Through the Light of the Bottle

I stare lifelessly at the grimy floor of the compartment. It’s been nine fucking years since I’ve been on here, sat on this seat.

Cue the marching band, I’m fucking coming home.

A pair of shiny, black, leather shoes steps into my gaze, his weight balanced on one foot, I can feel the cockiness pouring from his entire body. My gaze follows up his body slowly, resting on his perfectly clean shaven face.

“What’s a little Bronx girl like you sitting alone for, sweetheart?” his accent is thick and loud.

“What’s an important businessman like you doing on the number four train?” I smile back; my face scrunches up in disgust, masked as delight as he sits down in the seat next to me.

“Ah, sweetheart, I was looking for you,” his hand finds its way to my knee, squeezing it slightly.

I jerk my knee away quickly, standing up and bracing both my hands on the pole, swinging my self around so I'm facing his figure. He leans back in his chair, watching my motions.

“What’s the matter sweetheart?” he starts to get up, but a sudden stop of the train forces him back down.

“Stop calling me sweetheart,” my smile becomes more strained as more people file onto the train.

He stands up successfully, grabbing one of the bars above me and leaning dangerously close to my face. His cologne cascades into my air, filling my lungs. His eyes blend together.

It isn’t the same as before.

I can’t breath, I can’t think and it’s for all the wrong reasons.

And my mind is a song on skip, the scene of the bus in jersey taking its course through my brain, as if this moment was déjà vu.

Only, I step away this time.

And he falls, the only thing saving his face from the ground was his arm suspended above his body, grasping the bar tightly.

“What the fuck,” he grumbles, pulling his body up straight.

But I’m gone, maneuvering my way through the people to the front of the compartment, racing out as soon as the doors open at the Woodlawn station.

I hurry up the steps of the subway, on to the lightly crowded streets of the never changing Woodlawn.

I make a sharp right and walk quickly down the block, head low, hands in pockets. I cross Jerome Avenue and suddenly stop before I can cross through the entrance. I take a few steps back, looking at the sign, and take a deep breath, closing my eyes and start off at a slow pace as I step into the grounds.

My heels feel too loud, and I slip them off hastily, grasping them in my hand as I tread up the path. I count the rows silently in my head, the magic number that I’m counting to, re-emerges into my brain after years of trying to be forgotten.

I finally take the right turn, walk in between the rows, my eyes refusing to look to either side of me as I stride by each memorial.

The grass is slightly wet, and it stains my dry skin on my feet and legs as I finally reach my destination and stand stationary in front of it.

I bend down and trace the letters with my fingers, my last name dances underneath my fingers. Her first name passes by too quickly.

My wet, dirty tears scatter across the tombstone of Líle Monahan, my ice cold hands are attached to my baby sister’s warm, sunbathed grave. I swear I can feel the bump, the slightly displaced soil from the service years before, underneath the soles of my feet.

My head is pounding as I drop my squatting position and fall to the ground, trying desperately to hold the tears back, tugging desperately at the grass, pulling it from its serene position.

I take a few deep breaths, close my eyes and stand up, and walk away a few paces, not wanting to look at the truth that lies behind me.

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“Question,” Brian’s voice fills my ears before I can even fully bring my body into the room.

“Jesus Brian, I’m sorry, okay?” I rub the bridge of my nose, positioning myself in the seat across from his desk.

“Do you know what’s going on?” He grabs a glossy poster, obviously ripped down from some venue spot. “A concert in every goddamn state!” he yells, slamming the poster down, holding it hostage against his mahogany desk. The faces of A.F.I. and My Chemical Romance are partially hidden behind his big hands.

“Did you know I tried to fucking call you when I found out?” I shoot back, grasping the poster and sliding it from under his grasp. I look down and see the poses of both bands filling up most the page. The rest of it was the big red letters that informed the reader that all proceeds would be given to S.A.D.D.

Students Against Drunk Driving. A loud “fuck you,” courtesy of those lovely Way brothers.

“Where’d you get this anyways?”

“They posted them all over our building this morning,” he walks to the window, hands deep in his pocket.

I swallow the smile threatening my features, adding a “bitch” to the end of their original phrase.

“I was in a meeting with the ambassador,” he turns back towards me; the sun outlines his figure through the windows, creating a black form looming over my body.

“He came here?” I’m genuinely surprise, my eyebrows raised.

“No, conference call,” my surprise vanishes, as I roll my eyes slightly.

“Don’t take that attitude Kate, he’s an important man.”

“Whatever, what’d he say?” I wave my hand slightly towards his remark, cutting to the chase quickly.

“I have complete control in this situation,” and although I can’t see his face, I know a smile of satisfaction is situated on it.

“Fantastic,” I try hard to cover up my sarcasm and I bite my lip to prevent any more remarks from escaping past my lips.

“Yes, and my first order of business is to make you fix it, it's your huge fucking mistake,” he walks back to the window, stares at the city streets below, the chaotic mess of people shuffling below.

“Cause that worked so well the first time,” I mutter quietly. He catches it.

“I don’t care how you do it this time, just fucking get it down Kate!”

And with that, the meeting is over.

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“Bye loser,” I yell the second I walk through the door to our loft, throwing my key into the bowl by the front door.

“I don’t know what they did in Woodlawn, but in Riverdale we usually said hello when we first saw a person,” Holly emerges from the kitchen, a cup of coffee cradled in her hands.

“Yea, that’s because you all were rich fucks,” I tease her, moving towards my bedroom and bring my suitcase into eye’s sight for the second time that day.

“Well aren’t we just the little angel,” she follows me into the bedroom, leaning against the doorframe. I smile slightly, too focused on grabbing as many clothes as I can fit into my bag.

“You’re leaving me again?” she takes a small sip from her cup, trying to pull a nonchalant façade.

“Yes. Wait, no,” I turn quickly, my eyes wild with ideas.

She raises her eyebrows slightly, waiting for a definitely answer.

“Go pack your suitcase,” I order, taking the cup out of her hands and pushing her out of my room.

“Coffee.." she whimpers, eyes following the mug longingly. "Wait, what? No, I’ve got-“

“Oh come on Holly, you’re a fucking free-lance writer, you can do that from the road!” my voice is filled with excitement as I shoo her down the hall.

“The road?” she loses her anger, confusion filling her voice.

“Yes, the road,” I laugh, dragging out her suitcase from the front hall closet and pushing it into her hands.

“Go,” I turn around and retreat back to my room.

“And do what?” she stares at the suitcase resting in her arms.

“Take a fucking bath with it,” I yell over my shoulder, “Pack my lovable idiot, pack!”

“Oh fuck, where are you taking me,” she mutters loudly, shuffling into her room and filling her suitcase with less much less enthusiasm than my actions in the room across the hall.