Neon Afterlife

1

Alex snatched a pair of ballet slippers from a hook next to her mirror and shoved them into an overflowing backpack. Beneath these, on a gently worn dresser, rested a framed picture of a woman in a tutu with the words, Miami City Ballet Company scrawled across the bottom of the image. Alex paused in her rapid, angry packing when she caught a glimpse of the photo... her mother.

She looked at herself in the mirror. Her hair hung loose around her face, framing sad eyes. She resembled the woman in the photo, but her hair color was different; a dark brown like her father, instead of her mother's sandy blond. She stared hard at herself for a moment and sighed, "Happy birthday, baby."

Another small photograph caught her attention. In it, three people posed on stage, smiling together with arms holding one another as family should. Her father, with gentle brown eyes and a soft handsomeness, her mother with a dancer's physique and a proud smile, and Alex, 12 years old, wearing a leotard and holding a bouquet of roses. She took the photo and traced the image of her mother's face gently with her finger before shoving the picture into her backpack too.

Dozens of trophies rested on a shelf, not a speck of dust on them. Framed photographs of Alex in various dance costumes at ages ranging from six to sixteen occupied every open space on the wall surrounding the golden statues. Amongst the trophies sat a small jewelry box which she roughly opened to grab the wad of money inside, shoving it into her pocket. She flung the backpack over her shoulder and looked back at the room with a mix of longing and resentment, she flicked the light switch off and went out.

Alex slowed down as she approached the couch in the living room. The smell of booze and moldy food caused her to wrinkle her nose. She dropped her backpack to the floor, plopped down on the threadbare cushions and stared intently across the room. Empty beer bottles, syringes, a bent spoon, and greasy pizza boxes littered the place. Her father laid slouched in a recliner, unconscious. She looked at him with disgust, "I hate you."

She got up and grabbed his cell off of the table next to his chair, opened the video app and hit record. Her voice shook, raw, "I really hate you and I'm leaving. Don't look for me because I'm not coming back." She swallowed, trying to maintain her poise. "We had it all. We were special. I was special."

Contempt edged into her voice, "I hate what you've become. What you did to me... to us." She turned her gaze to a window, seeking mental escape, "I miss her too, you know. She left me too. But I didn't fall apart. Life goes on, but you forgot about life. About me."

She looked back across the room, anger her steadying force, "Well, you won't have to worry about me anymore. Good bye, Dad." She stopped the recording and tossed the phone onto his lap.

No response.

She stared at him for a long moment. She remembered family picnics and laughing together at corny jokes - when he was healthy. When they were all together. She leaned over and kissed him on top of the head as she fought back her tears and whispered, "I hate you." She picked up her backpack and, as she opened the front door of the house to leave, she stole a last glance at her father, unmoving except for the soft rise and fall of his chest as he breathed. She slipped through the door, latching it gently behind her.

***