Sophie Player

Sophie Player

Theme Story 1

To Cliff’s Edge

Cold air stings the back of my neck causing hairs to stand up. I pull the strings of my sweatshirt tighter to hold in the warmth. Street lights flicker above me. Every passing car makes my heart beat faster as I descend into the darkness of Church St., leaving the towers behind me. Man, I wish I learned to drive. My feet drag along the concrete sidewalk and I see headlights from behind me. A shitbox Nissan slows down enough for me to catch the driver looking before speeding off down the unlit street, vanquishing my only source of light. My heart beats faster. It’s only early September, but I can already see my breath and the unsettling rustle of dying leaves keeps me on edge. I usually carry my brother’s boy scout knife with me when I make these treks, just in case, but I forgot to bring it this time, so I feel extra vulnerable.

I know I’m getting closer when I hear the strong force of water running through the man made canals. They run parallel to an edge of trees that run down a steep and bottomless ditch. I hear a rustling sound that’s slightly muffled by the sound of the moving water, but my ears perk up when I hear it. There’s a sickening smell rising from the pit on my left, almost like a mixture of menthol and burning plastic. It singes the hair in my nose and makes my eyes water. Yeah, that’s crack. That’s literally crack. Good going North Adams. A single street light flickers.

As fear continues to rise in my chest and up my throat I think about my warm bed. I think about the coziness of my comforter and a Netflix queue of movies waiting for me when I return. I think about how he bribed my ass out of bed and through the center of North Adams in the middle of the night with the promise of Chinese food. And I agreed. I am weak.

Before long I reach the bottom of Cliff Street. The narrow road stretches up above a hill that I cannot see the top of. There are no sidewalks or streetlights, just a stretch of endless pavement before me as I stand helplessly below it. It’s a straight quarter-mile war between me and my calves to make it up this hill. I pass some local residents on the way up. Trash litters their front lawns, dismantled cars are perched on cinder blocks, and I can hear the barking of a large dog behind their mangled plastic blinds. I gulp.

I finally reach the door of the duplex, going in the left, not to mistake it for their neighbors’ on the right (again). I knock once softly, to which I get no response. I knock again, louder this time, and I’m greeted with a grin. He opens the door softly and wraps his warm arms around my shoulders and rests his stubbly chin in the crook of my neck. He smells like cologne and joy and weed and relief and good decisions and bad ones. It makes it all worth it.