Babylon Candle

Chapter V

The beautiful sound of quick turning wheels, the release of gas and the flame catching as it approached the marijuana cigarette lightly held between her lips, soothed Patch in a way no one could possibly understand. She sat on her small jam-packed balcony, on one of the rickety chairs she had purchased from the Walmart, three towns over. The table on the balcony was the only real table in her apartment. She only had use of the table during the summer months apart from the occasionally warm days throughout the autumn and spring. When winter swept in, she would eat and smoke either on her bed facing the television on the wall, or at her desk facing the painting of wild orcas in Nova Scotia. She had purchased it for ten dollars at a garage sale. She always wondered who the artist was, and how it got to rural Quebec, but it wasn't signed.

She inhaled. Then, lifted the cream cheese smothered bagel to her mouth and took a large bite. The mixed flavour of weed and cheese, spread onto her tongue; and while most might imagine this to be unpleasant, it was one of the few things Ben introduced her to, that she could still enjoy. She sat there for almost an hour, alternating between puffs and bites; until both were done. Patch looked out into the bright street, her arms wrapped around herself in an unconscious hug, watching people walking passed. Children cheered and laughed, speeding down the street with their mud-covered bikes, reflecting the last few months of fun they had lived. Couples, holding hands, smiling radiating with laughter. The sweet taste in her mouth, quickly evaporated into a bitterness on her tongue.

Patch got up from the seat, flicking the leftover RAW hemp filter over her balcony into the yard, then grabbing the crumb-filled plate and opened the sliding door to head back into her apartment. The stale scent of pot and body-odor filled her nostrils. She threw the plate on top of the pile of dirty dishes she had been neglecting, promising to herself that she'd get to them later. Although, that was unlikely; Patch would probably resort to take out in a few days. For now, though, it was irrelevant. Running out of food and plates didn't matter. What she really needed was another hit. Patch opened her fridge. There was a ketchup bottle, accompanied with its better half, mustard; some Oasis pineapple and orange juice; as far as food goes, the sight of this fridge was underwhelming. The only thing that was well stalked was the liquor and beer. A bottle Jack, Patron, Guinness, Heineken, Glenfiddich; they had been her friends throughout the summer and they still were. Tequila. Patch reached in and grabbed the bottle and strode over to her bed.

Patch cleared an empty space on her trash filled bed-side table for the bottle and picked up the dirty bong from the floor in a swift and graceful manner. She turned on a playlist on her phone and soon music began to play from her phone, while she began to take in the fumes. Four songs into the playlist, apartment 1408 resembled a foggy day of early spring; you couldn't see passed yourself. Patch put down the bong, picked up the bottle and began to gulp down the alcohol; ignoring the burning sensation she felt in her throat and deep in her belly. Soon, her eyes were drowsy, her body was weak, and she lay down in the large bed and fell into a deep restless sleep.

The loud slam of the front door could not awaken Patch from her sleep. She lay there, untouched by the unexpected visitor in her apartment. Even if Patch had been awake, there was still so much smoke, that she wouldn't have been able to make out the person, perhaps their vague shape but there was no way to identify them.

"Are you fucking kidding me?" the voice echoed. Even in her groggy state, Patch knew that voice extremely well, and a groan vibrated through her being. Raizy, her younger sister was not pleased; Patch was aware, and it was reinforced when the ball of frustration pulled her out of bed roughly. "There is no fucking way you're missing another family dinner. I cannot keep coming up with excuses for you." Patch vaguely recalled the last few months of avoiding her mother; giving her sister a multitude of excuses to use when asked about her absence. I guess I'm all out of excuses.