Tag: college

Lent, Short Stories

Day 9: Unplanned Termination

Alexandra Diane

I wasn’t prepared to read that word. A word I didn’t expect to see until I was at least in my mid twenties. PREGNANT. I came out of the bathroom with tears in my eyes, holding the most expensive thing I’d pee on.

“Chelsea.” Easton could barely say my name. “Chelsea, what does it say?”

I kept looking down at the one, single word, of doom. Pregnant, at 19. I was a freshman in college. I had my whole life ahead of me. I couldn’t have a child now.

“I don’t understand,” I said, handing him the stick. “We always use protection.”

His eyes widened at the single most life-changing word. “Well, there was that one time at your parents’ house, the condom broke.”

I don’t think my mood has ever changed so fast. “It what?” I seethed. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

“Because of this right here.” He waved at me. “I knew you’d be angry.”

I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. Yes, I consented to sleeping with my idiot boyfriend but I most certainly did not consent to being impregnated by him. “You’re such a fucking idiot,” I tried not to yell. “If you just told me, I could have taken Plan B. There would be no baby.”

I shook, trying to contain my rage. How could he be so selfish? Everything I planned in my life was about to be robbed from me because he didn’t want me to be upset that a condom broke. Which, why would I be upset? Shit happens and there are pills for accidents like that.

“So, what are you going to do about it?” I guess my ice stare made him change his tune because he immediately followed up with. “I’ll support you in whatever you decide.”

But I knew what I was going to do. The moment he singled me out instead of saying we, I knew I couldn’t attach myself to this child wearing the mask of a grown man for the next 18 years of my life. My decision was going to go against every fiber of my being.

“Well, I can’t keep it.” I said after what felt like an eternity. I despised the relief in his eyes and hated him even more. “Guess we’ll just have to wait until morning to figure out the next steps.”

An hour later, he left the house in search of weed. I knew he had some in the house, but evidently it wasn’t enough to last him through the night. I didn’t smoke, only drank, and even then it wasn’t to get black out drunk. I liked the taste of beer. I tried justifying his actions by rationalizing that I dropped a bomb on him. You know what he left inside of me to destroy everything I worked so hard at? 

What was I doing with my life? How did I get wrapped up with such a loser? I pulled out my laptop and typed in the words planned parenthood. I never thought I would type those words in my wildest of nightmares. I had friends who had terminated unexpected pregnancies and saw what it did to their mental state. I thought I was being safe. Not just against pregnancy but diseases as well. How could he be so selfish?

The appointment was two days later. I made his dumb ass take me. I was in no mindset to drive. I probably would have driven off a bridge then to the place to kill my unwanted child. There were people protesting outside calling every woman who walked in a baby killer. Strange, they didn’t throw hate at the men. Apparently, they forgot it takes two to make a baby. 

Receptionist room was friendly. Planned Parenthood did more than just terminate unwanted pregnancies. There were flyers about how to get birth control and how to get help on getting your yearly exams. But it didn’t help my mindset. When I filled out the paperwork for what I needed, I waited about 15 minutes before being ushered into a doctor’s office.

The OBGYN smiled at me and asked what brought me there today. I explained what happened to her and, apparently, hearing the truth robbed my boyfriend of his ability to talk. She handed us pamphlets about my options. But she also gave me pamphlets about adoption or how to raise the child at a young age. The doctor kept asking me if I was sure this was my decision. Almost as if she was trying to guide me to keep the child. After I told her, I was sure that this was my decision. They brought me into a room to have an ultrasound to confirm my pregnancy.

I was terrified that seeing the baby would make me change my mind. The woman running the machine smiled at me, almost heartbroken. But what came on the screen was something that I didn’t expect. I didn’t look like a baby. It just looked like a blob of jelly. I thought to myself that if I had wanted this baby, I would be thrilled to see that blob on the screen. However, this was my lifeline. It wasn’t a baby yet. I could do this.

We scheduled the appointment for the following Friday. They only offered terminations on Fridays. The rest of the time, the office was a place for women’s health. 

I looked at my calendar on my phone. March 17th would be the luckiest unlucky day for me the rest of my life. This was my one get out of jail free card. Rather than getting drunk with friends on my first St. Patrick’s Day in college, I’ll be purging my body in different ways.

