The Panic in the West Coast.

My body withdrew from the fighting fabric that adhered on my skin like tape. I could feel my corpse weight from the bouncing hospital bed. At about this point, your ears flicker the audio of loud repetitive crashes that anchor your body close. So of course, my peculiar self began to feel terribly nauseous. Where could I find the words, I took my half dry, half canker sore-mouth to the sink.

The sight of the medication this morning altered the stream coming from the tip of my genitalia. None of the doctors frequently curated ones not barking at their door or whoever thought needed their own company. I figured I was going a bit lunatic when the girl across from me smoked under the window of the lobby leaving her air to the circulated fans. We were standing up to see what had happened to the Royal families prince of England and his famous wife. The fog drew closer in and had a standing joke where she would show her wing span: “I WILL NOT RETRACT LIKE A CATERPILLAR”.

We passed along our plates that were covered in smoke ash to the custodian, Matt Renar. The doctors a few weeks after the incidence swung our doors like angry parents, introducing me to mini activities the social workers would do on their free time. You could almost feel the cold bars vibrate to the rhythm of your heart. I had all the urban fashion in my ear as they prepared breakfast. I learned this trick the girl across taught me before the incident.

This inventor unlocks the door knob out, while you leave your ear out, take a beat. The inventor pierces their peripheral to the outside, traveling your eyes back and forth before the inventor launches to the lobby. I peered over behind, the tail of the flashlight swung past the corner facing the lobby. For a minute, the sweat on my palms stopped sweating. “Why didn’t you come along with me” I projected in my ears. When she made her grand exit, we all wondered if she had been healed or fixed.

I stared at the window like a theatre screen. The architectures believes this spot to needing the most sunlight. The blue light reminded me of my doctor’s old dress.  Mrs. Dalles got a kick from men staring at her large beak, the brevity I savored to dropping raisins by her front door wasn’t to launch a myth. She believed in lines and existence.

“Everything is as it was” and everything has a necessity to it. I wanted to grab onto these ideas when she served me but there was nothing to lament my experiences. Her spoiled, nicotine mouth lingered in her office on sectorial doctors that didn’t need an escort to the higher floors. She gathered me in office with yellow stained windows. She knew all the connections in the medical industry she said, she could conquer our pharmacy from her own room.

Matt Rener knocks twice on our door as a couple walkie talkies decrease in volume shortly after.

“Are you in there Mrs…?”

She pulls my head to the door and flicks my mouth.

“It’s me, Rener”

She tells me to look strictly at the window and I guess my answer was sufficient enough when the door never reached open. Her walls ran electricity down the wallpaper, buzzing its sultry wire smell. We all felt very low, we had beed woken up from ice and the strong winds picking up from the front door. The baby was pronounced birthed on the 27th of December 1999 at 9:30 p.m. in the Santa Ana Valley of California, to Renetta and Arthur West Cowley. The itchy grass remained like blades in the winter for seventeen straight years.

They lived at 23rd West fourth Street near the Frida Cinema and often fought over which picture to watch on Thursday nights. When they moved to Chapman Avenue the family tried adjusting without a mother. She threw ill and limbless as the father entrusted his children to authorize his small watch business as he fought for jobs elsewhere in the valley.  The sister, Clarice, had finished her first semester of college, she was previously sealed with financial aid for her tuition after cuts in the state. I didn’t want to shake up any emotions on providing other resources to Clarice as I wasn’t pursuing a degree with tools at my disposal.

Perhaps, it was also to hike my way without others finding me available to reach out for more things they want. In my place, i hope my parent skills land on their feet. Stability with a long, beautiful past with someone I can’t see without. Perhaps I was afraid of what she thought. The sooner I die the sooner I’ll hate myself.

The house we settled in was friend of a piss-mouthed, all-American structured guy my sister befriended on the subway. In the morning, wavering protest signs flew through the heat waves in the cunty skyline. It had nothing to do with me, but we later found out we were in the eye of the tornado. After the long week we carried our mother’s life in our hands supplying her anything she told us. We kept hearing on the radio and news of the clown massacre down at center hall. Our Father storms in gravitating towards the static.

He grabs the radio ripping the cord with it and launches himself outside. Clarice, near her mother and I listen for any echos. He didn’t like his darling hearing about all the negative stuff going on, this type of thing carried on until Clarice turned eighteen. My father apposed the youth for their “easy” ambition to maneuver any city they like with their attitudes, it just doesn’t work like that he would definitely say. I was also a bit envious of my sister’s dependance so I invited my male friend from New York, to love me.

It was my responsibility to smell like a pig to ones that weren’t patterned in their heads. It was my responsibility to carry my roots in my own way. It was my responsibility to keep his whistling muted. This Spaniard structured boy folds under the surveillance to his executive suite. Break this down: through Clarices university gifted international expansion to explores like Sanchez Cawe.

A few dozen of us spent a weekend in this hotel in the San Bernardino Valley where it was easy to sell things or parts of yourself. We got tickets to basketball games, famous saloons, fashion shows, and other places that had an opinion on our complexions. I understood my sister’s confidence was always there, she drilled everyone because she just knew different. Hearing her speak was like choking on fish, it repulse us all. Sanchez was the exact same.

His mom and dad left him to his Grandparents where they would go for good talks before they became strangers at 15. The tears jab my eyes shut as it hails outside my bedroom window. It was hard looking away, in the corner of my eye I saw a burning raven down his forehead. You could see his ribs squeeze tight. I could tell he suffered an awful disease he continues within themselves even if he thinks he’s without it.

I thought I could make him feel loved again as we kick it under the peach trees. we cross to the beach in search for new things to cry over but his pretty features couldn’t allow that. Now that all the plans are officially over, I didn’t want to be anyones baby. We threw our cellar device on the bed before burning anything else that didn’t matter.

“So what’s your job again?” He questioned.

I told him how my father gifted me a handful of watches, I jumped about my mother, it was like a haunting jump in the sea. Imaging my father doing the same thing to his lover. It happened to be a bright day, unnoticed from any subject, sliding into the night it offered us. I knew I was scared, I could hear all the hot steam coming off his body. I released we could make anything real every second we spoke through our beaks.

Know that his cherry lipstick molecules breathe down my neck, we enter my small office for writing any complaints and final offerings. I decided to breathe after sliding past any noticeable alarms in the office. We fell in love with the country fairly young and what we were doing wasn’t a mistake. We tried facing the next calling given to us, but the soft touch his skin adhered onto mine took me to anywhere I wanted. We made each other throw each other faces once or twice before we heard crashing boots beating through us.

We got lost trying to find ourselves before our door swings open to a half conscious father, his spine like a giraffe. He attempts to flick the lights on before I flick them down a second after. I stand up to his level with my shirt hung only to my neck, our pants loosely done. Behind my father is a blond figure hiding behind the next rooms corridor. You could feel his eyes and skin burst bright red as he holds his bottle of old whiskey in his opposite hand.

He launched his alcohol down Sanchez legs slicing his feet. I shift the door slam shut with my whole body, knocking his skull on wood. His body and I collapse smack on the tile.

THE END