I don’t know a lot of things. I don’t know what Mitch did to her other than give her drugs; I don’t know who the “he” is that she referred to—I needed him, too, but that didn’t stop me; I don’t know who Dom is—the name she shouted through the window at me, telling me to leave—the same man Mitch said he convinced to go to Orlando…
But all I can see as I sit there, drinking something way too strong, is her face in my mind—her sad, broken face and her warm, chocolate eyes that have lost so much of their fire. I find myself thinking about Heartbreak and how much fire is in his eyes, and I know that’s how she used to be—how she wants to be—how I remember her to be.
I find myself thinking that someone has to pay for what they did to her—all these horrible people at this horrible party, really
