Christie Road
Ten Minute Nervous Breakdowns
The letter was written on paper torn hastily out of a spiral notebook, and little scales of white fluttered out of the envelope when he opened it. He recognized the handwriting, loopy letters that looked almost like flower petals, the same writing that had been on the birthday party invitation months ago.
"Dear Billie," it read. There was no date.
"I don't know when you'll get this, 'cause I don't know how long you'll be on tour. I saw a poster with you guys on it outside a club near the shelter where I was staying, and I wish I could have come to see you, but I didn't want to bother you. That, and I didn't have any money (ha ha). It was cool to think you were this hot shit band and I could say you used to be my neighbor.
I'm doing okay, mostly. Moving around a lot. I met this girl named Kee, and we kind of watch out for each other. She ran away when her mom got remarried to this pervert--long story. We manage to take care of ourselves pretty well. It helps that it's still warm most days. I guess when it gets cold we'll have to figure something else out.
Anyway, the reason I'm writing is that I just wanted to thank you for trying to help me. And I'm sorry for lying to you. I know it was wrong after all you did, but I couldn't take the chance staying around. I hope you understand.
Good luck with your music. I kind of knew you'd end up being famous someday. Maybe one day I'll be able to come and sit in the front row and watch you play, who knows?
Don't worry about me. I'll be fine.
Love,
Jasmine."
He stared down at the paper, trying to force it to reveal where it might have come from. She had been in one of the towns they'd played, which didn't narrow it down much. The postmark on the envelope was from Flagstaff, Arizona, but that didn't mean a lot if she was on the move.
But she was alive, and that one thing was something he could hold on to. It didn't make him feel any less guilty, but it put to rest the biggest fear he had spent sleepless nights nurturing. He reached into his nightstand drawer and pulled out the photo from the party, sliding it into the envelope with her letter.
Could he even imagine being completely on his own, five years younger than he was now? Hell, he barely knew how to do his own laundry, let alone trying to find food and shelter by himself every day. He wondered how she could be so strong, so brave, and at the same time, he couldn't help thinking of Lani, who had never known want, or need. It seemed so unfair that life could deal out such drastically different hands at random, and that people were stuck with whatever luck of the draw they might have.
He turned over on his stomach, and pulled out his well-worn notebook and pen. There were two more songs to finish before they went back into the studio next week, and he had to clear his mind and get down to business. Underneath the nightstand was the old tin Sucrets box, and he fished it out as well, taking out a tightly rolled joint and lighting the tip. Lyrics seemed to flow more freely when he was buzzed, and besides, it would help him stop thinking so much about the letter.
"Boxed up
All of her favorite things,
Sold the rest at a rainy day yard sale.
Big plans and leaving friends
And a westbound sign..."
He threw himself into writing, the minutes passing quickly, and within a couple of hours he had it pretty much finished. Tomorrow he would head over to Mike's house and they'd hammer out the chords and harmonies, but he could already hear it in his head. It would just need some final touches.
Finally he slid the book back under the bed, and turned off the lamp. Lying there in the darkness, his mind wandered between sleep and waking, seeing a crumbling, abandoned building in the decaying part of a city. A thin, waif-like figure, eyes hollow with hunger, looked over her shoulder before lifting the basement window and sliding inside. She huddled in the darkness, pulling out a paper bag with scraps of food she had dug out of the restaurant dumpster, and began to eat slowly, trying to make it last.
As the dream took over, he saw himself moving closer to the girl, trying to see her face. Outside, a car rolled slowly by, headlights shining in the window. She looked up, her crystal blue eyes huge and sad, and he could see a patchwork of bruises on her face, some faint and faded, and others dark purple and fresh.
Something behind her moved, and he looked over her shoulder to see a big man, his hairy, meaty arm around her middle. In the other, he held a glistening switchblade, laid deadly across the pale skin under her chin. As Billie watched in horror, he began to laugh, beetled eyebrows hiding his squinty eyes, and he drew the blade quickly across her throat. A threadlike scarlet line appeared against the alabaster, and then ruby droplets formed, sliding down toward her collarbones.
