Jennifer Fytelson O’Brien is a freelance writer currently based in Los Angeles who is known for her insightful poetry. With over a decade of poetry writing, Jennifer has a unique voice that shines through her collection and speaks to her readers. Jennifer has an MA in Creative Writing from The Lincoln University. Jennifer’s work has appeared in numerous outlets such as The Blue Nib, The Borgen Project and Canada’s oldest literary magazine, The Mitre. She currently writes for the number one TV site, Screen Rant. Jennifer also enjoys keeping up to date with her personal blog, ALettertoWrite.com and encourages you to visit! When Jennifer is not writing she enjoys traveling, going to the beach, and playing with her dog.
Wrestling with an Angel
How do you save someone who doesn’t want to be saved? Drugs, they kill a soul. Having a relationship, a platonic relationship, with a friend who is fighting a battle you cannot see nor even try to comprehend is one of the most heartbreaking love stories you can suffer. He would reach out at the most inopportune times. I always kept an eye on him, every couple of weeks. He asked for help but then again, he never did. He just wanted to be heard, acknowledged. He tried moving home, but it still ate away at him. I always took him seriously but hoped it was just a bad night. Most were, just bad nights. Until it wasn’t. I begged. I have never begged in my life for a thing. But my God, I begged with him. Pleaded that this didn’t have to be the way. I was scared, mainly cause I didn’t know how to help my friend. Even I knew he would end it if he really wanted to. He was eerily confident. Who would tell me, was all I could think. How fucking selfish.
We spoke through the green fence. I was four margaritas in, buzzed and my friend had fallen asleep at the table. I’ll always put my faith in something I know. Happily dancing with my arms spread holding a prickly pear shot that tasted awful. My sister and I ran around the market taking tequila shots with locals. Snow White and Rose Red speaking broken Spanish but making the most of it. Somewhere along the line her passport card was lost but we gained two table clothes with shredded chicken still attached. Wild hearts were meant to do wild things, and that town was always too small for all the dreams we had. We would never tire of a silent disco that was help under the red brake lights, moving to songs only we could hear.