When I got back to my dorm, I called my mom. It was a tough decision, but I needed money. I figured it was better to ask for money now than for the next 18 years. The conversation did not go as I expected. She asked if I was sure and then said she would transfer me the money. However, she wanted me to see our doctor just so I would have a follow up appointment set up. 

I went to my OBGYN, who I have known since I was 15. She talked to me about what I was about to endure and asked if I wanted to be on birth control. I told her yes; I don’t want to worry about this again. I had been on birth control once before and I didn’t handle it well. She knew this and said we would try to find what would work best for my body. Before I left, she hugged me. When I walked out of her office, I felt attacked by all the pictures that lined her hall. They were of smiling babies she had delivered. 

That Friday came around. I should have been wearing green and getting ready to party with my friends. Instead, I was back in the office listening to men and women outside shout words of hate at me and the four other girls in the waiting room. I couldn’t call us women. I knew one other girl who was there. She was only six months older than me. We all looked scared, as if we would rather be with our moms than the men sitting next to us. 

When my name was called, my boyfriend tried to come with me. The nurse told him he wasn’t needed and he could either wait in the lobby or in his vehicle. I think he picked his truck, but I don’t remember. Things went dark and at some point, I talked to an anesthesiologist. I told him I throw up after waking up. He assured me it was just twilight sleep and I will be fine. Eventually, I changed into a gown.

The nurse  wheeled me into the producer room. The table looked like a regular OBGYN chair in the middle of a very empty room. There were lights above and beeping machines around the chair. The thing that caught my breath was the drain below the stirrups. 

I can do this.  I thought as they guided me into the chair. 

The anesthesiologist returned and told me to count back from ten. I think I made it to eight. 

Then there was true darkness. 

Until a loud beeping. My eyes fluttered open, and there was a doctor wearing scrubs between my legs. I couldn’t understand what the staff was saying, but I looked down. Blood circled the drain. The anesthesiologist was at my side holding my hand. He told me, “Just a little longer, go back to sleep.”

I was awake again. Crying in a wheelchair headed to my boyfriend’s car. I held my stomach, whimpering. “I feel like something is missing. I’m empty.” 

The nurse patted my head and the idiot responsible for the mess was entirely useless. I wanted my mom. I told him that over and over again. But I don’t remember calling her. I don’t remember the drive home, or getting into bed at his apartment. Thankfully, he was smart enough to take me there and not to my dorm. 

I slept for what seemed like forever. It was daylight when we arrived and when I woke, it was nearly nine at night. But I didn’t wake on my own. My body was forcing something out. I went to the bathroom and blood filled the toilet and I panicked. I found the emergency nurse’s number and called. She talked me off a cliff and explained it was just blood clots passing and the surge of pain is the equivalent of going into labor. My body didn’t understand what was happening other than the need to expel what was left inside. She asked if I had the painkillers they gave me and I said “yes.”

“Good,” she sighed. “Now take them and go back to sleep. This will be over soon and it will just feel like a bad dream.” 

I walked out of the room and into the small kitchen, looking for water. Easton sat on the couch, holding his bong in his hand high as a kite. 

“How are you?” he finally asked. 

I shoved two painkillers in my mouth. I was only supposed to take one every eight hours. “Awful, but I’ll survive.”

He looked like a child that just got shamed for drawing on his parents’ walls. “Do you care if I go out with my friends, if you are just going to be sleeping?”

Just going to be sleeping? Sleeping? What the fuck was wrong with this guy? Yes, I made the right decision. I forced a smile because I just wanted him as far away from me as possible. “Do whatever you want.” and I went back to bed.

That summer, a friend of mine and I made a journey to a place called Cassadaga, Florida. It’s a spiritual town, a psychic community. Easton and I had broken up, and I just needed something fun to wash away the broken feeling I had living inside of me. 

We went to one psychic, who the community considered the best, and most sought after. My friend and her mother came out of their sessions in tears. They both spoke about how he could communicate with their dead cousin and he allowed them to get closer. I was a skeptic, to be sure. Nothing the man said set my soul on fire, he even told me that I was going to have two and half children. I just laughed. How can someone have two and half children? Just as I was about to walk out of the room, he grabbed my wrist. 

“Wait,” his dark eyes glassed over. “Your son wants to tell you he understands why you did what you did. He will wait for you and will come when the time is right.”

