Page 18 of Driving My Obsession

Oh god.

I need a drink, but I need a shower first. While I usually feel dirty after work, knowing my mother has seen me grinding on a man makes me feel absolutely filthy. A hot shower won’t do shit to scrub the feeling away, but I sure as fuck plan to try. I place the vodka on the island in the kitchen and scurry to my room, stripping away my sin-laced fabric at the door. When I kick off the last piece of clothing, I feel a bit better. Until I look at myself in the mirror.

Black mascara and eyeliner ring my eyes, reminding me who I am. Who I can’t run from. The girl whose breasts bounced in some old guy’s face while a stalker videoed the whole ordeal from the shadows. The girl whose mother saw it all.

God, I’m sickened.

If she didn’t hate me before, she definitely does now. I don’t know how she could believe I sent it to her. Clearly it’s someone out to hurt me. Shouldn’t she show an ounce of concern? I’m still her daughter, after all.

But I guess that’s not entirely true. Her daughter is dead to her. She buried me when I didn’t choose a career she could brag about to her rich friends. Any concern she feels isn’t directed toward my safety. She’s probably only worried my unauthorized porno will end up in the hands of someone in her social circle. God forbid I become the topic of the gossip mill during brunch.

I turn on the shower and run my hand beneath the water, ready to wash away the grime of the day. The touches. My shame. Not even scalding water would be hot enough for that. I step over the lip of the tub and shut the curtain. With closed eyes, I tilt back my head and let the heat massage my scalp, then part my lips beneath the stream and let it fill my mouth. I scrub my skin until it’s red and raw. After plopping a healthy dollop of shampoo into my palm, I wash a pound of product from my hair and rinse myself off. The water slows to a trickle once I flip the handle, and the pipes rattle within the wall. I get out and towel my hair, then wrap the damp fabric around my body. These mundane tasks don’t cleanse me of everything, but they wash away enough to allow me to feel a little different for a while. I’m a little normal, giving me some space from the line that separates me from my life before the incident.

Sometimes after a good shower, I indulge myself and pretend I’m preparing for a big show. I’ll wake up in the morning and head to a rehearsal that will last for hours. My fellow cast members will watch as I practice my solo. They’ll cheer me on when I land a flawless cabriole.

When I look down at my discarded clothes, it thrusts me back into my reality. My ankle couldn’t withstand hours of rehearsal time, let alone a cabriole. I’ll never prepare for a show again. Well, not that kind of show. No one cheers me on as I perform. It’s just me, myself, and I, and we all hate our life now.

I step into my pajama pants and pull a black cami over my chest. My legs run on autopilot and guide me to the vodka bottle that sits on the island. The cap twists right off, and I pour a hearty dose into an old plastic cup. I tilt back my head and swallow it in one smooth gulp. Some people hate the taste of vodka, but I love it. It’s the first alcoholic beverage that my mother let me drink. She always used to say she’d rather I drink responsibly at home than anywhere else.

I hate how right she was.

If I’d stayed home that dreary fall evening, my life would be so different. My fantasy of preparing for a show would be my reality. I’d have gone to bed two hours ago so I could rest up. I’d be happy instead of miserable. My life would still be the one I had molded since I was a little kid.

From the time I was small, I knew I would carve out my future in a pair of dance shoes. If my mother had known what an impact those dance classes would have on me, she wouldn’t have ferried me to so many of them. She wouldn’t have sat in the audience and beamed with pride during my first solo. When I made a B in sixth grade science, she threatened to take away those dance classes because she thought I was destined for greatness in the medical field. I never made less than an A- after that, but it had nothing to do with a drive to follow in my father’s footsteps. I was more inclined to binge films starring Ginger Rogers than a marathon ofGrey’s Anatomy.

This is called a sign, Mom.

I toss back another shot and wipe my nose. The alcohol opens my sinuses, soothing the inflammation from hours spent in a smoky room. An emptiness fills me as I turn the bottle in my hand. Loneliness creeps up on me like a cat in a dark hallway, weaving around my feet and sending me to the ground. Or maybe it’s always there and I just don’t acknowledge it. Yeah, that’s probably more accurate.

I have no friends. People who I considered friends hung around my hospital bed for a while after the accident. They brought flowers. They offered condolences. Then our paths split. The song didn’t end for them. They had a stage to return to while I struggled through rehab and depression. I learned to walk on my busted ankle, but I never got over the unending sadness. Even the girl who I considered a close friend—the girl who walked away from the accident with bruises instead of broken dreams—hasn’t reached out for months. I wonder what she’s been up to...

I pull out my phone as the alcohol nestles into my gut. There’s a warm glow inside there, and I find myself feeling drunk after only two shots. It’s probably because I haven’t eaten since lunchtime.

I flop onto the couch and search for any news about the girl who drove the car that fateful night. A few articles pop into the feed, but they make me feel worse instead of better. She’s currently touring with a show. Good for her.

My head drops onto my closed fist, and it feels like I’m holding up a giant stone. My whole body feels heavy, actually. Disconnected. The hand holding the phone trembles under the insignificant weight, and a dizziness overtakes my brain. A rolling blackout barrels toward me.

What. The. Fuck.

Since when have I ever gotten drunk from such a small amount of vodka? Tipsy, sure. But this? This isn’t a buzz; it’s a clap of thunder on repeat right beside my ears.

I lie back, letting the couch cushion’s synthetic fibers caress my back. The moment my head hits the balled-up blanket behind my head, the whole room spins. Hard. My stomach clenches, but the overpowering exhaustion trumps the discomfort. My heavy eyelids refuse to stay open, but my chest is heavier, as if there’s a weight above me. Becoming one with me.

I release my body’s tension as it fights the desperate need for sleep. Then I give in.

ChapterTwelve

Ambrose

Oaklyn’s hand falls from the couch and sends her phone to the floor. I back away from the window, unable to contain the smile on my face because my impromptu plan has gone off without a hitch. Originally, I thought I would just lurk outside her bare windows and watch her sadness unfold, but when she brought out the vodka bottle and left it unattended while she took a shower, I knew she’d be back for it. Using the key she keeps under the bench cushion, I let myself in and dropped a little surprise into the bottle. I would hardly call it breaking in, though. She practically asked for me to come inside when she so blatantly showed me where the key was. Now I can snoop to my heart’s content while she sleeps.

An odd silence greets me when I step inside, and I’m shrouded in a sense of unease. When a stranger enters someone’s home, a symphony of screams and breaking glass should announce their arrival as the homeowner tries in vain to steer the intruder away from their safe space. It’s so quiet in here I could hear a mouse piss on cotton.

Shaking off the eerie feeling, I creep through the attached kitchen and enter the living room. I want to rummage through her closets and drawers to find all her dirty secrets, but I’m drawn to her body. It pulls me with the same magnetism she possesses when she’s dancing, but for a different reason. She looks so fucking clean. Innocent. Little cats dot her pajama pants, and the strap of her black cami hangs off her shoulder. Her bright red hair looks almost brown because of the water still clinging to the straight strands. I miss the red waves.

My fingertips move toward her, itching with a need to feel her skin. She’ll be soft. So soft...

I pull my hand away. I need to do what I came here for.

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