By Lily Carmichael

And for eighteen years she prayed and begged for this one freedom, this one release into deep clouds of possibility. She knelt every Sunday on these worn grimy pews to never kneel again, to never see the faces surrounding her ever again, to so beautifully grow wings and fly to skies uncharted. Each day in this yellowed town grew more and more disgusting to her, so sick of its monotony, looking out the window and hating the expected rain, expected wet fields. Her plain wall, her warm mattress, her bench waiting for the near empty school bus all drew bile in the back of her throat. She hated how the days blurred into each other, fading as quickly as the one before, as the week before. She could count the memories of her childhood on two hands. The months congeal and drip together, creating a small puddle of apathy in her gut. She laid miserable, letting this build up until her prayers were finally answered, as she knew they always would be. 

An acceptance letter to the cheapest college a thousand miles away, fresh on the counter, smelling of hope and relief. Here, she promised herself, she would be born again. To some bright pulsing city, just begging her to get sucked into its bleeding bass lines and strobing lights, for her to lose herself in its ecstasy and submit to the rolling tide. And she did. The first months were a complete blur, finally in all the right ways, the kind of motion blur she dreamed of, of strangers’ skin and blaring siren song. When she woke in the morning, her cheeks were the sorest muscle, and she knew all her prayer had paid off, dancing in a fiery bacchanal every night. 

The happiness came at a price, though. One that followed her into the covers, warm and lingering at her door. Her guilt was a loyal dog, yowling at her feet, stomach up in submission. Its whining ate up her dreams, tossing and turning, slowly losing her admiration for the bright city. She felt the excitement slip through her fingers, the sands of her youth failing to fill the porous flask that was her heart. Heaving handful after handful in vain, she became exhausted. Yet when she stopped, the emptying gravity did not wait for her, and soon her heart was a bruised cavity, hitting her thigh with a hollow groan. 

In April, she looks out the window and breathes in the fresh, sweet air. Tucked under her arm is an apology to the sky: 

He comes to me on some quiet mornings, the same we would share in utah. Sometimes, in the summer, when it’s about to rain and it hasn’t in a while, I get this smell in my hair that brings that place back. Specifically that time he brought me apples to eat. They were from his grandmother’s farm, I think it was a couple weeks before she passed. I’ve always felt bad for leaving him so soon, but all my guilt couldn’t put a hand to his head, not anymore.

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Lily Carmichael is a high schooler in Brooklyn. A true jack of all trades, she spends her time either creating visual art and film, writing, sewing, engineering, and tutoring. Some of her favorite things include: screamo, her self-made wooden spoon, and her friend’s smiles.