DESIRED PYROTECHNICS Chapter Five--The Anger of Warriors

  

Artwork by Felicien Rops

     Mateo's family home was about an hour away from Tabby's fortress and was situated in an aldea I had 

never been to before. The house was constructed of stone, plaster, and heavy, wooden beams, and like a lot 

of the old, Spanish homes, which had not been rehabbed it took some getting used to. There was constant 

chill inside which permeated, requiring kerosene heaters at night. Next to the cattle fields in front of the 

place was a cute Shetland pony who whinnied at me each time I passed by his paddock.

    There were five houses in the tiny village, all from the 15th century, two of which were occupied, one 

by myself, and the other by an older gentleman, who ate his breakfast outside no matter what the weather. 

He was friendly, but spoke no English, so our conversations were limited. I asked Mateo about him one 

day and he informed me the reason his neighbor lived in such isolation was he'd just gotten out of jail after 

twenty years for killing his wife. I didn't stop talking to the guy, but I couldn't help but wonder if fate 

wasn't further fucking with me.

    Like Tabby's place, Mateo's house was haunted. There was a phantom couple that lived on the second 

floor. When I slept up there, they became agitated, moving all kinds of things around throughout the night. 

I took to sleeping on the couch downstairs with the television on so I couldn't hear them.

    Besides my morning hellos to the ex-con, I neither saw, nor talked to another living soul, except for the 

few minutes Mateo popped by once a week. I kept myself busy by taking long walks through the 

countryside, often stumbling across strange ruins, or weathered, stone and metal crosses, which I 

documented with my camera. Having no access to money, I ate one small meal a day, and soon my only 

pair of jeans hung off of me. I researched as much history as I could find on the various cults of religious 

ecstasy, drawing out my ideas for the new series in painstaking detail, awaiting the day when I would 

finally shoot them. It was like I had joined a convent, taken a vow of silence, and my deepest fears of 

being alone were recognized. The isolation killed me and 'worst case scenario' was the new name I called 

myself. The mind is such a monkey that I forget the bad parts of my former life with Haiden, and our 

relationship, and lingered on the good times.

    So much of my world had become built around his moods, and provocations, it felt awkward to be in 

my own skin, and in my own company. Initially, it had not been like that – we had been two creative 

livewires sparking continuously. When we’d first met in Prague, we’d haunted the city unable to keep our 

hands off of each other. It had been champagne and fireworks. He was the first man who I felt really got 

me and didn’t look at me like I had three heads because of my crazy ideas, and he was someone who loved 

adventure as much as I did – we’d had sex in castles, taken acid in fairy forts, swum nude in the 

Mediterranean under the full moon – everything was permitted. I felt more like myself when I was with 

him than anyone else. Sometimes, when we were creating together in the studio, I would watch his face 

and wonder about us being mirror reflections, or being related somewhere down the line because we were 

so similar – like dark angels from another mother. Those first couple of years had been magical while we 

had built our world together. But then it had never been like that again no matter how hard I tried to make 

it so. I could not correlate in my head that the person I had fallen in love with was the person he had 

become – who had nearly killed me. How had he hoodwinked me? I obsessed. I’d always prided myself 

on being a good judge of character but with him I’d been dead wrong. I nearly drove myself mad trying to 

figure it out and the only thing that kept me sane was the Internet and the few friends whom I trusted to let 

know what was going on.

    One morning I received a message from Stephanie, one of my oldest friends from Detroit, who now 

lived in Chicago. She had talked her eccentric Aunt Sibyll, whom we both had been in awe of as teenagers 

because she's seemed so worldly to us at the time, into purchasing some of my older work. I was ecstatic. 

Finally, there might be a way back to the U.S. Writing her back, I told her I would gladly trade her aunt for 

a plane ticket, and within minutes the transaction was done—a one way ticket to Chicago sat in my in box. 

I went outside to tell the pony my good news, and then, burst into tears. It was over. Finished. I would 

return back less than triumphant.