A chill cut through my body as the man’s eyes returned to dark brown. “I hope that was the peace you were looking for.” He said as I left. 

Bloganuary

My College Selection Process

Alexandra Diane
Daily writing prompt
What colleges have you attended?
View all responses

I could sum up today’s prompt in one word. What colleges have you attended? One, just one. But what fun would it be to end the conversation with just a word? It wouldn’t at all. If I left it up to the simple word of one, you wouldn’t know all that went into picking where I had my college experience. I look back at my reasons now and laugh. I’ve spent the last few months listening to stressed-out seniors freaking out about their college decisions. Part of me wonders if I should have put more pressure on myself, but in the end, it doesn’t matter where I earned my degree from. I wouldn’t change anything. 

When I started high school, I absolutely knew what I wanted to do with my life when I graduated: I wanted to be a marine biologist. I had spent nearly all my summers at marine biology camp studying fish and ocean life. Basically living at the beach for as much as someone could without a car and watching documentaries on marine life. While the internet wasn’t like it is today, I did as much research as I could about my future career. That was until I took my first biology class. I realized I’d rather swim in the ocean surrounded by fish than I liked the actual science behind the creatures. 

I felt perplexed. I had spent the last three young years of my life thinking I would dedicate my future to the study and survival of the marine world, and now I wanted nothing to do with it. I still loved spending time at the beach. However, it was more for an escape and a place to be rather than study. I shifted gears from marine biologist to an underwater videographer. I figured I could blend my two passions together. 

I spent countless hours in my guidance counselor’s office trying to figure out what college would suit me best. God knows how much of that poor woman’s time I wasted. She was sweet and indulged my dreams. Looking back, I can see how she guided me in the best way she could, finding schools that dealt with ocean studies and still had a film department. Either way, I was doomed, because pursuing a career in film is just as challenging as marine biology. I am not sure when my gears shifted from the underwater world to the surface, but eventually I focused only on a communication degree. 

I remember some people asking what I planned on doing with my future, especially because I wasn’t seeking a journalism or a film degree. I told them I didn’t know. I know I enjoyed directing our student run newscast, but I also loved creative writing. At one point, I didn’t even want to get a degree and wanted to dive right into work. But my mom persuaded me to earn my degree, just in case I changed my mind. 

My choice in a more open degree allowed me more freedom in picking where I could go to school over my friends who were seeking a more specific degree. I knew I had to stay in Florida; I had earned bright futures, and out-of-state tuition was insanely expensive. My parents and I discussed different schools. Orlando had UCF, St. Augustine had Flagler College, Tallahassee had FSU, Jacksonville had UNF, and Gainesville had UF. My SAT scores ruled out UF and, for some reason, I had no interest in FSU. 

The university I toured was UCF. While the campus was pretty and was in very close relations with Disney and Universal, my mom and I had a weird vibe about the school. The tour guide focused on the engineering building. When we asked them to show us the film school, the person just pointed in the general direction and said we could go look after the tour was over. Now this wouldn’t be such a problem if the majors were mixed, but the tour was for communication and film majors, and yet the person outright refused to show us the film school. 

My students would be shocked if I told them this. UCF is where most Florida film students go now as their backup school if they do not get accepted into FSU’s film school. However, this was nearly two decades ago, and I’m not sure if the program had the same notoriety as it does now. 

Another hit the school had against it was its distance from the beach. Although I said I was focused on above water production, I still went to the beach in my free time. The thought of driving over an hour instead of the usual ten minutes was not appealing to me. Yes, I know this makes me sound a bit spoiled, but growing up in South Florida allows us certain luxuries that other places do not. We also spend a good portion of the year boiling from the sun and six months out of the year praying that hurricanes don’t hit, but it’s a give and take. The beach was my happy place and brought me peace, and I was certain I would need it in college. My mental health became more of a priority than I realized. 

The next university we looked at was FAU in Boca Raton. I knew little about the school, other than it was 45 minutes from my parents’ house and dangerously close to the beach. When we got to the campus, it was beautiful, filled with trees and history. The campus was initially built as an air force base during WWII. Despite the campus’ growing popularity and updates, remnants of its military past remained. Some of the old dorms were once barracks, and the breezeway was a runway. Our tour guide shared a lot of information about the school’s history, including Nazi submarines near the coast during the war. The tour of the campus had a different vibe than UCF. The students we saw looked relaxed and having fun. When we asked the tour guide about the communication program, they promptly took us over to the Art and Letters building and broke down what the school offered. They also informed us about two more campuses that housed the production classes. 

