Walking back from a grueling day of work at Smokey’s Garage, clusters of small and vibrant yellow orb-shaped petals floated through the cool breeze and landed upon my thick black hair. I smiled softly, placed my left hand on top of my head, and wrestled with my oily curls to remove the debris. As I picked the petals out one by one gathering them in my palm, I lifted them to my nose and inhaled deeply, pleased by the sweet, divine scent of the gold medallion tree petals. As I exhaled, the gardenia smell of the flowers reminded me of home and tears filled my eyes making them sting with the conflicting emotions of homesickness and contentedness of leaving Santorini. I tried to jolt myself back to reality, a transparent state of mind but am shocked at how quickly my emotions overpower me. I was suddenly pulled back to my life in Greece two months ago, one I thought I had disposed of when my plane left the tarmac at Athens International Airport. The imagery was so vivid it was almost as though my body had been physically transported back to Santorini-- the hot, arid island climate, its fuschia flowers cooking under the sun leaving a potent botanical smell, and the dark Azul waters that surrounded the white shaped houses so effortlessly. The flashback is so powerful that I can feel the presence of the hot Greek sun on my body, kissing my olive skin and my lover Stavros’ rough hands on the small of my back. The emotions of love and lust wrestle in my mind, causing me confusion, anger, and flaming self-hatred. The serenity of my homeland and the soft coastal view of Santorini disappeared into white oblivion, and the space in my mind turned deep red, intensifying my thoughts, eventually taking over me. Next thing I know, I was falling.

I opened my eyes and groggily raised my body off the warm pavement. I felt like I could no longer understand myself because I was usually as focused as a chef meticulously seasoning a chicken dish. Standing on two feet, I hastily grabbed my bag that had fallen to the ground and finished the walk home deep in thought pondering why I let my past life and choices, the very reasons I fled to the United States of America, faze me. This unfamiliar feeling, being out of control, made me feel like a foreign creature had inhabited my body and hijacked my self-composure and senses. I was afraid that if I did not get myself under control, that I may risk all the various aspects of my new La Jollan life I had crafted - my girl next door persona, my simple, yet laborious job, and my meek demeanor.

After I finished my home-cooked meal of tiropita, warm kasseri cheese filled phyllo dough baked in the oven at 425 degrees for 15 minutes and moussaka, a Greek variant of lasagna with lamb ground and bechamel sauce, I plopped my body down on my dusty orange vintage couch and resumed watching the film, Jane Eyre where I had left off. Lonely, I stuffed my mouth with my homemade baklava, slathered in syrup, and dozed off.

A vivid, horrific dream came over my psyche, possessing my mind, and forcing me to relive my worst memory which had laid dormant at the back of my brain since early January. Teleported to this gruesome and brutal event, I realized I had no control over what was about to happen.

The sound of the loud gunshot rang through my mind, and I saw myself panicking. I was standing over Stavros’ body, and I placed my hands over the gunshot wound that was oozing blood. I remember freaking out and crying and thinking that no one would believe I had killed him in self-defense, and that I had loved him. I wanted him alive, but also unable to hurt me. I saw myself drag his body to the corner of the old bedroom, rust-colored droplets of blood dripping off his muscular body and landing on the red and yellow Byzantium themed rug. The sight of my soulmate’s blood made me nauseous to the point that the room spun, but my eyes focused on the crimson stains of the blood on the hardwood floor as it cut through my internal haze. My attention fell to my hands, and I released my grip on his iron-smelling sleeves.

I sat on my mini, worn and torn balcony and finished the cold greek coffee I had left on a stool for god knows how many days. I closed my eyes, centered my mind and crafted a plan to stage Stavros’ death as a suicide and put the inheritance I received after my parents had died to good use. A wave of guilt came over me for my intent to cover up his death, but I knew as a woman in profoundly religious Santorini, no one would err on the side of believing me. As a type A person I logged online to Expedia and booked a ticket to California for tomorrow and booked the cheapest hotel I could find until I could go house hunting to tour houses. After adulting, I knew what to do to take the edge off and relax, and give one last homage to my early adolescence summers in Istanbul.

I went to the modest closest in my bedroom, fumbled on its handle, and pulled the door open rummaging through my closet to find my special-occasion bag. I was as eager to get my hands on my release like a kid rummaging for candy in a newly ruptured piñata. My face lit up with a devilish grin upon finding my small, classy bag from the market in Crete, running my fingers through its red, blue, and white beads depicting the houses in Santorini. I pulled out some hashish, a super strong block shaped substance, thinking of its mind-altering effects, reminiscent of my childhood vacations to Istanbul. Finding what I needed I raised my body off the floor, and I moved to the hallway bathroom. I poured some tap water into my little crystal bong from the sink. Leaving the bathroom, I held on tightly to the pink bedazzled rim of the bong and lit it up. The golden THC-filled lumps of resin that had earlier enticed, excited, and terrified me, transferred into thick, yellow smoke. The smoke traveled to my mouth, glided down my throat and filled my lungs with its smoke to my lungs making me cough and wait for what’s next.