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I remember sitting with my dad on the couch a few years back. I remember cuddling up to his side in my blankets, my stuffed Minnie I named Rose held tightly against my chest. My father's scent was always a combination of cinnamon and aftershave. I would cuddle up with him when sleep was the only battle I couldn't defeat. I refused to close my eyes that night, wanting nothing more than comfort and warmth from my dad.
He would wiggle my toes as they poked out from underneath the blankets, making me giggle. He would lean in and kiss me on the forehead.
One night, we were watching the film "It's a Wonderful Life" airing on T.V that day. It was an old film, the black and white type of movie. I remember telling him how much I hated black and white films, telling him color movies are the best because color was bright and vivid.
Only this movie was the only exception.
I always loved this movie only because my dad would always explain why the mean man hated the younger man for doing so well. He would tell me the man was incredibly jealous of the one doing so well; would only wish the worse for poor old George Bailey. I didn't understand how someone could so effortlessly hate on another person for being the best they could. My dad would always chuckle the thought away, always calling me sweet and one naieve little girl. I didn't get how someone could be so brutal to another person's happiness.
It didn't make any sense.
During the movie, George Bailey got into a fight with one of the customers at a special little bar, which my daddy told me to stay as far away from as possible. He would always frown, the creases on his forehead growing more evident.
"Stay away from places like those, Luna. Alright? It's only trouble for a special girl like you. It's best to keep away and do what's right in that beautiful heart of yours." He had said, poking at my ribs, making me squeal. I never pushed at what he meant, it was all stories and lessons with my father. Violence wasn't my favorite thing in the world, so it was impossible to picture myself inside one of those's places with so much vicious people.
Yet, here I am, in a scary looking room with millions and millions of people.
Shut up, it's at least a dozen people. Not many people can fit in this room. I thought.
Alright- maybe I lied. But it was a lot of people.
I don't remember exactly how I got into this situation. How I ended up in a room that smelled of nicotine, liquor, and sweat. Nothing like the sweet cinnamon apple candle I have stored at home. The grip on my wrist got tighter and tighter, the yelling and chatter sending my heart flying out of my chest repeatedly. Bodies maunvered and pressed against each other to try and make their way towards the front, almost knocking me over. I felt my chest getting tighter and tighter and I felt nothing from the space between my wrist and forearm. The hot tears streamed down the side of my face, the air intoxicating.
