By Itai Rosenbaum

Tuesday night and Daddy was drunk again. Passed out on the couch.

The night’s entertainment was on the floor beside him, still clutching the bottle of five pound whiskey like it was the last on Earth. The used condom lay on the floor, dripping onto the carpet, adding one more stain that won’t come out. I think I know the girl, she may be a senior in my school. Yet another face I can no longer look at without disgust.

I scanned the room. Amidst the empty beer cans, boxes of pizza and at least 3 different pairs of underwear, I spotted Daddy’s wallet. I took the cash, what little there was left after the booze and possibly the girl too, and threw it back into the piles of trash on the floor. Stepping over the thong-clad body I went towards the kitchen. My foot slipped and I may have planted my boot straight in her face, accidentally, I’m not really sure. She didn’t wake, either way.

In the kitchen I reached for the jar marked “Tea”. It was the one thing that was still left of mom, and he wouldn’t dare touch it. It was the only thing left  to remind him that things weren’t always like this. Mom left several years ago. One night, without a word, with no  goodbyes, she just took the baby and left.Got on a plane and flew, flew away. I reached in the jar and pulled out the back door key. He didn’t know I had one.

Peter was waiting in the car, two houses down.

“Got the cash?” he asked.

“A fifty note, how much will that get us?”

“Enough,” he said and pulled out of his parking space. We drove in silence, running two red lights, one after the other. Making a right, he headed into the industrial zone. I had been in the area before, Peter’s dealer lives somewhere nearby. When we go and get the stuff, fairy dust we call it, I wait in the car.

“Tink don’t like no surprises,” Peter says. I met Tink once, at a party. He’s a beautiful man. Truly beautiful. He has this elegant air about him, like he’s descendant from royalty. His hair perfectly frames his face, in a way you only thought existed in paintings, and his slender build gives him a fragile look. You can tell he’s anything but fragile, though. It seemed like the party circled Tink, even if he wasn’t the center of attention. People just hovered around him, in awe and reverence. It was not that I was attracted to him as much as I was fascinated by him. Being with him seemed an enigma, something I had to experience before I died. It came as quite a shock then, when I learned he was a fairy.

“Yeah yeah, queer as folk that one,” Peter told me, “heard he has an arrangement with some of his clientele.”

I wondered if Peter was one of these guys, if he had an arrangement with Tink. From what I understood, they went way back. Peter didn’t like talking about it though, said Tink prefers the privacy. I’d think about the two of them together. It would keep me up at nights.

Peter stepped into the car, he had that smile on his face, the one he always had when he came back from Tink’s place. “Got it,” he said, and started the car.
Peter’s house was big. It stood on an old, family-owned plot of land, like an island, in the center of a large lawn. I never did quite understand what it was that Peter’s parents did, but they traveled a lot. Peter pretty much raised himself, just him and his ‘boys’. There’d always be at least a couple of them hanging around the house. Peter kept an open house, so anyone could come and go as they please, he didn’t care.

We walked into the living room, and sat on the couch. Peter took the small plastic bag, filled with the white powder, and threw it on the table. He reached under my dress.

“No,” I said, pushing his hand back. It was a ritual we did, each knowing how it would end. He always tried, I always turned him down. Not before we do the stuff, I can only let him take me if I fly. “Let’s do some first.”

“Fine,” he grunted, and pinched some dust onto the table. As it began to course through my veins, I began feeling that familiar sensation. A tingling across my arms and legs, and I became light. So light. I could almost feel myself floating off, floating away.

When I woke up, we were both naked. He turned and I fell off the couch, causing me to wake abruptly. I vaguely remembered what happened, but it didn’t matter. I saw the bag on the table, there was still dust left in it. A lot of it. I moved closer to Peter, but he was asleep.

He would always set it up for us, but I’ve seen him do it a thousand times, so I knew the process. I pinched some onto the table. The pile seemed smaller than usual, so I pinched a little more, my hands were smaller than his, so it made sense. Three pinches seemed about right. The tingling came faster this time, and a shiver went down my back. I saw my dress on the floor across the room, and went over to get it.

There’s a loud crash, and suddenly, I’m on the floor. Peter jerks up and looks at me; at the residue on the table. He picks up the empty plastic bag and his eyes open wide. He’s screaming, but I can’t hear him. He rushes over to me, and picks me up, his hands are red, I’m not sure why. My nose and lips are warm but everything else is cold. I don’t care anymore. I’m flying. Flying higher then I ever have. I’m flying. And I will never, never land.

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Filed under Issue 1, Short Story

2 responses to “Wendy

  1. Daniel

    Wow! Nice one.

  2. Trey


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