Page 79 of Mayhem and Minnie

She continues scrubbing the floor, seemingly oblivious to my struggles.

I take a deep breath.

I should look away. Perhaps leave.

I continue staring.

She moves forward, and the dress bunches farther up her ass, so much so that I get a hint of the color of her panties.

For fuck’s sake! I’ve seen her naked. It’s not like I don’t know what she looks like. But as I keep watching her, I find myself wishing for another small peek.

Mumbling a string of curses to myself, I pivot and stride out of the house. The only way I can deal with my growing obsession with this little heathen is to put some distance between us. Otherwise, I’ll keep pacing around the house and turn into a pathetic bastard who begs for a modicum of attention. Well, unfortunately, I think I’ve already crossed that bridge.

I scowl.

Pathetic? Me?

How the hell did I get here?

It’s all her fault.

In my mental battle with myself, I don’t even realize as I slide behind the wheel of my car, or the fact that I steer it out of the garage.

I only gain some awareness of the situation when I’m on the highway, aimlessly heading somewhere.

It seems my body knows me better, since it leads me away from her, knowing how weak and pathetic I’m about to become, even more than I already am.

More curses slip past my lips, together with a few punches into the car’s dashboard.

The days when I used to be calm and collected are long gone. Chaos has slithered its way into my life, turning it upside down and making me feel like a damn stranger in my own skin.

I drive without a destination for what seems like forever. The need to turn the car around and go back to demand an explanation from Minnie is overwhelming. But I fight against it. It wouldn’t yield any results.

As I drive by a small town, I find myself stopping in the parking lot of a pub. Not my scene, but for the first time, a glass of something to numb my thoughts sounds mighty fine.

I get out of my car and walk into the pub, where I take a seat at the bar.

“Give me your strongest stuff,” I say in a gruff voice to the bartender.

I’m not much of a drink connoisseur. My father was the expert in the family.

Compared to most teenagers, I never had a phase of experimentation.

I stayed at home, kept to myself, and studied.

Boring, I know.

I must have only tried a sip or two of wine when Mother left her glasses unattended, but that was it. I never developed the taste for it.

So for me to be sitting here, asking for alcohol of my own volition is…unheard of. But I suppose this is what my father must have felt like when he couldn’t withstand his own thoughts anymore and he needed to numb them. Or, perhaps, the drink amplified the thoughts? Can’t really say since I tried to keep my distance from the old man—it was the only way to keep your bones intact.

The bartender slides a glass of amber liquid in front of me.

I stare at it.

Even as I realize what a bad idea this is, I cannot escape this unnatural urge to escape my own feelings.

It’s too much, and all at once.

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