When we left the school, I felt comfortable, unlike when I left UFC. I knew a lot of my friends were applying to UCF and had plans to work for Disney and Universal, but I knew my path wasn’t the same. My mom asked when I wanted to go tour Flager and I said I didn’t want to. I wanted to go to FAU. She asked what if I didn’t get in? I laughed because no one got rejected from FAU. I told her I liked how the tour guides seemed excited about the school they went to. The school was small, so I would have more intimate classes. I also liked that I could take film, theater and any other classes that I was interested in without getting off track for my degree. Also, I loved how the tour guide brought up if there were a few hours between classes how easy it was to go to the beach. 

So while all my friends were stressing out about where they would go to school and how, whether or not they would get in, I started planning what classes I would take. I knew it was only a matter of time before I got my acceptance letter. I was eager to learn about the historic and academic side of film, along with the production side. But I was also excited to plan my days at the beach. 

Lent, Writing

Day 11: Not all those who wander are lost

Alexandra Diane

Do you believe in fate/destiny?

Writing prompt: Do you believe in fate/destiny?

I started writing this prompt a year ago during lent, and they revisited the prompt today. So I figured I would finish this. 

I’m not entirely sure if I believe in fate and destiny in the sense of predestination, but I think we have the option of different choices and paths to take, and those paths shape us. 

Sometimes when my husband smiles, I see glimpses of the past. He’ll get the same spark in his eyes that he had almost twenty years ago. Something that I thought he lost after the hard road he has traveled to get us to where we are now. 

My husband, Tyler and I met in high school. He was a senior, and I was a freshman. As fate would have it, the school district decided that his four years of JROTC would no longer count as an art elective. Now, in his last year of school, Tyler had to choose between band, art, or drama. He picked drama since he couldn’t draw or play an instrument. 

At the beginning of the year, my drama class was around 16 girls and one boy, Dan Mosley. I think he lasted a week before he had his schedule changed. For a short time, we were an unruly group of girls before a tall, dark stranger was sitting at the desk behind mine. 

Truth be told, I am naturally shy, so I do not know how I began talking to him. Especially so since I thought he was cute, and usually, when I think someone is attractive, my mouth does not work. However, with him, it was like word vomit. Maybe because I was in a room full of females and we outnumbered him. Or possibly the idea of him being so much older than I was; I saw no threat. Whatever the reason was, we became friends. Some days he sat at the desk to the right of me, and we would talk, and other days he would sit behind me and play with my hair that covered his desk. 

Looking back at our life, it reads like a Young Adult novel. Of course, my real-life crush just so happens to be the definition of a book boyfriend. I laugh because I’ve seen a meme, “Fictional men raised my standards.’ Girl, your only requirements are dark hair and trauma.'” However, when I first met my husband, he only had dark hair. It wasn’t until after two deployments did he gain the trauma. 

Tyler’s transfer to our class took place early in the year. I know this because our generation is marked by one life-changing event: 9/11. 

Before that tragic day, the weeks were blurred together. The only thing I vividly remember from the month of August is the tall, good-looking guy with a crooked smile invading our girls only drama class. 

On that morning, I can remember practically every detail. I was in my Spanish two class, where every moment was forgettable until someone rushed into the room. The person shouted at my teacher to put on the news. The entire class turned their attention to the tv. Students were talking amongst themselves as my teacher frantically tried to call her daughter. She lived in NYC. My classmates and I watched, and I began arguing with anyone that would listen. I grew up around planes my whole life. The anchors kept saying that a small Cessna flew into the first tower. I knew that was impossible to be true. The plane wouldn’t look the way it did if it was a Cessna.  As the anchors tried to make sense of the situation that was going on, a second plane flew into the tower’s twin. At that moment, I stopped talking. The world froze, and everyone had a single thought: we are under attack. As I digested what I had just witnessed, another thought filled my mind: The guy I had a crush on was going to war. 