    Wandering into the woods, I sat under my favorite tree, which was a scrubby, old, pine with a large 

faerie hole in the bottom of the trunk. Why had I chosen Chicago? I bemoaned. The Windy City? That 

was a crazy choice, and one born out of desperation. Besides Stephanie, I hardly knew any one there. I 

would be like an ant on a giant chessboard with traffic, noise, gentrification, yuppies, and the Midwest. All 

of it seemed so dismal. But it did have an art scene, and my father lived in one of the outlying suburbs, 

although I wasn't certain which one. It would be so weird. The last time I'd visited the States people kept 

asking me what country I was from. When I told them I was an American, they laughed. That's when I 

realized I lived between worlds and nowhere was really home. Could I adapt to the hustle and bustle of a 

huge metropolis after having been away from so long? Did I even want to? No, was the answer. I really 

didn't want to.

    Coming in from a walk on my last morning, I spied a familiar looking Range Rover kicking up dust in 

the distance as it rambled down the road leading to the house. It was Tabby.

    Pulling up beside me, she rolled down the window, and said, “darling, I'm so glad I caught you.”

    “I didn't know you were still in the country,” I replied.

    “The contractor who is putting in the hammam changed his mind and wanted to do it right away so I 

came back.”

    “Luxurious!”

    She stared at me, frowning. “My god, Anabelle,” she exclaimed, “How much weight have you lost?”

    “I have no idea,” I answered, hitching up my jeans.

    “Get in. I have a surprise for you. I'm taking you to see the psychic, Maria...”

    Maria was in her late 50's. She was cute, petite, and Spanish through and through. Her home was well 

hidden in one of the back canyons, and it was a beautiful place, full of huge windows, and a completely 

whitewashed interior.

    Sitting down on the pristine couch in the living room the first thing she said to me was, “so much 

darkness, so much darkness. So much is attached to you. This is bad”

    It was quite the greeting.

    Her eyes scanned my face and neck. Even though there were no bruises left, I felt like she could see 

them. Leaning forward, she grabbed my hands and remarked, “You finally got away.”

    I hadn't said anything about my situation because I had wanted to see if she was as real of a seer as 

everyone said she was. “Got away?” I replied as nonchalantly as possible.

    “You got away from him. Do you have any idea how many times he has killed you?” she asked.

    My blood turned to ice.

    She continued, “Think the Witchfinder General. Think the Inquisition. You have so many lifetimes 

together and he has destroyed you every time because you could not get away – and now, you have gotten 

away. That is why you went back to him before. He has hurt you so it is a familiar pattern. Something you 

know. Something you learned to accept lifetimes ago because you would never accept that kind of 

behavior from anyone else.”

    I nearly got up and ran.

    Letting go of my hands, she said, “no wonder he wanted you so badly. Only it isn't all him. There is 

something terrible attached to him – something demonic and insect-like.” 

    The hair rose on my arms, and I shook. So the hallucination I'd seen in Dublin while bombed out of my 

mind on 2CV had been true – or at least somewhat true.

    “I know this all seems very heavy and dark, but there are literally gems inside of you – things which 

creatures like these covet and they want to possess... Haven't you ever wondered why spirits are so 

attracted to you? And why you have been led into places where you should have never gone. So much 

darkness is attached to you like smoke all over your skin.”

    Suddenly, I felt fragile. It was like I would shatter into a million pieces with one more word, and I 

wanted to grab the blanket lying on the end of the couch and wrap myself in it for protection.

    “So this is where we start.” Maria was all business. “I am going to cut the karmic threads, and then, I 

am going to vanish all the things which are attached to you and have no business being there.”

    I nodded, too afraid to do anything else.

    “Realize these things know when the threads are cut,” she continued. “He will be contacting you 

shortly. Do not deal with him under any circumstances. Every time he contacts you – you contact me – 

and I will cut the threads again.”

    Using an athame, she called the quarters. Then, she called her guardians, literally cutting the air around 

me with the blade. Growling, she fought, clenching her muscles before cutting again and again. The whole 

process took about ten uncomfortable minutes. I didn't know what to make of it, but I wasn't in a position 

to judge, as she had been dead on about my situation.

    “There,” she announced, panting. Taking the chair opposite me, she said, “You are going to feel really 

bad in about 24 hours – almost suicidal. But do not worry and move through it as if you were water. These 

are the remnants leaving you and they should last only a couple of days.”

    Great, I thought. Just in time to be getting on a plane as if that weren't hard enough already.

    Taking my hands into hers again, she gave them a gentle squeeze. “Your journey will be good for you. 

There is someone who has been orbiting around you for a very long time and he will be very important to 

you. A dark-haired king of swords, a protector, he will help you sever the ties,” she smiled. “You might 

even find your heart again.”

