Purple smoke twists and slithers up from the tray, curling around the Save Ferris and Raincoats posters plastered around the tall room, even smothering the sky blue vaulted ceiling. The smoky aroma of jasmine incense spreads. Violet haze drifts through the room, but isn’t thick enough to block the view of the CD player in the corner. Joan Jett’s “Bad Reputation” blares. The Bikini Kill and Letters to Cleo shrines that make up her walls shake with the explosions electric guitar and harsh, raspy vocals. The small desk by the wide open window looks ready to topple over, covered in textbooks, old photos and band memorabilia, concert tickets, and more concert tickets. A Sister Hazel signed guitar pick falls to the floor, destined to drown in the heaps of black sweats, high-waisted jeans, crop tops, Semisonic tees, and unworn bras that litter the short, soft gray carpet. Max lay sprawled out on the black blanket, her left foot pointing in the same direction as the starry compass printed on the bedspread. Her eyes trace the line of her slim leg, and reluctantly meet the empty cup perched on the windowsill. It lay on its side, the Sarah Lawrence acceptance letter under it, ink now smudged by invisible yet destructive stains. She remembers the burning, the overwhelming prick of vodka on her tongue that she used to pass off as clean water every night when her father came in to kiss her goodnight on clean forehead.
As the last song on the classic rock CD fades, Max glowers at the clear crystal glass. A hot tear swells up in her fogged blue eyes. For ever and ever, the posters are still, the speakers silent, the breeze from outside the window hiding away; only the smoke and the angry sobs on her cheeks dare to move. Just staring, staring, staring, defeated and frozen. Finally, with a swipe of her maroon sleeve, the tears start to disappear. Max leans off the edge of the mattress. Her hand searches desperately, eventually retrieving a large book from under the bed where no one looks, rarely even her. Tucked inside the gargantuan Shakespeare anthology is a crumpled, loose leaf sheet of paper. As the tears dry up and the sting of precious vodka is forgotten, she scratches down another tally mark. Day number eleven. Eleven days dry. Eleven days trying. Eleven down. A breeze picks up again, swirling into her room. The glass tremors, rolls- Crash! Max does not stir at the crack of glass shattering on the sidewalk below. Day twelve will come soon.