The Wave
The Sparkle of an Eye
Matthew Saporito
By
About the Writing
In a squalid motel hallway, a young woman struggles with the harsh realities of her drug-addicted life, her bruised and blood-stained eye a stark symbol of her turmoil. When a troubled young boy seeks drugs from her, she sees an opportunity to break the cycle and make a difference. Confronted by the reflection of her own pain and the innocence in the boy's eyes, she is faced with a choice that could alter both of their paths forever.Did you really think that we'd spoil the poem with an introduction?
The Writing
The broken light at the end of the hallway shimmered into her bruised eye. The sound of music from the distant room was loud enough to drown out her thoughts. The overwhelming smell of cigarette smoke and chemicals filled the air. The coppery taste of blood crowded her mouth as the blood from the cut right next to her eye seeped in between her lips. She put her hand to the bloody eye, attempting to stop the flow. The feeling of her shaky hands touching her face reminded her of the man who had caused this. It reminded her of the punch thrown at her by the man to whom she owed money. She decided not to use her hand but a balled-up tissue from her pocket. She placed the tissue on her eye and followed it with a pair of sunglasses to hold it in place. She looked in the cracked mirror at the end of the hallway to see how it looked. The sunglasses perfectly covered the cut, and her sleep-deprived eye bags were also covered. She looked at herself in the mirror a little longer than usual. She stared into the mirror, almost hoping to see her life change before her own eyes. She wanted an escape from this drug-ridden lifestyle, yet she didn't have any hope. She sighed and slid down the wall until she was sitting on the floor below the mirror. A rat scurried across the discolored wood as she pulled out a cigarette.Â
The old hunch-backed motel janitor came around the corner and saw her.
"There's no smokin' in here, young lady,"Â he uttered in an almost lazy voice; he clearly didn't care; it was just his job.
She flipped him off and smothered the rest of the cigarette butt onto the mirror above her. The man rolled his eyes and made his way into the room that needed cleaning. Next came a little boy, probably around 11 or 12. He had short, dirty blonde hair. His clothes had clearly not been washed or even changed for days. His pale face was covered with dirt, and his lifeless eyes had lost the sparkle of childhood.Â
"Where are your parents?"Â she asked with concern.
"You got a fix?"Â said the boy, ignoring her question.
She sighed as she realized what he was here for. She was just like him at a young age.
"No, kid, now are you gonna answer my question?"Â She asked sternly.
"My parents don't matter. They don't care anymore; they're just like me. Now, you got something for me? I got money."
She could tell this wasn't his first time at all by the tone of his voice. He was confident that he was going to get something. Instead of responding, she stared into the poor little boy's eyes like she had been staring at herself in the mirror. She saw herself in those boy's eyes. Their lives were so similar. When she was younger, her parents didn't care either. Her parents jumped from a shitty motel to a crackhouse to a sketchy alleyway just to get their fix. She witnessed all this when she was younger and picked it up. She became just like her parents, and they didn't even care. She knew that the same thing happened to that little boy. She broke out of her little thought bubble and responded to the kid.Â
"How long have you been doing this?"Â she asked worriedly.
"For the past couple of months, I've been coming to this motel pretty often for what I need. I figure someone like you would have that. I mean, look at you."
The girl was silent for some time again. Her heart was shattered knowing a boy this little was going through what she had once experienced. Knowing she needed the money, she considered giving the little boy his stuff, yet something told her not to. The similarities between the two made her want to save this little boy. The thought of keeping the kid gave her a little hope for herself.Â
"You don't want to live this lifestyle, kid, I promise you. You're going to get addicted and end up like me. Don't you get bored bouncing from one motel to the next to get a hit?"Â
"I'm not gonna get addicted or anything. I can quit anytime I want to! It just makes me feel good," the little boy said nervously.
"That's what I said when I was younger, and look what happened to me,"Â she said as she uncovered her bruised and bloody eye. "This is what happens when you get addicted."
The little boy's eyes opened wide when he saw the horrible sight. His posture became stiff, and his breathing heavy. The little boy stood there for a while, staring at the girl's eye, and then hurried away without a word. She smiled, knowing that she made an impact on that little boy. She hoped seeing her eyes like that would teach the kid a lesson.
She stood from the wall and looked back into the cracked and dirty mirror. Her smile faded as she saw her eye once again. The sunglasses slipped from her hands as she stared at herself in disgust. She didn't want to live this lifestyle anymore. The violence and the risks of everything didn't seem worth it for the little high she would get from the drugs. Seeing that little boy so similar to herself was depressing and almost disturbing. She knew that little boy would end up just like her. She turned around and stepped on her glasses, which were lying on the floor beneath her. She picked them up with a sigh as one of the lenses fell out of the pair. She stomped on the loose lens and put the glasses on; the remaining lens covered the cut next to her eye. She took a deep breath and headed for the bathroom at the end of the hall.
She opened the door to an overwhelming smell of urine and cigarettes. The light flickered on and unveiled graffiti all over the stalls. A cockroach swiftly scuttled across the floor as she stepped into the bathroom. She took a moment to realize what she was living in. This nauseating environment was normal to her at this point. Her lifestyle was repulsive, and she knew it; she knew she needed to change. She rustled through her purse to find the bag of crack she knew was there. She rushed to the nearest stall and dumped the powder in the stain-covered bowl. She flushed and ran out of the room.Â
As she made her way out of that revolting motel, she caught a glimpse of herself in the dirty, cracked mirror at the end of the hall and saw hope in her own eye.