GEORGES PERSPECTIVE:
Dream should be back anytime now. I'm waiting with Nick at the house, because Dream's gone to pick up his 14 year old daughter, Willow.
From where? Prison.
She was arrested last year, or, last year and seven months to be exact. Two nights before her birthday. She had her 14th in prison. You could look at her, her chunky white shoes and her long blonde hair and never guess she'd go to prison. Talking to Willow is like a breath of fresh air, she's so similar to Tina. Primarily soft spoken, that kind of soft aesthetic about her, and she has a signature scent. One way to describe it. Daisies.
You're probably wondering why she was in prison in the first place. Turns out, Willow wasn't at the library when she said she was. Or when she said she was at a friends house. She was arrested for larceny, vandalism, robbery, and use of illegal substances. The first three followed after she'd take drugs with her friends, and one night she got caught. Every teenagers nightmare. But she's finally out tonight.
"I'm home!" A familiar voice exclaims as the front door opens.
I turn around and see Willow, in the same clothes she went into the prison in, with a box of her things and papers in Dream's hand, who stands behind her. Nick and I rush up to hug her, and then she puts her things down and scoops up Patches.
"How does it feel?" I ask.
"It feels great," She replies, kissing Patches on the forehead. "I'm so happy to be home."
"And we had a big talk in the car, right?" Dream says.
"Yes, we did," she says, looking up at her dad. "I'll be good."
"We'll see," Nick says.
"I'm gonna go unpack, George, can you help?" She says.
"Sure, c'mon," I say. We make our way upstairs and she immediately jumps onto her bed.
"I missed my room," she says. I close the door behind me as I walk in.
"Careful. Lot of dust around here, you were gone a long time. Say, what did you and your dad talk about in the car?"
"Oh, just things about staying away from drugs and stuff. Keeping good friends, being around good people. He doesn't really care if I'll smoke weed when I'm older, but, it's just the drugs I'd take last year when I went a bit off the rails."
"A bit?" I seathe.
"Okay. I- a lot. I get it. I'm still bummed," she says, starting to put away things like pictures and frames. I help her out.
"About what?" I ask her.
She shrugs, sighs. "I met a lot of cool people over the past 19 months. People who didn't even deserve to be in there. I guess I also miss the people I got caught with. I know they're bad influences, but I have the best memories with them. You get it, right? Like, have you ever had an ex or something where you hate them now but think of all the memories, and how much fun you had." She says.
"I understand. Did you have fun doing what you did, though?" I ask hesitantly.
I think I overcrossed for a second, but then she speaks. "I had never had more adrenaline rushing through me than jumping out of my bedroom window and having my friends giggling catching me. Or jumping into some guys car with my best friends, about to go tear up someone's lawn. Or injecting."
"You injected?" I'm shocked.
"Yeah." She says, she rolls up her sleeve and shows me the bruises on her arms from the needles.
