Page 7 of Driving My Obsession

Because someone has to pay.

She seemed different, though, and that gives me a moment of pause. It doesn’t derail my desires, but it slows the train to a crawl. I rationalize that it’s notmewho would commit such a heinous act. It’s the big, black, ominous creature lurking inside me. One that my mother recognized in me so long ago.

One that I’m forced to silence now.

I close my eyes and wash the sweat from my hair, and flashes of that girl pass behind my eyelids like pictures in a photo album. Dark red hair flows over her shoulders, and the familiar lifelessness dims her big green eyes. The pictures begin to move, and I see her in a grocery store or a bank instead of twirling on a pole. Something about her seems to belong to those places more than a club.

Then my mind’s eye roves lower, and I catch a glimpse of the scars on her thigh as her jacket spread. My fingers graze similar ridges of pink flesh on my inner thigh, and I drop my head back and let the water drown me for a moment.

The moment I turn off the shower, steam rises from my reddened skin. I wrap a towel around myself and head toward my bedroom. Beside my bed, I lift the towel from around my waist and run it through my hair before dropping it to my feet. Too tired to worry about my clothes strewn through the apartment, I crawl into bed and cover myself with the sheet.

Every time I close my eyes, I think of that girl again. This isn’t ideal. I don’t need anything more stirring up my shitty brain.

But I can’t stop myself. I think of her and the way she looked when she had her thumb in the wind and the defeated glint to her eyes as she asked a stranger for a ride and sealed her unfortunate fate. Though I try to keep that image of her in my mind, my brain would rather fabricate other images. Now she’s topless, coming off the stage after a dance, and she’s walking toward me instead of avoiding me. When I offer money to her, she doesn’t recoil in disgust. She smiles and takes my hand, leading me toward the back.

My cock hardens to these dirty thoughts, and I rub my hand along the length of my dick, toying with the piercings on the underside of my shaft. My fingers graze the barbell in my frenum piercing, then stroke down to the lorum barbell at the base. Apparently I wasn’t scarred enough and needed to add more.

I crush my cock in my grasp, sending a shot of pain through my groin. This is wrong. I shouldn’t beat my dick to thoughts of her. I release my cock and put my hands above the sheet.

Don’t even think about doing that. Whores are not worth my pleasure.

Ashamed of myself, I roll onto my side and force my mind back to thoughts of revenge. The whore doesn’t deserve my come. She only deserves my wrath.

And I’ll make sure she takes all of it.

* * *

Oaklyn

A crack runsthrough the center of the full-length mirror hanging from my bedroom door. The placement splits my reflection in half. In more ways than one, this is a fitting way to see myself. A broken woman stares back at me, the two halves not quite matching up.

I strip off my jacket and hang it on a hook in my barren closet. The cami comes off next, and my breasts relax as my arms lower to my sides. The tight, sweat-coated shorts cling to my skin, and I breathe a sigh of relief as I peel them away. After removing my stockings, I’m finally naked. It feels good to be exposed within the safety of my home, where no one can grope me with their hands or eyes. When I’m naked at home, I don’t look like the woman at the club. I look like the person I am—a sad creature who misses her old life.

That’s not entirely true. There are many parts of my old life that I wouldn’t return to, even if someone held a gun to my head and tried to force me through a door to the past. My parents weren’t supportive when I chose to pursue a career as a professional dancer, and I wouldn’t want to relive any of the moments when they tried to talk me out of it. Soon the talking turned to a personal attack on my character. They couldn’t understand the joy I felt when I prepared for a show and took the stage. They refused to support my dream of broadway lights and cheering crowds. Unable to see the merit in being part of an ensemble of talented individuals, they told me to call them when I failed.

Instead, a doctor called them to let them know their daughter’s life hung in the balance. It was all downhill from there.

I push those memories from my mind, unable to relive them right now. Their vicious words still bite at me, even after all this time, and the man who drove me home didn’t help matters. His attitude toward my current profession reopened those festering wounds. Despite what he said in the car, I’m not a whore. I haven’t had sex withanyonesince I started working at the club six months ago, and I’ve made a special point to sidestep all advances, especially those from Jake. If I could let go of my dignity and fuck him, I’d probably have a car by now. A few times with Jake and I could probably afford a better place to live, too.

I shouldn’t say that.

The trailer was my grandma’s, and she was the only person who still accepted me when she found out how I earned a living after my accident. She even let me move in. She died shortly after and left the trailer to me, much to my surprise. It’s nothing fancy but it was hers, and now it’s mine. I should be grateful I have a place to live at all, even if the power is finicky and the roof leaks every time it rains. My parents wanted nothing to do with me, though they viewed me as a failure long before I stepped into a pair of platforms and grabbed a pole.

My hands graze my thigh, rubbing over raised scar tissue. I started cutting long before my career ended, but I slashed shallow gashes into my hip instead of these deeper gouges on my thigh. The cuts on my hip hid behind my costumes, but when I had to change the sort of stage I danced on, I didn’t care who saw my pain anymore.

I pull a razor from the nightstand and sit on the edge of the bed, rolling the glinting metal between my fingers. This will give me the release I need. Instead of turning to drugs or heavy drinking, I find comfort in creating an outlet for my pain.

It’s been a while since I’ve cut, but as my life spirals out of control, it feels like the only logical thing to do. Maybe Jake will stop wanting to get between my legs if I paint them with blood and scars.

Blood and scars.

That makes me think of the man who gave me a ride home. He said his name was Ambrose, but I just keep thinking of him as “the man.” He seemed more concerned about the marks on his skin than I was, and his definitely weren’t self-inflicted. His haunting brown eyes appear in my mind, and I almost drop the razor. I recognized the emotion there. The anger. Everyone has a little anger in them, I guess.

I close my eyes and bask in the pain as my skin spreads around the metal. Warm blood rises within the wound and races down my leg in a steady trickle. I rub my hand through the blood and write the wordwhoreon my pale skin. Just like the man who dropped me off said. Just like my parents believe.

In a way, I am a whore. Dancing and removing my clothes don’t make it so, but I’ve been a whore for a long time. I sold myself for a dream, only to wind up in a nightmare. I’ll wake up eventually, but not today. Tomorrow isn’t looking too good either.

ChapterFive

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