Hothouse Flower

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DAISY CALLOWAY

I need air. The kind that bursts your lungs. The kind of jolt that sends your entire body reverberating with energy and electricity.

I want to wake up.

I’m tired of being in a half-sleep. Of seeing the world through a foggy lens.

I park my Ducati on a bridge that overlooks a murky lake. The night air whips around me, reminding me that it’s almost December. The chill awakens my bones, and I peel off my green cargo jacket. Just a thin tank top and jeans left. I easily hoist my body on the old brick ledge, welcoming the cold from up high.

I had to leave the house. When Lily relapses or has some sort of emotional event, I feel in the way. Like a piece of furniture blocking everyone’s path. It’s best just to be gone. And there’s nowhere I’d rather be than here.

On a bridge.

Outstretching my arms, the air seems to pinch me, wake me up, fill me with something more.

I love escaping to the roofs of buildings and shouting at the top of my lungs, but my voice dries in my throat tonight, pushed too deeply to retrieve. I just want to fly through the air. I just want to soar.

I peer down at the waters, nearly black in the darkness, the crescent moon casting an eerie glow over the rippling surface. I’ve jumped off this bridge before. It’s not too high, but the tree banks are shallow and muddy tonight, and the water line looks low. Too low? I don’t know.

I can’t explain these feelings.

A pressure on my chest threatens to combust.

Just wake up, Daisy.

Jump.

I look around to make sure I’m alone. No lurking cameramen who followed me here. But headlights beam from the left.

I focus back on the water, bumps dotting my arms as the cold sweeps me in a sharp embrace. Half of my feet stick off the ledge. I brace myself.

“CALLOWAY!”