Pass-out, Perchance to Dream

The dream began as usual: the iridescent eyes tearing up, creating a myriad of color in the iris.  Pull away, and her face is tormented, the face that didn't belong to Stasia but looked as though it should; the differences lying in the clenched jaw and ever-present grimace.  Why did her subconscious create this sad creature?

        Her body was covered in cuts.  Small incisions marked her otherwise smooth skin, and in her hand was a bloody razor.  She was alone in a dark room, the sparse light from the window casting the dust particles aglow.  A repressed sob escaped her blanched lips, cracking her voice.  Her body began shaking as though she could barely contain her emotions.  The rectangular razor jutted into her fist as she tightened her hold in anger.  Blood gushed from her palm... and the cuts on her body slowly refined, became smaller, and eventually healed.  A wail of mourning turned into a shriek of fury.  She tossed the weapon away and clamored up from the floor.  She was hyperventilating, crying, verging on hysteria.  Watching the gash in her palm seal itself pushed her over the edge.  A chair smashed through the window, bringing in the wind which whipped itself about her, pushing her back with an unseen force.  Stasia's dream self steadied and whispered an inaudible command.  The wind ceased blowing.  The tears stopped flowing.  Weeping became laughter, corrupt and harsh.  It could be heard after her graceful leap passed the window's edge.  It faded away as she fell further down.

        Stasia woke abruptly, yet unruffled.  She was used to these night terrors.  They were so real in their vividness, lucidity... pain always lingered.  Stasia flexed her right hand a few times, inspected it and found nothing wrong.  She chewed on her lower lip.  The effects of the dream faded away as she sat up on the soft grass.  It seemed she once again found herself in Chad's backyard, a mess of bodies and bottles littering the scene.

        Inhale.  Fill your lungs up.  Hold it...  Where the f**k is my camera?  Stasia exhaled, making a  'gaaaah' noise which brought Dawn, by her side, out of oblivion.

"Some party, eh?" Dawn's groggy voice cooed.

Stasia chuckled, "I don't remember."

"Ooof," she dragged herself into a sitting position.  "Oh, snap, look what we did."

        It was truly a mess.  The early morning light completed the after-party milieu.  The pair made their way through the debauched clutter of half nude wasted hipsters and had almost departed when Stasia tripped over the object of her almost-affection.

"Ah, f**k!  Your camera, girl.  What happened to it?"  Dawn recognized the huge-a*s lens Stasia favored.  It didn't look too good.

        Whereas any other photographer would have dropped to their knees in despair or gingerly picked up the broken pieces, Stasia scooped it up and tossed it in the air, caught it, tossed it again.

"Idunno.  Looks like someone had some fun."  I wonder if it still functions correctly.  Maybe the damage is superficial.  Calm thoughts, always.  Rational.  Unemotional.

"I'm so sorry, Stasia!  That's awful," Dawn pouted to convey her sympathy.

"The lens is beyond repair," Stasia noted.

"Awe, that makes me sad."  Dawn caught her friend's tiny smirk and irreverent glance.

"It is just a thing." 

        In the pregnant silence, Dawn kept her strong emotions in check, for profound wisdom escaped Stasia's lips quite often, but always without passion.  Moments like this left Dawn feeling a strange sense of urgency, a need to tell her best friend how amazing she was.  But, alas, she could not say such things, as it usually led to some sort of fucked-up self-effacing monologue followed by a prolonged period of self-imposed isolation on Stay's part.

        From the corner of her eye, The Girl Who Didn't Care noticed Dawn's uneasiness and felt, like a transcendental ripple, Dawn's need to bear-hug her friend and roommate.  She laughed through her nose, seeing the humor of everything.  She pretended to examine the camera a bit more, tsk-tsking to see how Dawn would react.  With a glance she caught her friend's worried frown, so she turned to her and smiled radiantly.

"Let's smash it!"  With a whooping holler Stasia Benedict, The Girl Who Gives Not-A-F**k, ran to the street and threw her detached lens as hard as she could onto the pavement, shattering glass, splitting plastic, leaving bits of expensiveness strewn across the road.  She smiled emptily, then she and her friend strolled into the sunrise, looking through the pictures of the shindig on a hairline fractured lsd screen.

        People flipping deuces, birds, and thumbs up.  Strangers kissing and newbies barfing.  The insides of glowsticks splattering faces on a blacklit dancefloor.  Boobies, butts, and accidental shots of the trash-strewn carpet.  A still of a petite girl with a few head accessories, the play symbol in the corner of the screen.  Pretty ladies pursing their mouths into duck lips.

"Hold it.  Go back."

"Wha-for?"

"That was Fay, she left a video," Dawn noticed.

        Blowing air through her lips created a burbling noise which relented an 'okay', so Stay switched back to the still and pressed the magic button.  What ensued was an uninteresting display of a stoned girl talking to a camera on the floor of a white tiled bathroom.  Needless to say, Miss Who-Gives-A-S**t was immediately bored and didn't hear a word that was said.  She was patient with not a complaint, head tilted to check out the sky which looked to be gray; her favorite type of day was overcast.  The blanket of cloud was mirrored in her colorless irises.  Almost silver in that light.

"Stasia..." quieter than usual.

"Hmm?"

Dawn conveyed confusion and bewilderment, "Maybe you should give that girl a call."

"Uh, okay."  She didn't really intend to do anything.  It's whatever.  The night was a black-out.