This is the short story I wrote as my final for my WRI241 (imaginative short fiction) class at Lane Community College in 2000.
Stealing menthol kisses at dawn, I luxuriate in the arms of my newfound lover. I feel safe, I feel calm, I feel like the beautiful young woman I am, I feel like I am finally alive. The first rays of the sun caress my skin and I welcome the morning with a yawn.
I am sleepy, yet my mind is too active for me to drop off into the dream world. Or maybe it's that the real world now seems like a dream, and I am afraid to sleep through any of it. Either way, I snuggle down into the comfort of my lover's embrace and let my mind wander over the events of the night. Maybe I doze a little bit.
I got here at noon, and it's now 9:28pm. I feel like crying. It's been a terrible day. People have been yelling at me with impatience, nothing I have done has worked out right, I've broken a grand total of four items - each worth about ten bucks. One more hour to go and I can space out on the Internet with a nice green bowl and my bottle of Southern Comfort. Just one more hour to survive in this hell-hole called work.
Amazingly, I do survive. I even survive the drive home through the pouring rain, watching the road through half-closed eyes and windshield wipers that only half work.
Once home, I kick off my shoes and check the answering machine. Shit. Edward called to remind me about the party tonight. Damn, I really don't feel like going. I have no energy left for dancing and socializing. But I promised I'd go, and a promise is a promise. I call back, let him know I'll be there late, and to go without me.
I shower, the streaming water almost washing away the tears building from my exhausted state. I think about Bryan. I miss him. I miss his caress, his fingers in my short blond hair, his brown eyes staring into my own hazel eyes while we explored our passions.
I've got to get myself out of this funk. I can't find new love if all I do is think about past love. I step out of the shower, dry myself, and stare in the mirror.
The steam has fogged the mirror over and I look at a blurry reflection of muddled shapes and colors staring back at me. Sighing, I resign myself to preparing my costume for the night.
I choose a short, slinky, black satin dress from my closet. A pair of sexy underwear just in case. No bra. My purple, shoulder-length wig. Bright white tights with spiders crawling up the legs.
The fog has cleared from the mirror. I stare at myself and wonder if anyone will ever see me as beautiful again. Deciding I could use the help of the cosmetics industry, I get started on this form of artwork. Black eyeliner. Purple eyeshadow. Blue lipstick. Pale foundation. A cloud of Fetish perfume completes me.
I spend a moment contemplating my art. I am satisfied, and I begin to shed the distress of my day, my life. I am becoming another person. A person who is confident, ready to have fun, ready to search for the meaning of life at a party.
I pour some Southern Comfort into a flask, grab my bag of weed, and head out the door, asking the Goddess to keep me safe and to help me find what I am searching for.
Arriving at the party, I realize that it is well under way. Midnight, noise, music, drugs, and sweating bodies surround me -- engulfing me in a feeling of excitement. I drink from my flask, spark up a bowl, and suddenly have friends. When the weed has turned to dust, the friends leave. All but one.
"Thank-you for sharing, what's your name again?" This remaining person asks.
"I didn't say for the first time," I giggle, "what's yours?"
"Not telling unless you tell first."
"Well, then, I guess we'll never know." I grin from ear to ear, my head bobbing with the sounds of techno flowing from the speakers in a nearby room.
"Since you were so kind to share your drug, would you like to share mine with me?" The question is phrased tentatively, hopefully.
"What have you got?"
"A nice, speedy ecstasy."
"I'd like to try that." A small blue press tab is placed in my hand, and I pop it in my mouth without thinking twice.
"Let's dance," my new friend says, and drags me out to the floor.
Dancing calms me. I become the music, my eyes close, and I lose myself in the crowd. The ecstasy kicks in slowly and makes life beautiful and wonderful. The music pounds in my chest and I feel like I could dance forever. Every time I open my eyes, I meet the gaze of my new, nameless, friend.
A bottle of water is pressed into my hand.
"Drink that, I don't want you to get dehydrated from dancing so long."
I drink, then glance at my watch. I am surprised to find that it is nearly four in the morning. I glance around and realize that the party is dying down. People are sitting on the sidelines, watching others, getting ready to leave, or dozing off.
I am still full of energy, but my friend pulls me to the side to sit for a moment and smoke a cigarette. I forgot to bring mine with me. I am offered a menthol which goes very well with the ecstasy.
We dance a while longer, then I am invited to crash at my new friend's house down the block.
"How do I know if I can trust you? I don't even know your name," I protest weakly, not really wanting to decline. Wanting, in fact, very much to spend the night with this mysterious person.
"You can trust me because I understand you, I understand that you spent the night escaping from your every-day life. I want to offer to extend your escape. Perhaps indefinitely. And remember, you never told me your name either."
"My name is Lossandra, and I want so much to accept your offer. This is all so new to me though, meeting you, the drugs, I wonder if my mind is too muddled," I stumble through the words.
"It's okay, Lossandra, trust your instincts, we won't do anything you're not comfortable with. I don't want to ruin any chance I might have with you," my trembling hand is caressed by warm fingers and I feel comforted by beautiful brown eyes gazing into my own. "My name is Julianna."