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Prologue
Ineed to find her. I have to find her not for me but for her safety. I can’t let what happened to me happen to anyone else, let alone her. She doesn’t deserve that. She doesn’t even know I exist.
I know about her, though. I have been watching her for many years. Since she was born, I have watched her grow, watched her struggle, and watched her grieve the day she lost her parents. I was there, you know, the day her parents died. They didn’t deserve that, and neither did she. But I have to find her. I need her. I want her.
My forbidden obsession.
Alyx-The Year 1955
What the fuck did I do last night?
I grab my head with both hands, trying to sustain the jackhammer that is happening inside after a night of bloodletting, drugs, and drinking. My entire body feels heavy. I feel like I haven’t slept for two days straight.
All I remember was being woken up at nightfall by one of the group members – Willow, a young, thin, dark-haired girl barely out of her teens.
“Jesus Christ. What the hell happened last night?” I groan.
“You don’t remember? You were pretty out of it but you were a lot of fun!” Willow says, in her high-pitched voice, pointing at me.
I grab my head in pain and wince at the sound of Willow’s annoying voice hitting my eardrums.
“Not so loud, Willow!” I squeeze my eyes shut. “Get the fuck out of here. You’re annoying me already!” I spit at her, ushering her out with my hand.
She squints her eyes at me, “Well fuck you then. I only came in here to get your ass up as you are needed in the main hall, but I won’t bother next time!”
She turns on her heel and storms out of the room. Why do I always end up with annoying women when I am fucked up?
I grab the covers, pull them off me, and try to sit up. Nausea hits me out of nowhere. I sit on the edge of the bed and try to collect my bearings. Ergh, I need to go to the bathroom. I sigh and stand up, swaying on my feet, causing me to grab onto the headboard for stability. One step at a time, Alyx.
I take a deep breath and stagger towards the en-suite on the other side of the room.
This place is a fucking mess. There are clothes strewn everywhere, shoes missing their other half, piles of vomit everywhere. There is a stink in the air that causes me to cough, and I try to hold back the vomit that is lying in my throat, ready to make an appearance. Almost there. Just keep going.
As I approach the bathroom door, the urge to throw up is unbearable, and I lunge forwards, pushing the door open and grabbing hold of the toilet. The chunks of vomit projectile out of me. Some went into the toilet, whereas most went up the wall and onto the floor.
Great. I’ll have to clean that up later. Grabbing hold of the toilet roll on top of the cistern, I rip off a couple of pieces and wipe my mouth off. I groan as I toss the toilet paper into the toilet and flush.
I grab hold of the side of the toilet and hoist myself up to my feet. I look over at the vanity. Okay. It’s only a couple of steps away. We can do this. I take a few steps forwards, stumble, and grab the counter. I hope this feeling passes soon because this is the worst I have ever felt, and I’ve been through some shit. I sigh and turn the cold tap on, letting the water run for a minute. I cup my hands and splash some water on my face to wash away the remnants of the vomit.
I see the cup on the counter and fill it with water. God, my breath smells horrible. I swig and swish the water in my mouth to rinse away anything left.
I set the cup back down, grab the hand towel hanging on the wall, and pat my face dry. I throw the towel towards the washing basket in the corner, missing and landing on the floor next to it with a thud. Oh well. It’s not like I was aiming for that, anyway. I sigh, look into the mirror, and see a shell of a man staring back at me. Jesus Christ! I look like shit. My eyes are hollow. They are not the dark green eyes that generally look back at me. They are more black and more disassociated. The blue specks that used to sparkle are now entirely dull.
I run my hands through my once vibrant jet-black and blue-highlighted hair. It’s greasy and disgusting, and I need to shower. Now my hair is all dingy and dirty. I usually take pride in my appearance. How many days did we party? My pale skin has dark red blotches. I have bags under my eyes, and even my nose is bright red due to the drugs I must have taken over god knows how long.
I run my hand down my face and let out a frustrated sigh. I don’t care that I am needed in the main hall. They can wait. I need a fucking shower.
I look over at the shower to force my body to walk a few more steps. Hopefully, the hot water will soothe my aching muscles. I push off from the counter and stumble over to the shower, opening the curtain. In some places, the walls are brown and black from mould build-up, which smells like mildew. This shower is disgusting.
I turn the knob, and the water slowly starts to drip out. Come on, you piece of shit. Give me some fucking water pressure! Suddenly, something lets loose, and water starts pouring from the holes in the shower head. Thank fuck.
I groan as I take off my vomit-covered shirt and boxers and step into the shower. The water burns my skin as it hits me. I let out a sigh. As I let the water cascade down my back, childhood memories flood my mind.
Water fills my lungs as I gasp for air. The feeling of helplessness., disgusting, and worthless.
“You’re not good enough,” my mother would scream at me as she held my seven-year-old body under the water at bath time. She would lure me into the bath with lies of love and affection. Make me feel like she cared about me and wanted to take care of me. Finally! I remember thinking that first time.
I gladly took my clothes off and got in the bath for her with a smile. She smiled at me as she gently washed my hair and caressed my body with her soap-filled rag. My mother is cleaning me, I remember thinking. Maybe she will clean behind my ears this time. Perhaps now she finally loves me again.
