Iridescence

She stopped smack in the middle of the sidewalk, all her friends pausing to ask, "Oh, Pearl, darling are you alright?" without hearing the answer as it bounced around on the cold pavement. She shook her head and took a deep breath of her cigarette, for a brief moment she felt totally fine. Pearl was more than alright, the smoke swirling inside her lit a new fire, a fire burning anew in her gut. The passing scent of some stranger's perfume washed over her like bubbles in a bathtub; it made her think of the empty house, long since liberated from the burdens of life. She touched the crescent-shaped scar on her wrist. Tonight was the night.

When Pearl and, as she called them, her girls, went out to dance and drink and chit chat and laugh, Pearl stood out no matter how she tried to camouflage herself. She hid behind fluffy furs that tickled her skin and rouge much too bright for her complexion; she cut her hair short and she wore miles and miles of glittery necklaces.

If they were all lined up, Pearl would stick out like a sore thumb. It was her new fire burning overtop old flames and new flames; the fire licking at the heels of her thoughts as they raced all about. Pearl had a lot of brains for a very pretty girl.

And as if that didn't make her different enough, Pearl hated herself. She hated not fitting in with the girls and she hated being smarter than the intellectuals she met and most of all, Pearl hated that she couldn't truly change.

Because, despite her rouge and diamonds she was still the prodigy from the broken family in the broken home in middle-of-nowhere Kansas; despite her new New York accented way of speaking, she could still hear her drawling twang creeping back in; despite all the layers of fur she piled on, she was still the hopeless romantic, doe-eyed dreamer that try as hard as she might would never really amount to anything.

Pearl, in short, was bitter and lively and subtle; not unlike the drinks she downed to make herself forget all couldn't help but remember.

There was one unique hobby Pearl had that she embraced. She loved to walk on the Brooklyn Bridge, the earlier in the morning the better. After a night of forgetting with the girls, she would take a taxi to the beginning of the bridge, remove her miserable high heels and tip-toe exactly halfway across the bridge. Pearl would sit there, her long, lean legs dangling over the edge like a child's in too big a chair. She watched countless sorbet sunrises to the tune of grumpy traffic and rumbling vibrations. There, perched some two hundred feet up, Pearl's brightest, hottest flame burnt That particular thought made Pearl hate every inch of her creamy white skin. Possessed by some invisible magic, Pearl stood on the bridge, her face tilted towards the newly risen sun. Her hands ripped her necklaces from her slender neck, tossing them into the current below. The furs went next, followed by her high heels. Her same hands fervently tried to smear off rouge and mascara and lipstick to little avail.

As exposed as she felt acceptable, she held her arms out to her sides and released the fire that burnt her up so badly she thought she'd be sick.

"My name is not Pearl."

And with that, she leaned forward and fell into the navy black water. Fell into the nothingness. Fell into the water that quenched the demons' tongues within her.

Her girls went out that night, unaware of the early morn happenings and they fit in so well without the standout-ish, iridescent mind of their friend, Pearl.