Between Two Lungs

The pounding wouldn't stop. That dull throb in the back of her head, the way her hand shook as it hovered over the pills. She didn't want this--she needed this.

"This is the last time, Mae," she hissed to herself as she gingerly lifted the tiny, rounded piece of escape that she needed to make the world slip away. She let it rest on the surface of her tongue and felt it dissolve, bringing a whole new reality to her eyes. She smiled to herself and laid down on her couch, breathing in new air. She was free; if only for a little while.

Mae had told herself that it was going to be the last time so often that the words had lost meaning. It was routine. No one knew but her--the addiction was her secret pain. She just laid there by herself, that same crooked smile plastered on her face as the world kept on revolving around a dissolute sun.

* * * * *

The light came streaming through the cracks of the blinds as a loud pounding came down on Mae's front door. She sat up groggily, trying to straighten out her artificially coloured fire-truck red hair and sweater that had gotten completely disheveled in the previous night's proceedings. Mae reached over to the coffee table and hid her stash of ecstasy and acid underneath the couch before standing up. She shuffled over to the door and swung it open, revealing her very best friend in all of New York City, Marc Staal.

"What do you want, Marc?" Mae immediately grumbled, rubbing the sleep from her eyes.

"Good morning to you too, sunshine," he said sarcastically, nudging his way past Mae into her apartment. It was a big place in a run-down building in Alphabet City just off of Avenue B. There were high ceilings, and it was a very industrial looking apartment. It was a good thing that Mae was an artist--her paintings and sketches are hung up all over the walls.

Marc waltzed casually around the apartment, glancing at some new paintings that he hadn't seen before. "You know, you live in a coffin," he stated. "A cold, dirty, gray, leaking coffin."

"I happen to like it here, thank you," Mae yawned, scratching the back of her head. "Any reason why you're here, or did you just come to criticize the way I live?"

He shrugged. "Can't a friend pop over for a visit?"

"Not when it's--" she glanced at the clock, "--nine in the fucking morning."

Marc laughed. "You know I'm up before dawn. You look tired, what time did you go to sleep last night?"

She shrugged. "I don't recall."

He sighed and look a seat on the couch. Mae sat next to him, making sure the plastic bag full of pills wasn't exposed before relaxing slightly.

"Your parents have money," Marc noted. "Why can't you just ask them to help you pay to fix your plumbing? And your electricity? Or you know what, why can't they just help you move out and find a better place to live in? This lifestyle you've going going on can't be healthy."

"I need the space Marc," Mae responded. "You know that. I'm working on larger scales, now. Some of my canvases are five feet in height. I can't move somewhere else...besides, I get good ventilation here. It helps when I'm using oil paints."

Marc shook his head. "I still don't get why you'd want to live in this part of Manhattan. You can get lofts in other parts of the city that would suit you just fine for your art stuff."

Mae narrowed her eyes at her friend. "Yeah, for maybe triple the price," she grunted. "I'm living off my own salary, Marc. I'm not asking my parents for financial help."

"How much money do you make from selling your paintings?" he asked. "Seriously?"

Mae knew that Marc was only asking because he wanted what was best for her, but his question still hurt. "I make enough."

"Not enough to live properly," he pressed. "Look at you, Em. You look like a stick."

Mae laughed and shook her head. "I do just fine on my own, Marc," she said. "So, are you just going to sit there, or are you going to take me out for breakfast?"

He smirked. "Come on. Get ready and let's go."

* * * * *

Half an hour later, Mae and Marc were sitting together in a local diner sipping coffee and munching on waffles.

"When was the last time you came to one of my games?" Marc asked, mixing in some more sugar into his caffeinated concoction. Mae shrugged.

"I don't remember. It's been a while."

"I know," he nodded. "And since you haven't seen a game in forever, I think it'd only be fitting if you came to one this weekend. It's going to be pretty huge."

Mae cocked an eyebrow at him. "Why's that?"

"My little brother is going to be in town," he responded. "My team's playing his team. You know, the Pittsburgh Penguins?"

Mae nodded disinterestedly and picked at her food with her fork. "I don't remember if I've met him. Which one is he, out of the four of you?" she asked, trying to remember the names and order of all the Staal brothers.

"He's the third," he answered. "There's Eric, then me, then Jordan, and Jared. Jordan's the one who plays for Pittsburgh--and their team is doing pretty well this season. The media is already all over it, covering this whole brotherly rivalry thing we've got going on. I think it'd be a fun game for you to watch, especially if the Rangers win."

"I have little to no faith in our hockey team," Mae confessed, taking a swig of her coffee. "But I'll come if you're paying for my ticket and because you bought me breakfast."

"You'll have a great time," Marc said, smiling happily. "And don't worry about the tickets or anything. You can get in for free."

"Looking forward to it," she replied, genuinely contented. Not having to waste money on the hockey tickets meant being able to save enough for the next time she needed a fix and had nothing left. "So, you'll come pick me up on game day?"

"Absolutely," Marc nodded. "Thanks for this, Mae. It really means a lot to me that you're going to be there."

Mae smiled faintly, her index finger tracing along the rim of her coffee mug. She watched as steam floated up from it before disappearing and blending in with the surrounding air. Little things like that fascinated her. The steam reminded her of smoke. And when she thought of smoke, she got this itching feeling at the back of her throat--

"Mae?" Marc interrupted her daydream. "Did you hear me?"

"Huh? Oh, y-yeah," she replied, shaking the thoughts from her head. "Anything for you, Marc."