    I recoiled, and she let go of me. “I'm not ready to go,” I cried, my voice breaking. 

    “You have to go,” she replied. “It is the only way to know you will be safe. You will be back, but not 

for some time.”

    I hung my head. That was exactly what I hadn't wanted to hear.

    “Do not worry. You have yet to complete your greatest creative work,” she predicted, rising from the 

couch.

    Shaken as I was, those words made me feel a little better.

    Our time was up and Tabby came to retrieve me. When she saw me she covered her hand with her 

mouth, and said, “Anabelle, you look like a little girl again.” Then, she giggled as if I'd done something 

fabulous. 

    I didn't know what she was talking about, but I had to admit I felt lighter, although exhausted. I needed 

to sleep – and soon.

    “Get her back home. She'll to need some time to process. And make certain she stays warm,” Maria 

advised as she came to the door.

    Tabby nodded. “No problem. Thank you, Maria.”

    “Thank you both,” she replied. “I think I'm going to need a siesta after all that.” She shut the door.

    Tabby raised her eyebrows at me.

    Smiling, I said, “I'll give you the low down in the car.”

    Back at Matteo's house, Tabby and I hugged each other tight. Both of us were in tears as we said our 

goodbyes. Watching her car drive away until it became a speck in the distance, a wave of hysteria coursed 

through me. I flailed onto the ground and cried. Only the cows watched my display as I curled up into a 

fetal position, bawling so hard that I couldn't breathe. There were small, sharp rocks poking into me, and 

pieces of dead leaves were trapped in my hair, as I clung to the last thing familiar to me – the land itself. I 

pleaded not to go, but no one was listening. Regardless of whether I liked it or not, my life there was over. 

A brisk wind blew which smelled like snow, but I refused to move. Soon, I'd exhausted myself, falling 

asleep on the ground.

    I dreamt of ancient Rome, and of being chained by the neck in the guttering torchlight. Welts festered 

all over my body and the metallic taste of blood ran in my mouth as I begged Haiden in another language 

to please kill me. He wouldn't do it. He was enjoying every minute of my pain...

    The pounding rain woke me. I was soaked through and didn't care. So much for staying warm and 

heeding Maria's advice, I thought. If I was going to feel bad, might as well make it really bad.

    Brushing myself off, I meandered inside, and threw what little I had into my overnight case. Mateo 

came to the door, and we left for the station. Even though my clothes and hair were damp, I was able to 

put on a braver face for him. We drove in companionable silence until turning a corner where the ruins of 

the old watchtower stood at the top of the hill.

    “Haiden is a stupid, stupid man,” I muttered, speaking to both Matteo and the ruins. ”I loved him with 

my whole heart and I tried my best. You know I did.”

    “This is not your problem, Anabelle. You did nothing wrong. He does not deserve a woman like you.” 

Matteo smiled at me. “You are a strong and beautiful woman. You make things happen and you will make 

someone else very happy.”

    “It's over, but it's not over,” I said. “We both know that.”

    “No,” he replied, “It will not be so easy, but I feel your story is over with him.”

    “I don't know...” I said, staring out the window at the wisps of mist rising from the landscape now the 

rain had stopped and the light was fading from the day.

    “Leaving is a good step and it sends a very loud message. You have to go and live for you. Promote 

your work. Make new images. There isn't anything you can't do.”

    “But leaving wasn't even my choice,” I complained. “Haiden doesn't even know I'm going.”

    “No, but he will find out soon enough. Winter will come and his life will be hard without you.”

    “No, it won't. He'll find a replacement, and he'll blame me for everything that has gone wrong.”

    “So?” shrugged Mateo. “It won't be your problem anymore, and you will be safe. He can no longer hurt             

you.”

    “He can still hurt me, and he will. I don't know if I'll ever be free of him,” I said, shaking my head.

    “Time – take time – and take good care of yourself. You will be free.”

    Anger welled up inside of me. Clenching my fists, I dug my nails into my palms. “It's not fair. He 

should be the one leaving, not me.”

    “No. It's not fair,” agreed Mateo, “but you must believe it is for the best and when you come back, my 

home is still your home.”

    My anger dissipated in the face of his generosity. Katia and himself had been so kind to me. They had 

gone above and beyond what constituted friendship, and in reality, they were my heroes.

