at four, i drew a line. my foot, dressed amicably in a pair of white-and-black oxford lace-ups, scratched the boundary out, playground wood chips falling in the wake of my toe placement. my safe place. on the other side, a slew of my peers stood, waiting their turn to destroy my line.
"no," i whispered, hands clasped tightly to the linen scrap of my blue-jean pockets, "this is mine. you can't take this."
but take was all they did. my linear paradise, as beautiful as it once was, wouldn't stay that way. death would flutter in and out; failure and poverty surrounded the area. destitution ate the remaining living entities. hope would occasionally peak in through the tree limbs, but the effect was so minute that the only resolution was the deadening, and eventual falling, of crisp red leaves.
i revisited the line again at twenty, only to find my precious boundary unrecognizable due to years of abuse and neglect. for a second, i pondered the possibility of repairing it; years of damage cannot be erased, but at the very least, i could create something better with the knowledge i possessed. after lingering momentarily over the subject, i resolved to leaving it the way it was. my heart, stammering quietly in its chamber, did not even seem to mourn the boundary's passing. why would i? the line was, at best, outdated. i was not the same. at four, i had perfectly manicured shoes and immaculate, overly feminine attire. my hair hung in well-manufactured curls, result of dedicated work by my mother. my white stockings were untouched. the only dirty aspect of my body, in fact, was my fingernails, but even that could easily be ramified. now, however, i am adorned with a pair of haphazardly ripped black jeans, the sides of the thigh hanging on by only a thread in most places. my top half is covered in a low-cut tshirt, a black cropped-and-dirty leather jacket hanging over the majority of it. my feet are placed into a pair of low-cut chucks that have seen their fair share of events. whereas i once might have symbolized innocence, i now have become a poster child for bruised, beaten, and indecisive.
those same chucks reach forward and kick a few wood chips from the center of the line. a clear pastic bottle shimmers from my pocket, the golden liquid sloshing in its container as i move. i turn away from the line, take the bottle from my pocket and release it to my lips.
"i don't need it anymore," i screw the bottle cap half on and place it back into my pocket, "this is all child's play." my movements become more brisk as i make way from the line, as if i am scared of the consequences of my actions. if anyone had asked me outwardly, i probably would have given an emphatic no, insisting on the insanity of the questioner.
again, death visited the area. failure did, too; poverty was no stranger. this time, however, new visitors snuck around in the horizon: blue powders with tingling sensations, promiscuity, self-pain, deceit, irresponsibility. hope's rays had no chance of getting through the muttled cobwebs that keep the surrounding conifers in lightless silence. the only thing that could be felt or heard was the occasional reverberating bass lines that boomed beneath the earth's surface. the wood chips became molded by torrential waterfall. the line, once clear in its intentions, became a hodgepodge of debris, circular and in no way resembling its initial purpose.
the reverberations continued on. morning felt like night and night was quickly forgotten. people came and went, most of them quickly, but a few stayed around for more than just a cup of coffee and a one-night stand. the cigarette burns down to a tiny stub. the quarter is used for a pedastal for ingestion and then as a means to pop a large, brightly colored gumball into the mouth. fall, winter, and spring came in vicious cycles. quiet habituation was seized by constant interruption.
slowly, however, hope made its way through the line of trees on the outskirt of the playground. the small illumination was enough for things to begin to grow, but none would prosper into anything fullgrown. the area was now a sight for sore eyes; the once-polished equipment was rusted and broken, forgotten about after years of misuse. one swing hangs by only one chain; the slide has a collection of leaves filling its insides. the colorful wheel is so rusted that there is no inclination of what colors were originally there.
as i walk through the clearing of trees, the first thing that presents itself is the line. i doubt it could even be called a line; where it once stood is now a deep groove in the ground, a watering hole for insects. tiny pieces of deteriorated candy bar wrappers and miscellaneous bits of trash decorate the interior of the groove. the wood chips are damp from a morning shower, each looking pitiful in its own respect.
"it's not what you remember, is it?" the voice comes from far off, more like a rustling in the wind rather than a voice. the voice was gentle but still loud enough to cause goosebumps to run up the exterior of my arms.
"no, i guess not," i replied, kicking at the woodchips. but then again, i think, i'm not so sure i remember this...
when did this happen? why was i not proactive enough to counter the falling apart i was witnessing? my line had been something i had cherished, even was proud of, about myself. i had gotten so mad at it for letting me fall away, but what did i do to stay close? did i do anything at all?
my wandering mind is caught offguard by the rustling, occuring somewhere off into the distance but not loud enough to hear. i search for the source, but the morning light catches the inner corners of my eye, making my head jerk away.
i ask the voice to repeat itself. my ears perk up, hoping for a reply. the morning wind bellows in around me, causing my hands to return to their spot of warmth in my peacoat. it's strange for there to be no signs of wildlife, but then again not so strange considering the dearth of anything positive for miles. the only proof of life are the particles of wrappers invested in the ground, but those could have been brought in by the wind.
i begin to think the initial voice was my mind's wishful thinking. it is completely plausible, anyway, considering my recent encounters - it definitely wouldn't be surpr...
"you know, you used to love this place," the voice begins again, "it was your safe place. mine, too, so i understand how you feel. it's a lot easier to draw lines when you're younger, right? this is mine, and this too. but when you are older, you realize that they taught sharing for a reason. the more you share, the harder it is to draw one."
"like an illness," i whisper, still watching the line of trees.
"yes, exactly, like an illness. at first, you are wonderful. hope is free within you; you are infallible. slowly, however, you lose the ability to make yourself believe. age gets the best of you. you remember the things that have happened to you before, and, much like an illness, you begin to feel tired. you start to give up. your body deteriorates. you start to fade away."