jagged seashells, shooting stars [Cait]

My mother always said that the stars were angels waiting to fall. To me they were nothing more than sparkling orbs in the sky, nothing compared to the moon, but my mother was always telling me some new story about the stars. Sure she was higher than a kite, but that didn't matter much to an eight year old. Especially an eight year old so in love with her parents. I probably regret such an investment in them; they were horrible parents, horrible caregivers, and left me here to take care of a bunch of children. I want to hate them. But then I go out at night and glance up at the stars and hear all those stories I heard as a child over and over in my head, my mother's voice, husky and warm, telling me some ridiculous story about those stupid balls of gas out in space.

But still, those stories make it impossible for me to hate them. I pretend I can't stand them, that they mean as much to me as a single grain of sand on this damned beach, but it's all a lie. A lie to myself, a lie to everyone else. Their deaths broke me; I will never tell anyone else that. But when I am alone, walking along the beach, letting the waves roll over my feet and looking up at the constellations sparkling in the night sky, I let a few tears fall. I draw pictures in the sand, collect jagged shells and bottle caps that wash onto shore. At night, when no one is looking - that's when I turn into the bright-eyed, little girl I was 10 years ago. That's when I make wishes on stars and hold conch shells to my ear. When I build a sand castle or trace my name in the sand. When the world just quits pestering me for a moment and leaves me be.

But the sun always rises and the stars always disappear as the sky grows blue and I am forced back into my adult habits. Too many joints, too many parties, too many drinks, too many illegal activities. I'm a wreck without the stars watching over me. Without Mom and Dad. I hate them for that. Leaving me so early, leaving me to fend for myself and the rest of the family. So many different drugs, so many different highs I use to dull the pain.

I taste the tang of alcohol on my breath as the ocean breeze fills my lungs and makes my hair dance around my shoulders. I want a joint. I want the familiar, the rolling of the paper and the smoke filling my lungs. But I sold my last bit over an hour ago. I'm stuck with only a six-pack of cheap beer, the ocean breeze, and the sound of a nearby party. I run my fingers through my hair, press the bottle to my lips, gulp, gulp, gulp, until I've drained the brown glass. One down, five to go. Five more and maybe I'll pass out. Five more and maybe I won't cry tonight.

Further up the beach I hear a catcall - I ignore it. I hear my name - "Cat!" - I ignore it. They'll walk away if I don't respond, walk away if I pretend that they got the wrong person. All they want are drugs that I don't have, a beer I am not willing to share, or a chance to feel me up on the dance floor. That's all anyone ever wants from me. Normally I would oblige, but tonight it seems wrong.

It's the anniversary of their death after all.

The memory of them hangs over me, haunting me, wanting me to break again and again and again until I have shattered into thousands of tiny pieces, a thousand grains of sand. The alcohol warms me in the cool night and I draw my knees to my chest and lean my head, heavy with sleepiness, atop my knees. I wiggle my toes in the sand, crack open another beer, and down the bottle as quickly as I can before opening another bottle. I can't help the lullaby from spilling off my lips, so familiar to me, as if Mom and Dad had been here just the other day to sing it to me as I drifted off to sleep in our shipwrecked boat house.

"Baby's boat's a silver moon, sailing in the sky," I sing, perhaps too loudly, out over the dark swirling depths. I want to sing more, but suddenly the words are gone and my mind goes blank. My drunk mind blames them for that. They should've been around to teach me the rest of the song.

I look up at the stars.

"Screw you guys," I mumble, raising the bottle to the sky before bringing it back to my lips.