    “Thank you,” I said to him. “Thank you for everything. Thank you for being there, and for helping me 

when I needed it the most. I don't know how I will ever repay you and Katia”

    “No,” he answered. “You owe us nothing. It's what people do. It's natural to help your friends”

    “No. It's not what most people do,” I replied. “You are Katia are both very special people who I am 

honored to call my friends.”

    “Anabelle, we will miss you, but I know we will see you again. You will rise like the phoenix and be 

better than before.”

    I smiled at his confidence in me because I felt none whatsoever.

    Outside the train station, we stood in the pale beam of an overhead light, bundled against the cold, and 

the darkness, smoking one cigarette after another, not wanting it to be the moment of goodbye. But the 

moment inevitably arrived.

    “Goodbye,” I said.

    “Goodbye,” responded Mateo, hugging me.

    Turning, I walked through the doors without a backward glance. If I turned around, I would never make 

it to the train. Instead, I would have the complete nervous breakdown Tabby had been telling me to have.

    During the long night at the airport while parked out in the kid’s center on a hot pink, plastic lounge 

chair, I felt a sore throat coming on. I tried coffee, and then tea, from a vending machine, but nothing 

worked. Periodically, I went outside to smoke, which didn't help matters either, but the anxiety I felt was 

so all consuming, I didn't care. It was either smoke every fifteen minutes, or throw up. I chose the former.

    By the time I boarded the plane, I was running a fever, and the interior of the airline cabin glowed like 

kryptonite. My head felt like a hundred pound barbell. Ironically, I had to transfer planes in the U.K., only 

I didn't have to worry about being deported any more.

    Changing planes at Heathrow was a blur. I nearly fainted a couple of times standing in the security lines 

where they checked ones shoes and bags. Catching a glimpse of my face reflected in the stainless steel 

elevator door, I looked pale with feverish spots on both cheeks, my eyes glassy with huge, dark circles 

underneath them, and my hair unbrushed and matted. If not for the boarding pass clutched in my hand, 

most people would mistake me for a bag person.

    Drifting in and out of consciousness, the flight seemed endless. I'd taken something to sleep that didn't 

work, so I drank a few glasses of wine, which didn't work either. Finally, I put myself into a mini coma. 

When I awoke, I'd broken out in hives, and huge, itchy bumps formed on my arms, which I scratched 

through my sweater. Within minutes, they became open sores under my relentless ministrations. The 

businessman sitting next to me looked over with worry and disdain. I knew he thought I was a junkie, or 

had something infectious.

    Ordering more wine, I took another pill, putting on headphones to ignore him. A part of me hoped my 

decimated heart would stop beating, then, I wouldn't have to face coming back. Soaring at 30,000 feet in 

the air, I was in hell. Yes, I was being melodramatic – I was good at that. And no, on some deeper level, I 

didn't want to die. I only wanted to blot out the pain, and stop obsessing over the gigantic unknowns in my 

immediate future.

    With its gaudy flags, overhead neon lights, and checkerboard floors, the O'Hare International Terminal 

was one of the most garish buildings in the world, and I tried not to gape at the tackiness of it all, 

wandering in search of an the exit in desperate need of a smoke.

    Outside, the weather was unseasonably warm. Taking off my coat, I noticed my arms had bled through 

my sweater. Not pretty, not pretty at all, I thought, putting my coat back on. With my heavy, black coat, 

boots, sweater, and sunglasses, I resembled some sort of schizophrenic while waiting for my old friend, 

Stephanie, to pick me up.

    A group of model type girls stood nearby, all wearing short, black dresses, and ignoring each other 

while tapping on their phones. Fuck, I thought. I didn't even have a phone in case anything went wrong. 

Put it on the list of a million things I didn't have; like a home, a life, money, a career, not to mention 

deodorant. I had a name, and a smelly body, but that was about it.

    After an hour, I gave up hope for a ride. Endless streams of people arrived with their luggage, climbing 

into cars – nameless denizens with a better plan than mine. The guy who gathered the luggage carts shot 

me a suspicious glance and I gave him a flinty stare back. There was no way I was giving up the ring of 

cement I'd commandeered. If this was to be my new home, then I would fight him tooth and nail for it. I 

contemplated growling at him, but he moved on before I got the chance.

    Hearing someone scream my name, I glanced over to see Stephanie, all curly, bright red hair, bright red 

lipstick, and over-sized, black sunglasses, waving from her truck window. Hauling my exhausted carcass 

up, I went to meet her.

