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Olympia
First order of business—remove the shit from my nails. By shit, I mean the white tipped gel Mom always demanded I decorate my nails with. I’d once made the mistake of choosing what I thought was a stunning, beautiful bold blue, like my eyes. I’d gotten a tongue lashing for my unladylike behavior, which I returned with a brave whip of my own before I got the wooden spoon. Hard. I’d been sixteen.
What sixteen-year-old girl on the cusp of womanhood gets hit on her bare bottom with a wooden spoon? Me, apparently, and often.
The saddest part—the spoon wasn’t even the worst of it. The thin leather belt encrusted with tiny rhinestones that connected like a whip—now that left a mark across my ass cheeks. I don’t think I’ll ever outgrow it, no matter the gimmick products I try to erase the thin, puckered scar. I’d earned that scar when Mom’s driver witnessed a nobody boy steal a kiss. The ass-kisser reported my wanton ways to Remira, and I was punished. It had been my first, and last kiss, to date. Sloppy as it was, it wasn’t worth it.
It hadn’t been until high school when I met Charlie, my very first real friend, that I realized being spanked at all wasn’t the norm. Never mind being spanked with an object, and at such a mature age.
“Learn from the lessons taught to you, Olympia.” Remira Laurier’s cool voice echoes unbidden in my mind, and I cringe. “I spared your sister and look what she did. The whore she became. I will spare you nothing. The rod, you get.”
My mother has the personality of a solitaire diamond dripping blood. She glitters and shines, she’s impossibly hard and ruthlessly cutting, but there’s nothing on the inside. Nothing unique or wonderous or daring or soft or loving.
There was a time when she wasn’t so—her. But those memories are faint now that years have passed. They’re buried under all the hate and rage and hurt I keep locked down deep. They’re shoved beneath spiteful, vicious words and cruel, angry touches.
“Argh!” I huff when I find myself picking at the impossible-to-pick gel. My hands slap against my bare thighs, exposed by my rebellious shorts, and I give a concerned glance around the darkened porch.
I’m not sure what kind of night creatures roam in L.A. that might have a taste for young women, who are, apparently, stupid enough to show up at some man’s house in the dead of the night by taxi, only to find herself stuck on his porch with two suitcases as her companions.
My phone vibrates in my pocket as I think of stalking mountain lions with gnashing teeth. I’m pretty sure I recall reading about mountain lions here. With a shiver I do my best to shrug off, I pull it out to see Charlie’s name on my screen.
Charlie:
Did you make it? Or are you dead in some ditch?
I roll my eyes, about to text back when another comes in.
Charlie:
I can be on my way to the cops in five. I’ve got the tracking app, so they’ll find you ASAP. That’s if your killer hasn’t run away with your phone. Then they’ll find him.
Gee. Confidence much?
Proof of life, bitch. Or I’m driving to the boys in blue.
I roll my eyes but can’t help my laugh. I love Charlie way too much. I’d almost went through with it all—just to stay close to her. But then I imagined his hands on me, his body inside mine and…
I force a smile the untrained eye wouldn’t detect a thing amiss with, and send Charlie her proof of life.
Happy?
No. I thought you left so you could stop with all that.
All what?
The fake shit. The phony smiles. The plastic princess bullshit.
My shoulders slump.
You know me too well.
No. I just love you.
You’re the only one, Charlie.
Love you, too.
