Five seconds in and hold. Eight seconds out, go slow. Six A.M. on a Wednesday morning, she’s smoking a Marlboro on the front porch of her parents suburban, cookie-cutter home. The sun tinted air radiates an intoxicating scent of lilacs and tobacco. Cool air and nicotine swirl inside her lungs, dancing its way inside her head. The immediate calm numbs all other feelings, all anxiety and fear, the anger and regret. She rocks back and forth on the wicker-weaved chair, loosing herself inside her body. She brings her knee’s up to her chest, holding herself together. She flicks the ash from her cigarette onto the manicured, lush-green lawn, before taking one last drag. She exhales, then discards the filter into the flower bed of purple tulips and crimson roses. An out-of-place yellow school bus pulls up to the corner. She stands up, dusts off her Abercrombie jeans, grabs her designer messenger bag, and walks causally over to where it waits. She flashes a smile at the middle aged driver, Carol, who mutters an apathetic “Good morning.” she takes a seat in the front by a finger-print covered, plexi-glass window. The fake grey leather is displeasing to the eye. The smell is strong enough to make anyone sick, and in Blake’s case, it only adds to the nausea she already feels.

Blake Dayla-Selene. This is her life, and the typical morning routine.



The background noise of gossip, passed from gloss smeared lips to Tiffany jeweled ears overpowers the rumbling of the bus. Blake looks out the window, choosing to be oblivious of it all. Her head is spinning, wrapped around the thoughts of “what if?” and “what now?” The bus pulls up to the front of the school, Blake gracefully steps off first. Girls and girls file into the red bricked building, dressed in the most fashionable of fashions. All eyes seem to be on her. Their words feel like knives, penetrating ,much deeper than skin. “Do they know?….No, they couldn’t, it isn’t possible, it might not even be true!” she turns around to notice she is left standing alone in a self-contained cloud of paranoia. She looks to the east and to the west, not a soul in sight, no one late, it’s like clock work. She turns and runs. She can’t possibly face school today, not like this. Blake sprints into the woods, away from her “All Girls Private School.” she whips out her cell phone, a sleek purple blackberry, her Tiffany charm bracelet clanks against her white gold bangles on her frail, little wrist. A skinny finger speed-dials number two, and Blake is left sitting on a tan colored rock, waiting. No answer. Blake calls again, same results, she attempts to call three more times. Still, no answer. This small trial and error send her way down, surrounding and enclosing her in depression. She invites her friend nicotine to once again, fill her lungs, rush her head, and fight her feelings for her. A little confidence booster couldn’t hurt her. Nothing could really hurt her, not after what she has been through this past year. She walks across an overpass, stopping to gaze at the rush of cars below her. Morning rush hour’s black Lexus’s and yellow taxi’s chase each other to the local coffee house. Business people, dressed by designers, running to work….or away from home. It seems that everyone is running now. To one thing, and away from something else.



Blake releases a sigh and continues on. She walks into the local pharmacy, passing men and women with children hanging off them like accessories, tugging at pant legs and suit coats. Isle thirteen, stocked with diapers and formula. Blake chooses a narrow blue box. Deep breath…..She paces herself, counting the steps to the bathroom. One....two….three….four….five….six….seven….eight…She pushes hard on the red door, slipping into an extravagant and elegant ladies room. Everything in this town Is perfect. How is perfect possible….when perfect doesn’t exist? Everyone had their secrets. Everyone.



Blake slides out of her size seven jeans and sits on the porcelain throne. Manicured nails tear at the box. She pulls out a tiny white stick. Minutes later she emerges staring at the pale faced, blonde haired, puffy eyed girl in the mirror. Shaking in her hand reveals a pink plus. She tosses the box into the waste receptacle. Clutching her test result, she runs out of the pharmacy.



The sun is hidden behind ominous clouds. Rain starts pouring, from the sky and from her blue-grey eyes. She finds herself again looking down at cars. Running away, but still well within their allotted boundaries. There is no way out of here. Nothing in this city is wrong. It’s perfect, where perfect doesn’t exist. She rubs her stomach, whispers “I’m sorry,” looks up to the sky, prays “forgive me.” she pushes herself off the ledge, she closes her eyes and falls. She falls until the world turns black

She is wearing wings of gold, soaring above clouds in a powder blue sky. She looks down at the chaos, where a broken body lies. She smiles and turns to the sun. up and away she will fly.