I mean, this isn’t reality TV.
Catching my reflection in the mirror, I note the twisted expression, the tightness around my mouth. The way my eyes are narrowed in spite, in hate. I’m practically shaking from it all, from the need to wrap my hands around the neck of not just Marla, but every woman who has what I want, what I want, what I want but will never have…
“You okay?”
Marla leans forward, studies my face, and then slants back and slightly away, like what she sees in my eyes scares her. Freaks her the fuck out.
And I can’t freak Marla the fuck out. Not now. Not when I’m so close.
I need to be her friend. The friend I thought I was becoming, could become.
Bringing a hand to my head, I blow out a breath. “Sorry. I haven’t had much to eat today, and I think this wine is getting to me. Would it be okay if we grabbed some food before we hit the show?”
She nods, looking relieved. I doubt she’d know what to do if I unleashed my crazy, the crazy that’s been building for so many years. Marla’s never dealt with crazy. Never felt true, honest-to-goodness suffering, the kind that breeds in your bones, lays waste to your heart.
Marla is all innocence and clueless privilege.
And as much as I hate to admit it, so is Ford.
“Yeah, I could go for a bite.” She returns her attention to her hair, lips curving up as she studies my handiwork. “Okay,” she says, drawing the word out. “I have to admit, I was worried about the makeup. But with the hair…” She runs a hand over her waves. “…it totally works. It’s kind of eighties, but I like it.”
I release a pent-up breath I didn’t even know I was holding. One of relief. I can feel myself slipping back into character, back into friendly, go-with-the-flow Becky Beckett. Pasting on a wide smile that I only partially feel, I grab a can of hairspray. “Well, speaking of the eighties…close your eyes.”
Too bad I’m already spraying when I say this.
She squeals, and I suddenly feel every bit of my smile.
I know I’m crazy. The inner landscape of my mind has been a slippery slope for a while now, and I’ve been doing my best to keep my balance, maintain my footing.
But it’s hard. So hard.
It’s like I’m running up a hill that’s covered in snow, in ice, and just as I’m about to crest the top, I slip, fall, skid all the way back down. Hit rock bottom.
Swift and brutal.
Elation to desolation in one rapid heartbeat.
But I keep trying, keep on keepin’ on, because the top is where I want to be. It’s where the normal people are. The ones who aren’t wretched and invisible, stained and tainted, broken and wrecked. The people who live without worry, laugh without care, love without thought.
What I wouldn’t give to be normal. To patch my cracks, sand them away entirely. How wonderful would it be to no longer need their sharp edges, the ones honed by my past and kept jagged by my present.
I want to trust in the smoothness of life. The smoothness that everyone else seems to experience so easily, so…fluently.
I want that so badly. So badly, in fact, there are days I don’t even dare admit it.
But.
I’m getting tired. So tired of falling, of slipping, of having to get the fuck back up and start all over again.
Over again.
All over again.
Again, again, again.
I’ve heard it said that Hell is about repetition. If that’s the case, I’ve been in Hell my entire life.
Some people – lucky sons of bitches that they are – don’t know they’re losing their minds. They remain blissfully ignorant of their declining mental states. Comfortably sedated, turned on but tuned out.
I’m not one of them. But I wish I were.
Things would be so much easier. These potatoes with legs don’t have to be subjected to the trauma of witnessing their sanity slip away, piece by precious piece. They never feel the sharp blade of panic press in, dig in, shish kabob their fucking organs when they look in the mirror, faced with what they’ve become yet still able to remember who they used to be.
When their worlds turn dark, they don’t remember the light.
Oh, but I do. I do.
I see my madness. Every day, I see it.
There’s an ocean in my head. Some days it’s loud, and some days it’s soft. But it’s always there, always pounding, a subtle hum beneath the surface…rolling and crashing, rolling and crashing.
Does anyone else out there have to work so hard to not hurt? To not feel like a shattered soul repaired by despair?
Depression turns to desperation, turns to hate so easily.
And I am filled with it.
I can still taste the garlic fries I had for dinner. It’s a foul flavor, and it coats the back of my tongue like a fine layer of yuck that refuses to fade, regardless of how many sips I take from my beer.
Garlic, man. So much better going down than it is coming back up.
I belch, then laugh, and Marla laughs, and fuck this is weird.
“I can’t believe I’m here.” Tilting my bottle, I down what’s left of my drink and shake my head.
Marla, of course, has no idea what I mean. “And I can’t believe you were going to come here by yourself.” She looks around, peers over her shoulder. “It’s kinda seedy, don’t you think?”
I follow her gaze, noting the men in leather biker gear shooting pool across the room. One has a red bandana wrapped around his bald head and a t-shirt with the face of a kitten stretched across the front. The tattoos winding up his arms are colorful sleeves of vibrant reds and greens, and a thick leather cuff is wrapped around one of his beefy wrists. When he sees us staring, he lifts his chin and shoots a friendly grin.
Marla. So fucking judgmental.
“No, I don’t think it’s seedy.” I allow the irritation to seep into my voice, because her attitude pisses me off. “It’s a dive bar, sure. But just because some of its patrons ride bikes or drive pickup trucks caked in dirt doesn’t mean it’s seedy.”
I dislike all people across the board equally, but I’m open minded enough to know that just because someone has tattoos doesn’t mean they’re seedier than someone who doesn’t.
I, of course, learned this the hard way. Nicholas, who appears as clean cut as you can get, wears no notable warning signs. Yet he’s as coldhearted as a snake. The biker with the tatts and kitten t-shirt is a goddamn teddy bear in comparison.
I bet he gives good hugs. Him and those thick arms.
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean seedy in a bad way.” Marla leans forward, desperate, it seems, for my approval.
“Because seedy is such a compliment, right?” I spat.
She pushes her beer away, cocks her head. “Are you okay? You seem, I don’t know, a little edgy today.” Concern furrows her brow. “Did I do something?”
Oh, stop being a victim, Marla. Stop making this about you, you fucking attention whore.
But her ignorance does prove a point. Reminds me that tonight is all about her.
Because Marla needs to reconnect with Andy. Needs to reconnect with him so that I can reconnect with Hollis.
It’ll be so much easier this way, with Marla distracted. And the best-case scenario would be her leaving Hollis, leaving Hollis for Andy, and taking the kid with her.