Page 2 of My Brutal Beast

“So you’re bailing on us again? I don’t know why I expected anything else from you,” Amy hisses as she crosses her arms.

I haven’t bailed on them that much, have I?

“Guys, I’m sorry if I haven’t been around lately. I’ve just been working really hard for—”

“Your promotion, we know!” Heather throws her arms in the air with a loud huff. “All you talk about is your fucking promotion—”

“And we’re starting to believe it means more to you than we do,” Chelsea says as she settles back into her chair. The corner of her mouth curls and I realize she knows. She knows exactly what those words will do to me.

I’m instantly sent spiraling through space and time into the body of the small child who was made to feel worthless, like a burden to everyone who should have cared about her. Guilt claws at my heart. I would never want to make anyone feel like that—never want to hurt someone in the same ways I’ve been hurt—and my friends know that. They know I’ll be too lost searching for absolution to care about my self-preservation.

The memory fades, but the pain is everlasting. My lip quivers as I push myself to speak. “I’m so sorry. I never, ever want any of you to feel that way.”

“We know.” Chels reaches her hands across the table to grasp my own.

“We know you’re busy,” Heather says as she rubs my arm, “but it just feels like you’ve forgotten about us.”

“No! No, I swear I haven’t.” I shake my head and hold Chels’ hands tighter.

“Then hang out with us tonight, okay? It’s just one night, and it would really mean the world to us,” Amy says, squeezing my shoulder.

I nod because for some reason I can’t say the words. And if I were paying attention, I would have realized their grasps feel less like warmth and comfort and more like weighted chains tying me to them, pulling me where they want me to go.

But I don’t. I don’t realize it when they pile into the back of my car and direct me where to go. In fact, I understand the rationale. It makes more sense to take one car and for me to drive. That way, I can’t leave them when I want to. And of course, I don’t complain. I’m too busy feeling terrible that my friends know I’ll want to go home long before they do. But they promise me that they’ll respect my limits no matter what and we’ll call it a night with enough time for me to get some sleep for tomorrow.

I still don’t realize their manipulation when they laugh over large margarita glasses but don’t even bother to ask if I want something as simple as water. Nor do I realize it when they call a group of guys over to our table, bat their eyelashes, and shyly stroke the men’s arms and egos, until they convince them to dance—leaving me completely alone.

I’ve never been extroverted like they are. I prefer to keep away from large gatherings, and the rare times they’ve dragged me to a party, I’ve waited in some dark, vacant corner until they’re done. It might be inconsiderate to leave me to be hounded by men and fend off people who want to take our table, but it’s what I’m used to.

But when Chelsea, Heather, and Amy ask me to cover their two-hundred-dollar tab because they all “forgot” their wallets in their cars, I start to realize it. When I keep trying to call it a night only to be yelled and cursed at by my so-called friends until finally, to save the peace, I drive them to another bar, I start to realize it.

And now as I watch them dancing, their laughter spilling out around them while they tell each other drunkenly how much they love one another, I can’t unsee it. I don’t belong. I’m invisible to them, and I wish I could say it wasn’t my fault. I wish I could blame someone else, anyone else, but I can’t.

The reason I’m sitting at this bar is because I’m gullible, naive, and fucking stupid. I have spent so much of my life being those things that I don’t know how to be anything else.

I’ve always wanted to see the good in people, to believe that there’s good out there. I thought if I worked hard enough, went to college, got a job, made friends, dated, and tried to fall in love, the ache inside of me would finally go away, but it didn’t.

Instead, it’s grown bigger and bigger, and like a fool, I’ve continued to tell myself that one day the ache of loneliness will subside. That if I continue to stuff my life with what society promises will make me feel fulfilled, I’ll be happy. Maybe I would be if I had picked the right people.

But they never understood me beyond how they could use me, and all this time that’s what I’ve been feeling. That has been the horrible distension in my gut, the negative cloud that envelops me every time they call. I’ve stuck with them and said “yes” at every turn because I’d lost everything once, and I didn’t want to be left alone again. I thought trading my comfort for their companionship—for people who wanted me when no one else did—was worth it. But it isn’t.

My intuition has been screaming at me since the beginning that they don’t care about me, but I was so starved for affection that I ignored it.

And I would continue to if I could. I’d live in my little bubble with my fake friends, busting my ass at a job I don’t even like, surrounded by people who steal my ideas and put down my contributions. That life may be unfulfilling, but it’s mine, and I know it inside and out.

But that life no longer satisfies me. I can’t accept it anymore; my exhaustion won’t let me. I’m simply too tired to continue to let myself be treated this way.

Something in me has snapped. I can no longer see the world with the same rose-colored glasses. I can’t simply believe that if I try a little harder, fake it a little longer, I’ll eventually get to where I want to go. But I don’t know what to do. I don’t know where to turn.

Right now, I want to walk away from them and never look back. I can almost feel my legs moving, feel the wind in my dark curly hair. I can taste the fresh air of the parking lot and the thought of driving as fast as I can from them feels like heaven. A release to the pent up misery I’ve known for far too long.

But I also know it’s wrong. Regardless of how upset I am with Chelsea, Heather, and Amy, they’re drunk. Anyone could take advantage of them, and while I’m sure at least one of them has their cell phone, I doubt they’d be able to order an Uber by themselves. Honestly, I wouldn’t be surprised if they hopped into the first car that showed up without even checking if it was their driver.

So, I’ll stay. I’ll temper my hurt, ignore the pitiful look from the bartender who knew I was being played from the moment we walked through the door, and use the next hour to figure out how to get through all of this. Because it isn’t just about dropping my friends. It’s about conquering the fear that makes me feel and fixing myself so I never let this happen again.

2

CASSANDRA

---