makes perfect sense. Because in this house, it does. The torch clicks. Blue flame hissing softly. The glass crackles while she melts the dope again, slow and practiced. She rolls the pipe in her fingers like it’s something delicate. Then she holds it out to me. Right when I reach for it, I feel it. That heavy feeling between my shoulder blades. Eyes. I don’t even have to turn around yet. I already know. Still, I glance over my shoulder. He’s standing in the kitchen doorway, watching us. Arms crossed. Jaw tight. That look on his face that says he doesn’t like not being the center of whatever’s happening. I’ve learned to recognize that look the way animals recognize thunder. Luna follows my gaze. “Your man?” she asks. I nod. He pushes off the doorframe and walks into the room slow, like he’s claiming territory. The room gets quieter. People pretend not to stare, but everybody’s listening. “Who’s this?” he asks. His voice isn’t loud. But it lands heavy. Luna doesn’t shrink. She leans back on the couch like she’s perfectly comfortable. She’s sizing him up the same way he’s sizing her up. “This is my cousin,” she says, nodding toward me. “We grew up together.” He looks at me. Then at her. Then back at me again. Like he’s trying to figure out how the hell I managed to have a life before him. “In Ruger’s house?” he says with a short laugh. It’s not a happy laugh. Luna lifts one eyebrow. “Yeah,” she says. “Funny how life works.” He doesn’t laugh this time. His eyes drop to the bong still in my hand. Then back up to my face. “You gonna smoke that,” he says slowly, “or you two just gonna sit here reminiscing all day?”
The room shifts again. Everyone can feel it now. Luna glances between us, reading the tension like someone who’s seen this kind of dynamic before. Time does that strange stretching thing again. Family on one side. Impending doom on the other. And me sitting right in the middle of it.
Before I can answer, Luna sits up straighter. “Relax,” she says, her voice cool. “We just realized we’re family.” He looks at her like he doesn’t appreciate being told anything. She stands up from the couch now, facing him fully. Not aggressive, but not backing down either. “I’m just saying,” she says, shrugging one shoulder, “she hasn’t seen me since we were kids. Let us have a minute.” He steps closer. Not enough to touch her. Just enough to make the point. “Your prima, huh?” he asks me without taking his eyes off her. The question hangs there like a loaded gat. For a second, nobody moves. Then a deep voice cuts through the tension from the kitchen.
“Alright.” It’s Ruger. He walks into the living room wiping his hands on a dish towel, moving slow the way men do when they know everyone else will stop once they speak. Which they do. Ruger looks from Luna… to him… to me still standing there with the bong like I forgot how my arms work. “What’s all this noise?” he asks. Nobody answers right away. Ruger sighs, like he’s seen this exact situation a hundred times before. “Look,” he says calmly, “this house ain’t for drama.” Ruger’s eyes settle on him. “You got a problem, take it outside.” Ruger nods toward me and Luna. “Let the cousins talk.” The room relaxes just a little.
He doesn’t move at first. His eyes are still on Luna. Then finally he exhales through his nose and steps back. “Handles,” he mutters, “I ain’t trippin’.” But the look he shoots me on the way back toward the kitchen says this conversation ain’t over. Not even close. Luna watches him go. Then she looks back at me, softer now.
“Damn,” she says quietly. “You been dealing with that?”
I don’t answer right away. Because the truth is… I don’t even know where to start. Out of all the places in the world… a trap house in the high desert. How did we get here?
Family. Sitting on opposite ends of a beat-up couch, while somebody’s cooking crack in a Pyrex a few feet away. And yet, amidst the chaos, I feel an unsettling sense of comfort. Real comfort. The kind that resonates within your soul the moment you hear a familiar voice, see the shape of someone’s face that looks like yours. Same moon cheeks, same dark hair, same blood running through our veins. For a moment it almost feels like being kids again.
But we’re not kids anymore. We’ll never be those kids again.
We’re two grown women sitting at rock bottom together. I’m happy to see her. Happier than I’ve felt in a long time. But the happiness comes with a knot in my chest I can’t seem to shake. Because I already know how this story goes.
I know the man waiting for me in the doorway. I know the way his jealousy burns through every relationship I try to hold onto. Friends. Family. Anyone who might remind me there’s a world outside of him. People like that don’t like witnesses. And they definitely don’t like you remembering who you used to be.
So I sit there with Luna, catching up on a decade of life in the middle of the trap, pretending this moment can last. Pretending I’m not already counting down the seconds until I have to disappear again. The desert has a funny way of doing that. It brings people back together when you least expect it. But it also knows how to take them away just as fast.