Page 10 of Pretty Heartache

I hold my breath, listening to her throw up the three vodka sodas and five shots of whiskey I watched her down an hour ago. Her sickness comes in waves, the thick liquid splashing onto my ten thousand-dollar pants before she suddenly stops. Her body heaves, and for a few moments, she remains looking at the floor, with her hands pressed to her knees and her hair curtaining her face as she catches her breath and regains her bearings.

She spits the remnants of the vomit dripping from her mouth before she finally looks up at me with a dazed expression. Color has returned to her cheeks. Her eyes are crystal clear and more sober than the entire time we’ve been in here, as if she’s suddenly no longer drunk.

I scrunch my nose, the sour scent of her bile filling my nostrils. I don’t miss my business card back on the floor, sitting beside my feet, now coated in vomit.

Sloppily wiping the back of her hand across her mouth, she takes a step back with a sneer, trading glances between my face and my now vomit-covered shoes.

“Something tells me it won’t be difficult for you to replace those.” She points to my feet then turns her anger on me. “Now, get the fuck out of my way so I can get back to work.”

I shift to the side and raise my hands in surrender, giving her enough room to reach the handle of the stall door. She squeezes through the small opening, while I stand still, listening to the door to the bathroom swinging open. The thumping music grows louder before it quiets again.

I place both of my hands on my face and breathe out. Pushing my hair back in disbelief, I look down at my feet.

“Fuck,” I breathe out. This must be the messiest confrontation I’ve had. My role in this business has always been to deliver the bad news, but it’s never landed me in a dirty bathroom stall, covered in vomit.

I pull my phone out of my pocket and type a quick text to Lennon, telling him the job is done. Afterward, I check and see that I have three missed calls and a text from my best friend Archer.

Archer: I need a favor.

Of course, he does.

I stare at those four words, the claws in my mind expanding again. They still have their grip on me, not willing to concede or let up.

My mouth waters for a drink, and my brain begs for the promise of being numb. Leaving the stall, I straighten my tie and tear off a fistful of paper towels to clean off the extra vomit covering the toes of my shoes. Frustration festers. I toss the paper into the trash bin and move to the sink to wash my hands, but the sharp glint of the damaged mirror hanging above the sink catches my eye. It’s barely clinging to the wall, hanging cockeyed by the top left corner. The corners are faded and out of focus.

The claws latch on, sending a searing pain through my mind, down to the muscle still beating in my chest.

I stare at my reflection with hate-filled eyes, wondering if I will ever be able to look at myself in the same way I used to, before my life became unrecognizable. When I wasn’t increasingly becoming the one person I never wanted to become. To a time when I didn’t look at myself with resentment.

My reflection stares back at me, and it’s all it takes.

I lift my fist in the air and drive it into the mirror. Sharp pain immediately meets my knuckles. The glass fractures and splinters out like a web, my fist at the center of it. Blood clings to the mirror as I lower my hand and ignore the pain shooting across it as I grind my teeth. The pressure builds in my temples, and it feels as if my brain might explode. Spreading my fingers, I hold my hand in the air and study the cuts. A line of blood spills down the ridges of my knuckles and over the peaks of my hardened veins. I don’t feel the sharp pain from the cuts. My skin is numb to the damage I’ve inflicted.

I’m wondering what other parts of me have become numb, but those thoughts don’t stay around for long.

They leave me the second I leave the dingy bathroom and shattered mirror behind.

FOUR

Frigid, cold air bites my skin as soon as I step out of the car. Despite the cold, the familiar sea salt taste hits my tongue when I open my mouth and breathe out. A cloud spills from my mouth, leaving a trail as I whip my head to the side and watch the taillights of my ride disappear around the corner and out of the neighborhood.

I swallow the lump in my throat and wrap my arms around myself. I’m glad I decided to wear a sweater. Aside from the one I had buried in the bottom of my bag I don’t have a single piece of clothing to prepare me for surviving winter in New England. It may be nearing the end of March, but the start of spring doesn’t hit for another month. Boston is still in the throes of winter.

A crisp breeze rolls in, causing the bare trees to sway. Their branches bend and creak, singing a song to anyone willing to take the time to listen. The air washes over me as if it were welcoming me back with open arms. My chest squeezes. I don’t want or need its welcome. It’s a simple reminder of what I was escaping when I left.

Over the past three years, I’ve kept my distance from home and immersed myself in Los Angeles, putting as much distancebetween my family and me. It was an easy decision… but coming back here wasn’t.

Tears sting the back of my eyes when I realize the scenery and community may have changed, but one fact remains: I never escaped the abuse. Only this time, the abuse came from my boyfriend instead of my father.

I’ve been hurt at the hands of two men who were supposed to love me… so they claimed.

I ghost my fingers along my cheek, thankful the pain is now gone. It could be the pills I swallowed on the flight over finally kicking it, or the injury inflicted by Maddox isn’t as bad as I first thought. I haven’t looked in a mirror since I was standing in my trailer, staring back at Ruby standing behind me with her look of pity. I have no idea if the bruising is still present. Years of covering myself with the right combination of creams and powders has allowed me to perfect the art of concealing any evidence.

A shiver ripples down the length of my arms, and I wrap one around myself, gripping onto my bicep as I look up and down the street. Aside from the wind and singing branches, it’s quiet. Peaceful, even.

Large, brick houses covered in vines of ivy line the wide, cobblestone street, each one set far back off the road, their yards separated by tall, black, wrought-iron fences.

Although this neighborhood isn’t the one I was raised in, it looks eerily similar. My stomach wobbles as I take in each picture window and each aged-brown brick. At first, I want to believe I’m imagining it. My eyes dance from house to house, hoping to pull some difference that will solidify my decision to go through with this. I fight the urge to leave and find somewhere else to go. But I remember my brother’s text. The one telling me this was the best, safest place for me to stay. Noone would know I was here or bother to ask why. He told me I could stay here as long as I need to, no questions asked.

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