A Cherry Portrait

I, as usual, and as I wished, was the designated driver.

So I pulled up in my Saturn Red Sky — yeah, they retired that line, but I got one because my father was kind enough to take it off the hands of his handicapped friend, and by handicapped I mean lacking legs, so really leg-di-capped, but that’s insensitive — and parked beside Andrew’s house (Andrew, Taylor, May and Autumn, and Charlotte, right? That’s all of them, I’m sure…), honked my horn, and smirked as he tripped, running out of his front door with half a box of liquorice — it was always half; he ate one before a party and the rest afterwards, his odd good luck charm or something — and landing straight on his face. Autumn, a grand girlfriend to dear Andrew, filled with fire and ice, an interesting blend for an interesting girl, vegan, light brown hair the precise shade of cinnamon, a heart some hue of red — just like the lipstick that May used to scribble on Taylor’s chin, the plucky couple already flirting this evening. And there was me, the free-spirited freak who preferred observing the madness of a party to participating. I hated alcohol; too much power lost to such an insignificant creature. Besides, I’d seen too many people pass because of it, and the sorrow associated. I was good at helping people from their sadnesses, not handling my own. And driving. Always driving.

I don’t really know how we became friends, May and Taylor and Autumn and myself. Andrew I was certain of; we’d met in a stall, him puking up the contents of his lunch because fifth graders could be cruel and some had told the lad that he was “so pudgy Porky the Pig could use him as a bed” or something ridiculous — you know how young ones are, reflections of their parents and whatnot — start the car, listen to the lovely electrical engine’s silent purr, pull out of driveway, wave at Ms. Tillan, for she was divorced now, and happy— and I pat his back and told him that he was beautiful, something not many lads hear from another, especially not in fifth grade, but I was in fourth and reading at twelfth, so it wasn’t a big deal, and in that moment Andrew Tillan — he kept his mother’s name; how wonderfully sentimental he wasn’t towards the former father of his, Jacob Slyne, a jerk if the tales were true, which Ms. Tillan’s broken nose confirmed — and I became friends.

Turn left, take a right — shut up, Taylor; can’t handle your shit and drive; fuck, I’m sorry; fine, I’ll stop here — and find oneself at the house of memories, where — if you ignore the peeling walls and crying ceiling — you’ll surely spot me and Autumn, playing tag at age fifteen, in the lunchroom. Yes, two sophomores in high school — well, I was technically a junior, credit-wise, but I remained in tenth grade because I wanted to maintain my experiments with society, unlike Cole Sprouse who that year decided it was a great social experiment to have a Tumblr account and then vanish, but no bitterness towards the young actor, unlike the principal’s disdain towards Autumn and me, though we were let off for proving Newtonian laws.

May and Taylor I seriously have no concept of our meeting, for we were not friends as much acquaintances whose meetings were numbered between one and three. But that’s irrelevant because Taylor was back in the car and I pulled off towards Ivan’s house — the lad from, quote, “Turkey, not Russia, so shut the fuck up and drink something” — where the party was and holy shit it is late, seven thirty give or take five minutes because my car clock is always off since I’ve a high EM field or something like that. It’s a genetic thing, dating back before my great-grandmother, a family trait; we’re a series of ethereal beings, apparently, with witches and mediums and whatnot. I’m not sure if it’s all true or not, but I never negate such a possibility, especially when I seem to know what others think before they utter it and occasionally know the outcome of an event or just have an urge towards something that may or may not happen but then it does or I’ve a memory of an event that hasn’t happened yet — such things as those which make one linger around myths and metaphors more than the material pursuits of May, Andrew, Autumn, and Taylor, as they sat in a row or a circle depending on how high and/or drunk you were, unless you were me because sobriety is my fourth favourite s-word amongst “savour,” “sentiment,” and “sagacious.”

I found myself alone — par for this black, strobe-infected course — and meditating on things. The music reverberated beneath my chest, affecting my heart with the same admiration and appreciation a cancer has on one’s liver — “thanks for the snack and hopefully you’ll see that I’ve brought you to a beautiful world and forgive the year-long struggle I’ve put you through g’bye now.” I was a classical music type, soundtracks and Stravinsky, indie when otherwise, including rock and other types, and the occasional jazz and even hip hop, though the last I prefer before the nineties when music had a major stroke from whence it just hasn’t fully recovered. I get called hipster by none, mostly because I don’t look like one, I suppose. Mayhaps I came overdressed to such a cruddy party, A lass who either had too much to drink or too little sat beside me, on the left, her fingers traipsing around the neck of her love-o’-the-night — they’re much like will-o’-the-wisps, but the adventures they take you upon are more taste changing than life, especially those whose sexualities shift on almost a weekly basis — recreationally, you know? — and much less satisfying later on when your five kids are sitting at the table watching their father or mother or whoever beat their spouse and you’re left wondering, “Where did I screw up?” when the correct and complicated question is “Who?”