    “You look like shit!” she exclaimed, as I climbed inside.

    “I'm well aware, thank you,” I replied. Nothing like an old friend to tell you how it really was.

    “No. I really mean it. Are you sick or something?” she asked. 

    “Running a fever,” I answered, showing her my arms. “And bloodied.”

    Eyes widening in disbelief, she said, “Jesus Christ! What were you living in a barn?”

     I snorted. “No. But I might have been born in one.”

     

    “Seriously, dude.”

    Laughing, I said, “I haven't heard someone say 'dude' in a very long time.” 

    “Seriously dude, you look rough, but I'm glad you made it.” She smiled at me.

    “I'm glad to.” Okay. So it was a lie, but made it I had, and I would make the best of it somehow, and 

gratitude was probably a good place to start. “Thank you for picking me up. I know what a pain in the ass 

O'Hare can be,” I said.

    “No problem,” she answered. “After everything you've been through, it was the least I could do.”

    “Still means a lot to me.”

    “So where to?” she asked.

    Giving her my father's address in Aurora, she punched it into the phone, and immediately, the phone set 

us on route.

    “Very fancy now, aren't you?” I remarked.

    Pulling away from the curb, she cut off another driver off who laid on their horn. Giving them the 

finger, she replied, “I try.”

    Another wave of fever rolled over me. Closing my eyes, I tried to blot out the noise coming from the 

other vehicles on the road.

    “How long are you going to stay at your Dad's?” asked Stephanie.

    “I don't even know,” I answered. “I have no place else to go. It's going to be really weird. I don't know 

for how long I'll be able to stand it for.”

    “Listen, there's a restaurant owner I know who needs a house sitter on the Northside starting next week 

for the month of December. He'd be thrilled to have a photographer from Europe staying there.”

    I snorted, “I'll take it – but won't he be disappointed when he finds out that, like yourself, I'm from 

Detroit?”

    “Just work the accent a little and name drop,” she advised. “You'll be fine.” 

    “Thanks...”

    Taking turns singing off-key to the radio, Stephanie wove in and out of traffic like the expressway was 

her own personal racecourse, as I white-knuckled the handle above the door.

    “It's so weird,” she commented, “it feels like yesterday we were doing the same thing driving across the 

country.”

    “That was many moons ago,” I replied, “and we never should have taken drugs from your dad. The 

Detroit side of your family is insane.”

    Changing lanes, she glanced at me. “Oh yeah, he gave us those black beauties and then we decided it 

would be great to drive from Detroit to Los Angeles without stopping.”

    Trying not to flinch as she nearly rear-ended the car in front of us, I reminisced. “Yep – but we did stop 

in Texas to pick up tumbleweeds on the side of the interstate and shove them in the trunk.”

    “Was that the time we got arrested for buying booze with fake ID's?” she asked.

    “Oh my God...!” I exclaimed. “I forgot all about that! No, that was another time. That was in Phoenix 

and your grandmother had to come and bail us out.”

    “She was so pissed...”

    “Fuck, I know! I was way more scared of her than the cops.”

     “Grams is scary,” she agreed.

    “She's more than scary – she's hardcore. I'll never forget the look on your face when you found out she 

buried your grandfather's ashes in an Old Milwaukee can in her backyard.”

    “It was a Schlitz can.”

    “Even classier...” I grinned. “And one of the best stories ever.” 

    ”Fucking Detroit, dude.” She shook her head. “Can't beat it.”

    “True. You know, even though I can hold polite conversation, and generally know which fork to use, I 

think some of my happiest times have been hanging out on the back porch of our old apartment building, 

talking shit, with a forty-ouncer in hand.”

    “Those were the days...”

    “We were bad.”

    “What are you talking about? We're still bad.”

    “Speak for yourself. My bad girl days are over. I'm reformed.” 

    ”Please, you are a freak magnet and always have been.” 

    “Reformed,” I insisted.

    “Hardly.” It was her turn to snort. “You lived with someone who even you referred to as 'his satanic 

highness'.” Pausing, she continued. “Who would have guessed he'd turn out to be such a bastard?”

    “No one could have guessed,” I sighed. “Yeah, there were a couple of warning signs here and there. But 

the depth of violence in him... I could never have foreseen that. It never registered once on my radar.”

