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July 1, 2007 Brooklyn, New York, 1989: I stood outside Cyn’s apartment for over twenty minutes, holding her bridesmaid gown in my left hand, and a handled shopping bag around my left arm, filled with record albums from my earlier excursion to the Village’s Bleecker Bob’s on West 3rd Street. After a few more minutes without a response, I grew impatient and turned the doorknob, realizing that her apartment had been unlocked. Noticing a glow of light radiating from the crack beneath the bathroom door in her small apartment space, I called out into the blackness. “Cyn? Are you in there?” While I waited for a response and fumbled in the darkness for a light switch, I could not believe the unbearable scent that dominated the room. It was worse than a fast food dumpster I once smelled, filled to capacity with rotting perishables. “Finally.” I was relieved when my hand made contact with a light switch on the wall. “Holy @*#*!” I took in the condition of the room. Cyn’s once neat, art-filled Brooklyn apartment was now in complete devastation. I froze, still holding her gown and my shopping bag. The white walls that I helped her paint a year ago were now covered with curse words written sloppily in black spray paint. Empty imported beer, vodka, and whiskey bottles, mounds of soiled clothing, crumpled cigarette cartons, and half empty cardboard food containers were piled everywhere I looked. The two new oversized pink and black velvet covered chairs that her sister gave her, now had stained, ripped, seat cushions. As I looked around, I became frightened. I wanted to call the police, but I had to know what the hell was going on. I lifted an empty pizza box off of one of the soiled chairs and laid her bridesmaid gown carefully on it. I placed the bag of records on a stained coffee table and walked towards the bathroom. I heard something scatter on the hardwood floor. “Roaches! How the hell can she live like this?!” I pushed the bathroom door open and found Cyn in a long black nightshirt, kneeling over the toilet. “Cyn! Oh my God! I’ll call an ambulance!” “No! No doctors!” I could not believe the sight of her. Her medium length dyed blonde hair was filthy and speckled with vomit. Black mascara and eyeliner had smeared into caked droplets onto her pale blemished cheeks. “Tell me what’s wrong?! Are you drunk?!” “Look, Casey, there’s no way I can be in Carol’s wedding tomorrow.” “Cyn, I have to get you to a doctor.” “No! Just go home!” “There’s no way I’m leaving you! I want to know what the hell your problem is! Why didn’t you show up for the wedding rehearsal Thursday? We tried to call you but the operator said that your number was ‘out of order’. We didn’t know what to think.” “I forgot to pay the phone bill.” She moved away from the toilet and planted herself on the dirty black and white tiled floor, leaning her head against her hands. “Cyn, come on! You could have called Carol from a payphone to let her know. Which reminds me, I picked up your gown. God knows if it’s gonna’ fit. The saleswoman said that you never showed up for the final fitting.” “I’m sorry,” she started to cry. “Please, tell me what’s wrong?” I wet a washcloth that I found on the floor, and sat next to her, wiping the vomit and makeup off of her face. “Cyn, we’ve got to get you cleaned up. You’re covered in puke.” “I want to take a shower but I can’t stand up.” “I’ll turn the water on, and you could at least sit in the tub, alright?” “Yea. Maybe it will make me feel better.” While I was adjusting the water temperature, I silently debated whether or not I should run to a payphone and call an ambulance, or make an emergency appointment with a doctor, or…respect her wishes. “You’ve got to call Carol and get me out of this,” Cyn sobbed, breaking the silence. “There’s no way I can wear that dress!” “The dress? I know it’s ugly, but I have to wear it, too. So do the other girls. What’s the big deal?” “It’s got short sleeves!” She hysterically cried. I looked at her in confusion. “I don’t understand. Why would you worry about something like that?” Cyn glared at me with her swollen, tearing eyes. She unbuttoned her nightshirt and threw it on the filthy tiled floor. Infected black and blue track marks, bubbling with puss, covered her thin pale arms, like raw themeless tattoos. The story above was written in 1990. It had never been previously submitted anywhere, nor published, until today. ------------ About the author: Christine Bruness is U-K's reigning Essay Contest Champion! Email: chatnoir@comcast.net Comment on this article here! ------------ All articles are EXCLUSIVE to Useless-Knowledge.com. Please link to this article rather than copying and pasting it onto your site (which would be unauthorized and illegal). |
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