One thing that attracted me to my future husband was his enlistment in the army. Growing up with my family serving in all branches except for the navy, I found his dedication to our country attractive. And discovering that he enlisted the summer before he was eighteen just made it that much better. But when he enlisted, we were at peace. 

An announcement came across the loudspeaker, and we were told that they would dismiss us from our last-period class. I am sure I was a part of the few people who were eager to move. My last period was drama, which meant I would see Tyler and talk to him about everything that happened. The entire class sat on the floor in front of the tv. I remember leaning against him and asking him what he thought was going to happen. He may have looked at me, but I was too focused on the news coverage. I just heard him say, “I guess I’m going to war.” 

Two weeks passed, and so did his eighteenth birthday. I don’t know why these memories have stuck with me, but they have. He went skydiving with his mom and got the Sky Dive America’s Uncle Sam tattoo on his shoulder. 

So now the guy I had a crush on had a tattoo, jumped from a plane, and was going to war. All he needed was a motorcycle to complete the bad boy package. But Tyler was anything but that. We’ve talked about high school, and he said he never really was one of those people who hung out with one group. He was friends with everyone. He played sports, was a part of JROTC, and didn’t care who you were as long as you weren’t a dick. 

At the beginning of December, I chopped off all my hair. It was a rebellious move because my mom loved my long hair, and I was mad that I didn’t get to go to the Buzz Bake Sale. The Bake Sale was a local rock concert festival. I know it was a ridiculous fifteen-year-old move, but that was all I could control. 

When I went to school that Monday, I wasn’t comfortable with my decision anymore. My hair was like a comfort blanket. The longest point reached my butt, and I had chopped it up to my ears. When I sat down in my seat, I felt a pencil swatting at my hair. “I like the hair, little one,” 

Suddenly, I didn’t hate my hair anymore. 

As the school year progressed, Tyler started taking another classmate and me home from school. That meant I no longer had to take the bus home every other day and since he drove a ford ranger with a bench seat in the front, I sat in the middle. At first, he would simply drop me off at my place, but as we got closer, we spent time together, discussing stupid things. It didn’t matter if it was about class that day, and how life was going, or music we liked. Our conversations were how I learned he only didn’t just enjoy country music. He liked the same pop-punk nonsense as I did. 

One day, he came into class and plopped down in his seat. He didn’t have the same positive attitude as usual, and I asked him what was wrong. He said he got in trouble with his mom for going over his text message limit again. I turned bright red and asked, “well, who are you texting?” he just laughed and said, “Gee, I wonder who’s been texting me every day.” I might have been part of the reason he had to get unlimited text messages. 

We would play twenty questions, however, those twenty questions would somehow last well into the night. It was fun getting to know someone this way. It felt more like we were sending letters as opposed to text messages, and it took the pressure off taking him face-to-face when I saw him the next day. 

The closer we came to the end of the school year, the sadder I got. He was going to graduate and go off to the army, and I was going to continue on with my life as if he had never walked into it. I didn’t have any right to be sad about him leaving. We weren’t dating. We were just friends. I knew he was dating someone at the beginning of the year, and eventually, they broke up around February. I had to ask him when it happened because I wasn’t sure. That part of his life wasn’t important to me. We were just friends, and I didn’t even entertain the delusion that we would turn into something more. 

At some point in the spring semester, I learned that Green Day, Blink 182, and Jimmy Eat world were on tour together. I was beyond excited and begged my mom to let me go to the concert. None of my normal concert going friends were going, and she said I had to have an adult accompany me. I ended up asking a family friend if she would take me, and she said yes. 

I was so thrilled that I was going to see my favorite bands I overloaded him with information. At some point, he told me he had never been to a concert before. This shocked me. I had been to a BackStreet Boys Concert, seen Melissa Etheridge at Sunfest while in middle school, and just saw No Doubt play at Sunfest a few weeks prior. I guess all my excitement must have given me the courage to invite him to join us. Because at that point in my life, I was never that brave. 

I am pretty sure I died a little inside when Tyler said he would go. Though we were just friends and I had a crush on someone else who I thought I had more of a chance with, I couldn’t believe Tyler said he would go. I think he said something about his mom not wanting him to go at first. But he told his mom he was eighteen and had already signed up for the army. He was going to go to the concert. 

