by Simone Liggins
I stared at the door, willed it to open with her on the other side, but I knew reality too well. I stumbled to the coffee table. I pulled out a baggie and poured, forming two lines. I grabbed a sheet of paper lying next to me and ripped it in half, rolled it and snorted the lines as fast as I could. Life used to be a funhouse, I thought. I curled into a ball on the floor and cried, and as I wondered how I’d missed the fact that the funhouse had shut down long before Meredith’s tires screeched out of the parking lot, I waited for that jolt to kick.
Simone Liggins, in the hopes of becoming a successful novelist, is an English major (Creative Writing) at the University of Memphis.