www.whyville.net Oct 5, 2008 Weekly Issue

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Some Complex Plant

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Music vibrated throughout the car creating a bubble of sound, much like a snow globe. The wind was catching our hair and creating a foreign dance only found in the far and desolate civilizations of the world. This isn't one of my best moments or one of my worst but it holds a place dear in my heart. Something as simple as riding in the car with one of my best friends fills me to the brim with happiness. Somehow it seems more significant than it really is, even though we've done it a million times. Maybe even a billion and one.

We pulled up with Heather's beaten down ten year-old car ready for adventure. The only thing that would make us more adventure-ready is if we had Indiana Jones to guide us in our mission. This particular time Heather had taken time off from her college and got her lazy butt up to drive to Texas, camera in hand. We got out of the car and made our way to the entrance, almost as if it was heaven itself; complete with a halo dancing over the door's head. It was one in the morning and almost completely empty except for one lone man vacuuming. We headed for my favorite isle: the ice cream isle.

We filled our cart to the brim with ice cream. We skipped to the coffee isle, our hearts filled with glee. Frappacinos topped off our mountain of ice cream like cherries on a sundae. The cashier looked at us with bewildered eyes. When we headed out of the store, our prizes in hand (the holy grail to be exact), Heather looked at me and just laughed. We laughed our lungs out and eventually we had to sit on the harsh pavement and rest our backs against the car. When we finally got back in the car we headed to our final destination, Heather?s house to watch V for Vendetta.

The most random stories are sometimes the most meaningful. The most monotonous events often turn out to be the most important ones. Never take a day, a minute, or a second for granted. Everything is worth living for; you might not like it at the time but eventually you'll learn to accept that that is part of growing up. I'm still working on all my life lessons and accomplishments, but I'm getting there. Heather is my vice and when she moved to Canada I knew she would never leave me completely. I trust her entirely, even with my life. I would jump in front of a train for that girl.

A couple months before my world had come to a crashing halt. I had seen my life flash before me as if I was the one carried into the ambulance. As if I was the one with morphine pulsating through my veins. I realized that I couldn't live without her. She was the one that mentored me in photography, emailed random things that had happened during the day, and just plain understood me, through and through. I wasn't ready for that to end so abruptly. It was so final like the period at the end of a sentence. Her life was more like a simple sentence ready to be filled with descriptive verbs and semi-colons. Her life wasn't ready for it's dot at the end of a sentence. I wasn't ready for it.

The white walls of the hospital were a sharp contrast to the dark circles under her eyes. Her face had lost all life and her limbs were frail like straw. The night before I had opted to stay home instead of wrecking havoc. If I had just gone with her then maybe she wouldn't be sitting in that bed. I could have protected her; I could have been her knight in shining armor. I could have rode up on a white horse ready to slay her dragons and poison her demons. I could feel the dam breaking, the floodgates opened; the warm tears ran down my face making little makeshift streams down the soil of my cheeks. The tears created an alternate universe where everything was magnified and distorted.

This wasn't my life anyways; Heather had never done this much. She had never been hospitalized for drugs before. I took a deep breath in, my chest contracting with pain; my step echoing across the walls of her empty and faceless room. I reached my hand out towards hers; wrapping my fingers into hers resembling some complex plant from the Amazon. I waited for her hand to squeeze back but there was no response from the once effervescent self of Heather.

She had picked up the spoon and heated it up. She had stuck the needle in her own arm. I felt as if I had done it; as if I had readied the spoon and stuck the pointy end of the needle into her flesh, piercing her porcelain skin. She had done it to herself. But somehow I didn't blame her. I made up ridiculous excuses in my head trying to cover for her. It wasn't her fault; she has a lot of stress from college. I blamed myself. I could have gone with her. But would I be in the hospital bed instead of her? Would I be the one sitting there with morphine pulsating through my veins?



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