Mental break in writing because looking back and experiencing these emotions as a thirty-six-year-old is almost as unnerving as it was when I was fifteen. I am nervous about how my husband is going to react to reading my post because he reads everything I write.

Lent, Writing

Day 9: Aphantasia, past life regression, and a movie script

Alexandra Diane

About a year ago, I discovered I wasn’t normal. I mean, I’m a writer who has made a career in television. I’ve never been normal. However, I discovered I am a part of a small group of humans who do not see with their mind’s eye. I have Aphantasia.

“Aphantasia is the inability to visualize. Otherwise known as image-free thinking. People with aphantasia don’t create any pictures of familiar objects, people, or places in their mind’s eye. Not for thoughts, memories, or images of the future.”

 I never knew that I was different. I always thought that when people said they saw pictures in their heads, they were speaking figuratively. It wasn’t until I was working with a friend, editing a story, did I learn it wasn’t a figure of speech. He asked me to picture the scene and my head, and I told him I couldn’t. This sparked a long conversation about how when I close my eyes, I only see darkness, and if there are lights, I’ll see yellows or oranges where the lights are.  Being unable to see images in my head is probably why my writing is, so dialogue driven. It also probably has a lot to do with why I love to take pictures of everything that happens. I can look at pictures, know what was happening,  and it evokes emotions, but I can’t recall a memory and see it in my head. 

I haven’t always been this way. Or at least there are a few distinct moments I know I saw images in my head. 

The first moment was my first year of high school. My drama teacher was out, and we had a substitute. I can’t recall his appearance, but I still hear his voice. Thinking back at this moment as an adult and teacher, what he did was weird as shit, but as a high school freshman, it was pretty cool. The substitute asked us if we wanted to be part of a group activity where he guided us through a past life regression trip. I am unsure if we knew what that meant, but it sounded way more interesting than reading our anthologies and writing a response. 

The substitute had us line up in a row in front of desks. He asked us to close our eyes and focus on his voice. He told us to imagine a blank chalkboard, and on the chalkboard, we were supposed to draw a circle. We were guided to draw the number 5 (or ten; I can’t remember everything from twenty years ago), erase it, and continue until we reached zero. Once we reached zero, he told us to imagine a field with flowers and warm sun. We should feel safe there. 

And what is crazy is that I could picture all of this in my head. When I try to do this now, I only see darkness. It wasn’t until I was talking to my editor did this moment come back to me. I had, at one point, actually seen images in my head. 

After the substitute guided us to the field, he went down the line and asked each one of us a question. I don’t remember exactly what my classmates said, but I know one said she was a princess. I think another said she was in the holocaust, and one said she was on the Titanic. Each time he asked them if they felt safe, and oddly, every one of them said yes. 

When he got to me, I wasn’t prepared for what came out of my mouth. He asked me what I saw around me, and I said I felt sand, and he asked me if I was at the beach. I told him no. He then asked me to look around, and I told him I couldn’t because it was night and dark. He asked me if I was standing or sitting, and I told him I was kneeling. I told him my hands were bound, and I heard people rushing towards me. I told him that the hair I could see in front of my face was dark, and it was not mine. And then he asked me if I was safe. My heart raced, and I told him no. Next, all I remember was his voice getting louder and louder, telling me to wake up, and I remember feeling sweaty and having my classmates look at me, unsure of what was happening.

For the next seven years, I would have random dreams that would expand on what I had in my supposed past life regression. Do I think that this was a past life that I led? No. I’m unsure what I experienced, but it was very vivid. 

It wasn’t until I was halfway through college before I could get the story out of my head. I took a scrip writing class and asked my teacher if I could write a historical script. He said he didn’t approve of them because students did a horrible job writing them. I didn’t like that answer. I had to get this story out of my head. So I asked if that meant I couldn’t write a historical piece. He told me to go ahead, but the likelihood of me passing with a good grade was slim to none. 

I wanted to impress my teacher. He was a former writer for Golden Girls and Dallas, among other shows. 

I took what he said as a challenge. I knew I could write a fantastic script. So for the next few months, I wrote my 90-page script. He had the class break the project into 30-page chunks. When I turned in act one, I expected him to tell me to try again. But the only note I received was, ” please edit your work so I can give you a better grade.” I was excited by that and went on writing. By the end of the semester, I had finished the script and the story I started seven years ago. I never saw those images again. But what I had was a script called Blue Lotus, and the only A in that class.