They found another place to screw, and I continued my observance of activities. Ivan, the magnificent host, offered drinks and such to those around him, never partaking, nodding towards me in recognition of my presence, possibly demonstrating which way his grades shot after I’d tutored him in French and English and metaphysics. I raised an invisible glass to him, making him smile. Or maybe it was his girlfriend who walked between us at that instant, the rave-haired — yes, rave, not raven, for such dark birds often don’t have every colour of the dubstep rainbow in their feathers, unlike Lilac’s hair. I perceived a greater chance of the latter. Another lass sat aside of me, a general appearance of displeasure upon her face. I saw when the lights went on a second — Ivan the Magnificent Host needed to make an announcement, a sweet declaration of his adoration for “Lilac and her wonderful breasts and toes,” and that “whoever had their Hummer parked illegally on the wrong yard should move it to his parking lot and thank you very much for attending such an epic party back to the music fuckahhs” — and some non-famous semi-jock ran out with a barrel of swears and parked their car in the right location, locked it with a quiet beep, and rejoined the festivities, another song pumping up the crowd that danced and danced the night away, gyration and masturbation occurring without ceasefire.

I adjusted my tie and sighed, revelling in non-revelry. There was only one person like myself throughout the entire party, the lass sitting beside me with such a disappointed look upon her face, whose hair was the loveliest of cherry shades, whose eyes were — wait for it — ah, silverish-blue, and had skin that glowed like moonlight in this dismal location — it was moonlight. She semi-rolled her eyes until they found my appearance utterly sober, and that I didn’t look towards her for sex — platonic or otherwise, though the latter was rare to find here — and my relatively perfectly-tied tie, a sombre azure, matching a shade of my hazel eyes that turned silver one moment and cerulean the next. She scoots closer to me for reasons of the voice, not the attraction that may have started were we outside such a dark-hearted realm.

“Don’t you feel overdressed?” she asked, a question that inspired a grin from me.

I shrugged. “Don’t they feel underdressed? It’s a party; I’m Victorian. Sue me.”

“If you have that much money, I don’t see why not… name’s Violet. Yours?”

“Not Cherry Valance? I’m moderately disappointed…” I gave her my name. She smiled and we shook hands, hers more delicate than mine, used to construction and the like. “What brings you here?”

She shrugged and touched her purse. “Chariot driver. You, Mr Twill?” I chuckled.

“Asphodel is fine, or Ash, or Red, or, if you hate me or otherwise intoxicated, Twill. I’m no mister yet. And same reasons.”

She nodded, seemingly impressed with the title. Or deciding whether or not we could be friends. She bit her lip, thinking deeply, her eyes darkening as she retreated into her mind. Suddenly she remarked, “Asphodel to Ash, I understand, and I’m guessing Pokémon for the second, but Twill? I do not comprehend…”

I laughed aloud a moment before silencing myself. I liked Violet and her wit, and a part of me hoped the feeling was reciprocated. She asked what I pondered about, and listened as I explained my views on life and connotations and “oh shit — sorry for swearing but that was a close one if he’d puked any closer I’d probably have had to burn this suit — oh you’re laughing at me now I’m a bladder-mouth at times and parseltongue at others hopefully you’re forgiving and yes I’m a Ravenclaw what are you oh a Gryffindor no, no I believe you are a closeted Ravenclaw it is okay we’ll bring you out just fine and you can dance with me and all our odd friends and sometimes I do but most of the time I reflect upon what the world would be like if we had better parents not that I’d know for I’m half an orphan and half a changeling but two-fourths free willy and whatnot oh dear be careful if you laugh too hard your laugh-box will shatter and you’ll have to get my obnoxious chortle for the rest of your naturally laughing life.” She listened as equally as I did, mentioning that she was “from Alaska of all places but time-wise from Edwardian sadly she’d missed me by just a few years mayhaps if we were just a bridging of time we’d be alright ah that’s cool with you awesome what’re your opinions on video games yes Nintendo all the way screw those first person shoot-em-ups because they suck worse than black wormholes oh that probably sounded racist I’ll have to retract my statements but hey Mississippi just renounced slavery or something of the sort so at least I can do it sooner eh oh dear I’m even worse you’re laughing and you know I’m wrong you’re older Mr. Victorian Twill the Red or whatever I like that title Twill the Red I’ll have to put you in my electronic crow as that what’s your number again that’s not mathematically appropriate but I’ll accept it here’s mine via caw.”

She grinned easily, this Violet, and so the party wasn’t a total loss. I would have loved to abandon our friends with this new one — ‘good bye, Taylor and May, sorry, Autumn and Andrew’ — but we couldn’t because we were designated charioteers and our chariots were just that — ours. The party was almost over at eleven-twelve — I was angst-ridden because there were laws preventing me from being out this late but fuck the police when you’re a senior and have a dependency on drugs and sophomores to drive you from place to place when you’re high as Lucy in the sky with her diamonds and ice and whatever else they throw around at these parties oh god look out people falling off the stairs go Ivan go; Violet’s laugh is a bell in the madness, a call to mass in such a godless place. We held a meaningful gaze that only true friends can hold, one filled with love and respect and admiration and adoration. It is with this face I remember her. Not that dead one in the hospital a few months later, the victim of an alcoholic father’s frenzied gambit to smash her face in, not the peaceful and reconstructed one that slept amongst a series of leaping and lapping flames whose desire to mourn in such a dramatic fashion was fulfilled when they burned through her heart, and not as that photo placed in memoriam amongst the mural at our school. This portrait, this cherry portrait, is what sticks most in my mind, and the matching flavour of her lips, such a befitting memory to become my last.