4. A Dirty Slate (800 Words)

The girl cycled through the same predicament. It would go something like this.

She’d earn a fresh start, a clean slate: next, briefly commit to diligence, but like clockwork, always fizzle out. In due time that clean slate would become splattered, and she’d soon find herself in a fight to stay above ruin.

Again and again, she thrived with that pressure. The self-sabotage was essential to reignite such a fleeting impetus. Undoubtedly addicted to the cathartic sensation of a fresh start, she unnecessarily invited conflict.

She suspected one of these days, some trouble would usurp her talents of performing damage control. One of these days she’d come crashing down.

It was the start of her final university course. The prior semester, she barely made it over the graduation requisites, which with consistent effort, she would have otherwise completed with ease. As we know, she loved to get as close as possible to complete disaster.

Ironically, she should have already been out in the world had it not been for a slight miscalculation in a math class. She foolishly believed she could convince her professor to bump up a 69.3 to a 70. She still needed to earn those units for a lovely degree.

In order to save money, she commuted three times a week to a local community college where the university accepted math credits. After this, she could get on with her life doing whatever it is one does with his type of condition.

Like all her clean slates, she began in check, stable, and punctual. The class to her was easy, and she soon reasoned there was no point wasting money on gas when she could otherwise learn it while enjoying the pleasures of home.

She methodically chose to skip only two out of the three classes each week, leaving just enough time to meet the attendance requirement within the final weeks.

On the one day she commuted, she drove past an Orange Hot Air Balloon just off the freeway. Each time passing, she fantasized about a trip in it, loathing where she instead needed to go.

On one of these days, she was ambushed by the professor. She berated her how far behind she fell, and that if she missed two more days, she would be dropped. She, of course, already knew this and had everything under control.

Once apathetic, her instincts kicked in. So close to a degree, so close to failure, this was the good stuff. She knew she was on thin ice. For on it, each step became more purposeful. Adrenaline and desperation made such a delicious concoction.

She spent that whole night grinding her teeth and swallowing profusely with Ol’ Fetty Mean, basking in education and stuffing seven weeks of content into her eyes so she could prove her stability when the sun came up.

That morning she drove to class euphoric. Glitching the circadian rhythm was another unsung treasure of her condition. The balloon fast approached in the distance. Safe and caught up, she even had a day of wiggle room before any complications would arise. She impulsively turned off at the next exit.

Walking towards the ticket booth, something felt off, not just the sleep debt catching her. She knew she wasn’t supposed to be there. Class had already started, and the fantasy of riding the balloon didn’t seem as exotic as it once did on the freeway: nevertheless, she was now committed. Midweek, midday, most half decent people were either working or at school.

She was the only passenger on the balloon.

The roar of the flamethrower commenced, and after a few seconds she began levitating. Up and up to the sky, she could soon see everything all the way to the smoggy edges of the megalopolis. After allowing her a few minutes to take in the scenery, the balloon began to descend.

Suddenly, she heard a sharp whistle, and then a spray inconsistent with the sound of the blower. From the silver engine, some sort of combustion liquid was squirting all over the place.

Panic ensued her as the gondola caught fire. The horror of the situation set in. Roughly five hundred feet above the surface, she would burn if she didn’t jump. After frantic deliberation fueled by a concoction much too fine to enjoy, she was left with no choice.

From miles away, hundreds of thousands could see the torch in the sky. Unfortunately, those in the math class could not, as the room’s window faced North as opposed to South. Those within a few miles could make out a small figure flailing towards the concrete slate.