After going back and reading the script, I couldn’t help but giggle. Some of the dialogue is totally cheesy, but I still love it.

Short Stories

Missing

Alexandra Diane

It was Halloween, and I couldn’t be happier. The weather had finally cooled down enough that clothes weren’t unbearable, but not enough to wear real shoes. Actually, I’m not sure if anyone in Florida actually wore shoes. It was flip-flops most of the time or heels if you were going out. And tonight was time for heels.

The doorbell rang with excited trick-or-theaters. The sun was setting. It was their turn to have fun. Ours would come later. As I refilled the bowl with more candy, someone drilled into the doorbell. I gritted my teeth, reminding myself it’s Halloween. They are allowed to be brats to an extent.


“TRICK OR TREAT!”

I opened the door slowly when all I wanted to do was rip it off its hinges and scare the crap out of them. But, alas, no children to scare, just giggling girlfriends weaseling their way into the doorway.


“Did you all forget how the doorknob works?” I must have been a mess because they all kept laughing.


“Seems you forgot how to put on your makeup.” Goldilocks laughed as she opened up her makeup kit. “What’s going to happen when I move away, and there is no one to fix everything?”


“Hire someone to make me look pretty.” I gave her the sweetest smile. But she was right. I had no clue how to tame my hair.


The doorbell rang again. “It’s already past ten. When do these little brats go to bed?” Muffet got the eye from Red as she went to answer the door. “What? I’m just saying we’ve got to get ready, too.”


By “ready,” she meant pre-gaming and mixing drinks. Ever since her scare with the spider, Muffet wouldn’t drink a drink at the bar. She was far too skeptical of it being slipped into her drink again.


Red found the perfect tunes on the radio, though Goldi and I would have been far happier with a scary movie as background noise. I don’t think Red and Muffet knew they couldn’t sing.


“Bo, where is your curling iron? Mine at home was broken.” Red had her head already under the sink. “Never mind, found it.”


“What’s the point in curling your hair when you wear that hood all the time?” Goldi twisted my head forward. Apparently, I was making my curls lopsided.


It took another hour for us to get ready. Then again, who wanted to be out on Halloween before midnight, anyway? When we got downtown, the place was packed. We parked so far away it was almost fifteen minutes of walking. But a portion of the blame rested on skyscrapers, the heels we were wearing, and Muffet running back to the car to grab her flask.


“Before we get into the swarm of people, let’s get pictures.” The brilliant idea came from me, of course. I didn’t think it was fair to have all our hard work go undocumented.

I swear sometimes pictures perform magic. Red’s dark black hair was shining off of her sparkling red cape while Muffet’s blue eyes twinkled back at us. Goldi and I looked like sisters with our cute plaid dress – hers being yellow and mine a light blue. Each dress we wore showed off just the right amount of skin. But then again, with all the layers we added to the dress, it was going to take a while to get them off.


It was also going to take a while to get into the club we wanted to go to. Royalty was our spot. It was connected to a few other clubs, so even if we had to pay a cover, it was worth the price of admission. The mass of people we had to squeeze through was hell. Even in my skyscraper heels, I was tiny, making it hard to get a fresh breath of air. Once we got to the front, the cover had been upped to an astronomical amount.


Goldi disappeared behind the velvet rope, giving me a bit of a panic attack. But when she returned with her Spartan, I felt a little better.


“Could you tell us before you disappear next time?” Red was quick to be the mommy of the group. Always the watchful eye. Goldi mouthed sorry as her bouncer boyfriend led us all into the club. With a quick kiss, he was off to guard the doors from whatever big bads were trying to sneak their way in.


The music was pounding, filling us was vibrations that controlled our bodies. I eyed a Warrior from across the bar. In a matter of seconds, he was in front of me dancing. The strobe light made dancing a bit more exciting when after every black moment, the bodies would return in a different spot.


The Warrior caught Red’s attention, and she called dibs, even though I was dancing with him. I step back and let her have him. She did just get out of a shitty relationship. Besides, there were plenty more fish in this sea. “My feet hurt!” I wasn’t sure who I yelled it to, but Goldi thought it was a great idea for shots.


