Knew Alaina when she was an eleventh grade high school cheerleader, wholesome girl, fluffy blonde hair, cornflower blue eyes, a perfect figure, father a doctor, on her way to a stellar future, maybe a doctor too.
Always had a crush on her, but not good enough, wrong side of town, ill bred, family with little money, lesser social class.
Enlisted in the military, four displaced years, unscrewed my life, scrambled my mind, but took college courses part time, improved myself, my diction, my writing, and my bearing, still thought of Alaina.
Returned to my hometown, changed, an outsider, curious about Alaina.
A lowlife named Laney said she’d become a whore.
I went crazy, punched him to the ground, jumped on him and wailed until friends pulled me off.
The sacrilege of what he said, a sin against the wonderful, beautiful Alaina.
Driving through a bad part of town, gasped when I saw her swaying back and forth on the street like a weed stirring in the wind, her looks gone, hard lines etched in her face, hair unkempt, clothes ragged, eyes spaced out, her drugged out, my heart broken.
Parked my car across the street from her wondering what to do, then a greasy man in an old pick up truck stopped; she talked to him, took his money, hopped in his truck, the man drove it into a nearby alley.
I knew then what Laney said was true, felt sick, almost threw up.
Drove home heavy hearted bemoaning what happened to Alaina, couldn’t sleep that night thinking what to do, if I could save her from the streets, decided to take action the next day.
Jumped in my car, drove to where I’d seen her; she wasn’t there. Looked for her, a long anxious week. No sign of her until I found her obit: Died of an Overdose.
Alaina, Alaina, what happened to you?
Bob Boyd