He sat up in bed so fast his head thudded against the wall, and he barely stifled the scream rising in his throat. Her eyes, he could never forget her eyes, looking up at him, haunted and yet forgiving as she submitted to the slaughter...
There was no sleep for him the rest of the night.
"Dear Billie," it read. There was no date.
"I don't know when you'll get this, 'cause I don't know how long you'll be on tour. I saw a poster with you guys on it outside a club near the shelter where I was staying, and I wish I could have come to see you, but I didn't want to bother you. That, and I didn't have any money (ha ha). It was cool to think you were this hot shit band and I could say you used to be my neighbor.
I'm doing okay, mostly. Moving around a lot. I met this girl named Kee, and we kind of watch out for each other. She ran away when her mom got remarried to this pervert--long story. We manage to take care of ourselves pretty well. It helps that it's still warm most days. I guess when it gets cold we'll have to figure something else out.
Anyway, the reason I'm writing is that I just wanted to thank you for trying to help me. And I'm sorry for lying to you. I know it was wrong after all you did, but I couldn't take the chance staying around. I hope you understand.
Good luck with your music. I kind of knew you'd end up being famous someday. Maybe one day I'll be able to come and sit in the front row and watch you play, who knows?
Don't worry about me. I'll be fine.
Love,
Jasmine."
He stared down at the paper, trying to force it to reveal where it might have come from. She had been in one of the towns they'd played, which didn't narrow it down much. The postmark on the envelope was from Flagstaff, Arizona, but that didn't mean a lot if she was on the move.
But she was alive, and that one thing was something he could hold on to. It didn't make him feel any less guilty, but it put to rest the biggest fear he had spent sleepless nights nurturing. He reached into his nightstand drawer and pulled out the photo from the party, sliding it into the envelope with her letter.
Could he even imagine being completely on his own, five years younger than he was now? Hell, he barely knew how to do his own laundry, let alone trying to find food and shelter by himself every day. He wondered how she could be so strong, so brave, and at the same time, he couldn't help thinking of Lani, who had never known want, or need. It seemed so unfair that life could deal out such drastically different hands at random, and that people were stuck with whatever luck of the draw they might have.
He turned over on his stomach, and pulled out his well-worn notebook and pen. There were two more songs to finish before they went back into the studio next week, and he had to clear his mind and get down to business. Underneath the nightstand was the old tin Sucrets box, and he fished it out as well, taking out a tightly rolled joint and lighting the tip. Lyrics seemed to flow more freely when he was buzzed, and besides, it would help him stop thinking so much about the letter.
"Boxed up
All of her favorite things,
Sold the rest at a rainy day yard sale.
Big plans and leaving friends
And a westbound sign..."
He threw himself into writing, the minutes passing quickly, and within a couple of hours he had it pretty much finished. Tomorrow he would head over to Mike's house and they'd hammer out the chords and harmonies, but he could already hear it in his head. It would just need some final touches.
Finally he slid the book back under the bed, and turned off the lamp. Lying there in the darkness, his mind wandered between sleep and waking, seeing a crumbling, abandoned building in the decaying part of a city. A thin, waif-like figure, eyes hollow with hunger, looked over her shoulder before lifting the basement window and sliding inside. She huddled in the darkness, pulling out a paper bag with scraps of food she had dug out of the restaurant dumpster, and began to eat slowly, trying to make it last.
As the dream took over, he saw himself moving closer to the girl, trying to see her face. Outside, a car rolled slowly by, headlights shining in the window. She looked up, her crystal blue eyes huge and sad, and he could see a patchwork of bruises on her face, some faint and faded, and others dark purple and fresh.
Something behind her moved, and he looked over her shoulder to see a big man, his hairy, meaty arm around her middle. In the other, he held a glistening switchblade, laid deadly across the pale skin under her chin. As Billie watched in horror, he began to laugh, beetled eyebrows hiding his squinty eyes, and he drew the blade quickly across her throat. A threadlike scarlet line appeared against the alabaster, and then ruby droplets formed, sliding down toward her collarbones.
He sat up in bed so fast his head thudded against the wall, and he barely stifled the scream rising in his throat. Her eyes, he could never forget her eyes, looking up at him, haunted and yet forgiving as she submitted to the slaughter...
There was no sleep for him the rest of the night.