The bar was packed tight with bodies. One angel’s wings took up enough space for three people. Guess she wasn’t that considerate of an angel. Being the smallest one, I ducked under and made it to the bar. I return with our flight of Tullamore dew, redheaded sluts, lemon drops, and the last shot meant to be sure we officially don’t remember the night, the four horsemen.


“First shot to kill the pain,” I shout as we down it.


“Second shot to kill our brain,” Goldi giggles as it goes down the hatch.


“Third shot to help us wonder,” Red pays for our third set.


“Will that guy be good down under.” Muffet even takes the last shot with us.


“OH MY GOD! What was that?” The Warrior lost a lot of points with me after that.


“Awwww, how cute.” I squeezed his cheeks. “ It was Jim, Jack, Johnnie, and Jameson. Only the four best men around.”


We ventured into the next part of the club. Water was needed, and we weren’t going to try and weasel our way back to that bar. Red propped herself up on the pool table.


“Hey, don’t post that picture of me double fisting those drinks. I don’t need people seeing them!” She shouted after Muffet.


“Like any of these are going to make it online.” The music from downstairs was playing the best out of all three clubs, and it seemed that Red and her Warrior already had made it down the stairs. We always kind of awwed at the two of them. He blushed – guess he wasn’t a hardass. Red whispered something, and she darted off. Goldi grabbed her arm.


“Hey, just going to the bathroom. Be right back.” Red looked towards the door about twenty feet away.

Since the dance floor was in eyesight of the bathroom, we thought, what’s the big deal. Only fifteen minutes go by. The Warrior is talking to one of his buddies, where we left him on the stairs. I asked if he’s seen Red. He shakes his head. Goldi pulls out her phone and starts texting.


No answer.


Fuck. This was not the night for this to happen. So many people filled the club and the streets.


“Bo, go check the bathroom.” Muffet was frantic, calling Red’s phone. “Goldi, go ask your Spartan if he has seen her.”


I come out of the bathroom with her purse. Holy shit, what has happened to Red? We couldn’t move quick enough around all three clubs. We searched every dark corner and showed every bartender her picture. Then finally someone answered her phone.


“Who the fuck are you, and where is Red?” I couldn’t keep my cool.

“I found the phone near the exit. Meet me at the bar, and I’ll give it to you.” The voice said.

When we get to the bar, the barback who found the phone is there. He looks annoyed that he even had to wait for us to get there.

“Where is Red?” Muffet, who usually keeps her cool, lost it too.

“I don’t know who Red is. I just found this outside the exit door.”


“Which door?” Seriously, did I need to ask him that?


“The one next to the bathrooms on the first floor.” With that, he walked away with an empty keg.

Oh, this was just great. What if she got pushed outside and couldn’t get in? She was pretty hammered. We were all standing in the middle of the dance floor, trying to figure out what to do when the lights came on and the music faded out. We were the last people in the bar.


When we walked out to where the cops were standing, Muffet kept trying to get the attention of any one of them. But they were too busy flirting with the half-naked girls. Goldi’s boyfriend met up with us. Neither he nor anyone he worked with saw her. But he said he would keep his eyes up.

“Excuse me.” I finally got one of the cop’s attention. “My friend is missing, and I was wondering if you could help us find her.”


“Does it look like I can? And even if there weren’t a million people on the streets tonight, I’m supposed to stay here in case people are too drunk to drive home.”


Oh, I wanted to scream at him. He wasn’t doing that. He looked like he was about to get his dick wet right here if he had it his way.


But that is when Goldi started yelling. Down the street, staggering, was Red. Spartan ran up and caught her before she fell to the ground. When we finally got to her, we saw the damage. Her thigh-high boots were sliced up. Her stockings had holes in them everywhere. Her petticoat was missing, and her legs were bloodied.


I screamed for the cop to help, and he told us we had to take her to the hospital.


“Are you fucking kidding me? You are some sick joke of a public servant!” I shouted at him as we got into the car.


Red kept muttering about how there were two of them, and they wore masks. She didn’t mean to get lost, but someone pushed her. We pulled into the ambulance entrance of the ER, and a few nurses came out. At first, they were mad, but with one look at Red, they grabbed the wheelchair and wheeled her in.


“Looks like the night is just getting started.” One of the nurses muttered to the other.
“Rape kit needed in room three.”