I used to be one of those people who just went through their lives in the same routine everyday.  I went to work, came home, fed my cat, listened to my sister bitch for hours, then go to sleep to start the whole cycle over again.  Miracles were not a part of my everyday life, and magic hadn’t existed since I was seven years old and would dress up as a princess for Halloween.  Then I met him.

He opened my eyes to the world that no one ever gets to see.  He tried to get rid of me, but I hung on like a rabid dog.  I got to see the war through his eyes, and I have touched heaven and hell through his fingers.  As he tore the world in two, I was there.

This is his story.


I first saw him through the cigarette smoke down in the little bar on 3rd Street.  He was dressed in ripped blue jeans and a black leather jacket that was worn in patches on the elbows.  He cradled his guitar in his lap and strummed it gently, the sound all but lost in the myriad of conversations going on around the bar.  He seemed not to even notice anyone around him, lost in his own little world, and I wished that I could be part of his private ritual.

My sister poked me with the butt of her pool stick and grinned, her bleached teeth shining under the halogen bulb that hung low above our heads.  I blew my bangs out of my eyes and lined up a shot that was sure to get the 11 ball into the side pocket.  It missed and I took another drink of my Corona.

I glanced over at the guitarist and my heart stopped as he glanced my way.  His instrument rested against his thigh and he took a long drag from his cigarette, one arm draped over the edge of the bar.  His eyes glowed through the pale smoke.  I hazarded a smile and turned away quickly, my face hot.

I sunk the 9 ball and moved around the table to line up my next shot.  A hand with a silver ring came to rest on the edge of the pool table next to mine.  I glanced up slowly, feeling pinned by the icy blue gaze.

“Can you spare a couple bucks?” he asked with an unidentifiable accent, the cigarette hanging from his lips.  His long brown hair hung down into his eyes and feathered on his neck.  I realized with a small bit of relief that he was clean shaven; it made him seem a little less menacing.

“Uh, yeah, sure,” I muttered as I fished my wallet out of my back pocket and pulled out a five.  I handed it over to him, folding it in my fingers in an effort to hide Lincoln’s face.

“Grazie,” he said and drifted off back to the bar.

My sister poked at me again, hooking her dyed red hair behind her ear.

“You know him?” she asked, jerking a thumb to him.  I shook my head and she looked at him.  “He’s cute.  Looks like a bum, but he’s cute.  He needs a haircut.”

I shrugged and went after the 8 ball.  My sister managed to sink it before me, and we finished off our beers before grabbing our jackets from the chairs we had thrown them across.  It was nearly 11pm and I had to go into work in the morning, so we called it quits a little early.

We said goodbye at her car and promised to see each other next weekend.  I stood on the corner of the street and waved her off before I headed toward my little Honda Shadow.  Few cars drove by as I walked from streetlight to streetlight, fingering my keys and trying to look aware in case anyone tried to mug me.  I often made up scenarios in my head as to what I would do if I was attacked, and I was playing one of these as I walked a bit, glad I parked a little further away to let the alcohol buzz wear off somewhat.  I purposely walked along one of the cracks in the sidewalk, happy that I could keep a straight line.  I avoided the flyer for some local band, the neon paper a stark contrast against the gray cement.

The smell of burning roses tickled my nose as I reached my bike, and I spun around in an abrupt circle, holding my keys like a mini knife.  He chuckled lowly, and I could see his face when he lit his cigarette, the orange light making the shadows he stood in grow deeper.  His guitar rested in an old beat up case at his side, bits of trash and newspapers at his black booted feet.  He glanced up at me.

“I owe you,” he said, and it took my brain a moment to comprehend what he was talking about.

“Don’t mention it,” I shrugged, pulling my helmet out of the back compartment and straddling my bike.  The tip of the cigarette flared for a moment as he took a deep drag and moved closer to me.  I flinched back and my hands shook as I hurriedly placed the key into the lock.

He held up his hands and stopped, trying to look innocent.  “Sono spiacente, I won’t hurt you.”

I snorted and started the engine, fastening my chinstrap with my freehand.

“What is you name?” he asked, and I rolled the bike backward with my heels, never taking my eyes off of him.

“I owe you, butterfly,” he called out as I sped off, my hands shaking and my adrenaline dissipating the last of my alcoholic buzz.

When I reached my little apartment I locked the three locks I had installed on my door and threw my helmet onto the blue plaid couch that my mom had bought me but I always hated.  I glanced out the peephole and closed the curtains quickly before I curled up on the couch with a yellow throw pillow between my knees.

Spats came up to me, her little collar jingling as she jumped onto the couch beside me and rubbed her tiny black head on my shin.  She purred loudly and I could feel her through my jeans as I absently scratched one of her ears.  She then licked and bit me, telling me that I had forgotten to feed her this afternoon.

I stiffly walked into my kitchen and poured a cupful of her dry food into her dish, my adrenaline rush beginning to wear off and exhaustion setting in.  I made my way to my bed and pulled off my sneakers, glancing to make sure the alarm was set before falling back on the pillows.  The last thought I had before I drifted off to sleep was Spats jingling near my ear.