The girl in the short blue dress crosses her legs and leans toward me, letting her blond hair fall over her shoulder. Her lips move, but I hear nothing except the dull colliding of bass and voices in the living room, at the party. A girl mounts the guy at the end of the couch. He drops his beer. I tell Blue Dress what a lucky son of a bitch the guy is because I’ll be the one cleaning the carpet. She laughs and leans closer.

“What are your plans after all this?”

I asked myself what “all this’ meant. “To dream.”

“What?” she yells.

“I said, “Nothing.'”

“It’s so loud in here.” I blink and imagine she and I are falling through the sky, screaming about our lives into the blue radiant nothing, with the flood of cold air against our faces. We are in the atmosphere, and we can’t hear a thing.

Exhale. Her forefinger is running along the lip of the red plastic cup. Gentle. Delicate. She grazes the inside of my leg with her foot. I swallow. My tongue is dry. I take the rum in the glass tumbler straight and stop myself from shivering. The green eyes on the painting on the wall are drifting out of place. My face is numb. I lean forward and set the tumbler between my legs. She and I are close for a moment. I can feel the warmth of her breath. I tell her I can’t hear what she’s telling me. She smiles and runs her smooth palm along my neck and speaks into my ear.

I look over the blue strap on the cream skin of her shoulder. My stomach turns with nostalgia. I relive the old memory. I see the silhouette of a girl; her dark figure enveloped by bright light from the lamp behind her. She is crying on the couch, looking ahead out of the sliding glass door into the night sky above the dark valley. She doesn’t look away when I talk to her.

Her staggered voice resounds. “I know I don’t deserve this.” She brings her hand to her mouth. “I can’t believe I’m even here. I wish I never came back. I wish I never saw you after 8212;”

Stop this, ghost. It is just a memory, and a manifested lie.

My nerves resurrect. Christ. The room is spinning. Blue Dress is kissing my neck. I am looking between the guests through the sliding glass door into the backyard. Drops of perspiration form on the tall window panes from the breath and the sweat and the heat of all the bodies indoors. One droplet collects and trickles down the glass. I touch her shoulder. “I’ll be right back.”

I push the sliding glass door shut and step back. The blue dress disappears behind the people leaning back against the glass. It’s quiet, save the glass panes gently humming, vibrating to the beat.

Vomit rises up my throat. Chest burns. Go to the hill.

I make it to the back wall and pull myself over. Heave. Eyes watering. Breathe in. Spit. Heave.

Get up. If they saw me over the wall like this, they would give me the blackout treatment. Are you all right? Drink some water. Sit down. Thank you, no thank you. I must look like some child’s ragdoll strewn over a chair. No, something more macabre. I look like the good soldier who tried to hurdle over the barbed wired wall and fell short. The man tangled in metal with nowhere to go. The crusader. They scream, “In the name of God.” Fire. Fire. Fire. I am a bullet bag. Martyr among men. He was brave. Remember him. What did he do? He tried to live for something.

Stand.

Some saint I am. What if instead I died now and left this world with a blood alcohol content of .33? What would they say about me then? I have the breath of death, surely. Back pocket. No gum … Rum. And vodka, loyal friend perched above the fridge. I’ll use it like mouthwash. I’ll be all right. I look back inside. At all this.

Who would come to the funeral? Would they cry?

Wait. Piss first. I climb on the wall and scale to the second tier to get out of sight from the sliding glass door. Balance. My God. A dense fog is rolling through the valley at the bottom of the dark slopes with a brilliant orange glow from all the street lamps below. Calm. Jesus, it’s quiet.

Look up. A white light is shining far off beyond the dark hillside of the valley. I stand on my toes. What is that? I walk farther down the wall and step up to the tallest tier. I’m level with the roof of the house. Turn around. Squint. A broad white dome and a tall spire stand against the night, blooming light in the dark.

A cathedral.

Balance gives way. Weightless, falling through the air. Crack.

Darkness. Breathe. Breathe. Breathe. My head &- breathe, breathe &- hit something. Where am I? I can’t see. I can’t f8212;ing see anything. Breathe. Breathe. Move fingers. I’m on the pavement. Blood. Pooling. Sh8212;. I can’t breathe. Oh, God no. Please, please, no. Please. I can’t breathe. Air. Help. Please, God. Please. White. Cathedral. You were 8212; looking at 8212; the cathedral.

8212;Tom Hammel is a political science senior.

8212;This fictional piece does not necessarily reflect the opinion of The Daily Aztec.