    “Have you talked to him?” she asked.

    “No,” I answered, putting my knee on the dashboard. “I have him blocked on all fronts. I can't help but 

wonder what is going on with him, though, and if the police will get him the help he so desperately 

needs.”

    “What the fuck is wrong with you!” she yelled, smacking the steering wheel.

    “What...?” I stuttered.

        Through her sunglasses, she glared at me. “That man beat the fuck out of you. You went to the 

hospital. You had to go into hiding. Why the fuck are you not more angry? You're not angry at all, in fact, 

you're worried about him when you should hate his fucking guts for what he did to you. It makes no 

sense! The girl I knew back in Detroit would have fucking killed him for doing such a thing!”

    Shaking my head, I said, “those days are long gone – and that girl is long gone. It's not something that 

happened overnight. I don't know how else to describe it other than it was like having been put under a 

spell.”

    “There was no spell. Don't delude yourself,” she snapped. “The only thing he's good at is beating up 

those weaker than himself. He's a fucking coward.”

    I shrugged, “I don't know how I got so lost. Maybe it was the isolation, but over time things began to 

change. There are things I can’t even talk about. I know made things okay which were not okay while 

trying to have some kind home with him. Some kind of stability.”

    “He's a fuckwit who never deserved you. Look where his fucking painting career was before he met 

you.”

    “Yeah, but look where it is now. And believe you me, it means more than anything else in the world to 

him, and he will protect it at all costs. He'll crush me like a bug given half a chance.”

    “He's the bug who should be crushed,” she fumed. “You don't need him. Maybe there was a time when 

you did, but you've been insanely creative for as long as I have known you, and your imagination is 

scary.”

    I grinned. “You think so?”

    “Hell yes! I saw pictures from your last big photography show – there was necrophilia.” 

    Holding up a finger, I explained. “Technically, it wasn't necrophilia because she wasn't really dead. It 

was my take on what Prince Charming really thought about Sleeping Beauty, and my not so subtle 

comment on the Western idealization of the 'developing girl' who is frozen in time.”

    “But everyone thought she was dead, so that makes it necrophilia,” she countered.

    “Touché.” The finger went down.

    “Plus, wasn't there some rock star who used to call you 'Sleeping Beauty'?” she asked, cutting across the 

lane to get to the off ramp.

    “I can't believe you remember that,” I replied. “Raven's been gone a long time now... But yes, it was 

also an homage to a really lurid fairytale he once wrote for me while on tour.”

    “Reformed,” she chuckled. “That'll be the day. Seriously, dude, you don't need Haiden, and you are 

going to do it all on your own now.” She turned off the expressway.

    Passing a blinking neon sign for some seedy bar, I said, “What I really need is a beer.” 

    “No. What you really need is some sleep and to get well.” 

    “And a beer.”

    “Whatever.” Stephanie rolled her eyes. ”At least that part of you hasn't changed.”

    A few minutes later the phone announced we'd arrived at our destination as she pulled into the 

driveway. Staring at the two-story red brick house, with blue trim, I mentally calculated how many hours 

I'd been on the road. It had to be over thirty-something. Epic. It might even have been a personal record.

    “All right,” she said, giving me a quick hug, “I'll come and get you next week. Let me know how it goes.”

    “Will do,” I answered. Getting out, I grabbed my carryon bag, and slammed the door. “And thanks 

again.”

    “Ciao,” she said, using the same goodbye we'd used as teenagers.

    “Ciao.” I replied.

    My father met me at the front door. Although more gray than the last time I has seen him, he was as 

handsome as ever with his olive skin and large, dark eyes, belying his Sicilian heritage. On the outside it 

wasn't hard to see we where related, but that was where the resemblance stopped. I could see the worry 

lines etched into his face as I apologized for the state I was in, but he hugged me any way.

    Stepping into the living room, I caught the look of alarm in my stepmother's eyes. After a half-assed 

attempt at small talk, another wave of exhaustion and fever hit and the room swam before me. I couldn't 

stand up straight and gripped the faux marble edge of the kitchen island like it was a flotation device, 

feeling like a teenager busted for coming home drunk. True to form, I was fucking up at the eleventh hour, 

and making those who loved me nervous in the process.

    “So sorry... but I have to sleep...” I kept mumbling as I stumbled toward the guest room, careening 

against the hallway walls. Closing the door behind me, I collapsed onto the bed.