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I need to get the fuck out.
Pacing the hall outside my cell, I wonder what Angel has been doing all day, what she has been telling them about me. What she thinks about me.
I wish I could be in that interview room. To listen like a fly on the wall. I can do things like that: be in a room and go unnoticed. I've had years of practice. I have actually eaten and slept in places where other people could go days without noticing me. I'm just gifted at being overlooked.
Of course, I'm under no obligation to speak to anyone, because I'm not as important as Angel. No, her opinion is the only one anyone cares about because she's the talking head and what's inside it doesn't matter.
I'd love to sit down and tell someone what I know just to see their shit-eating faces. I'd make eye contact with sweaty Darren, first. Fuck him and his diet soda havin' ass. Then I'd move on to Tara. All she'd do is stare though. She's probably gone retarded from having her hair pulled back so tight.
I'd look at all the suits and say, "Story time, bitches. Pay attention."
I would have to start by admitting that I am a terrible person, but I'd also have to say that I didn't start out that way.
In the beginning I was kinda good. Well, I was okay at being her friend at least. I mean, I did my part by being there when Angel needed me. I stood up for her. I held her hand when she cried and listened to her problems. We took the blows together. Until one day, what we were . . . slipped.
I was still there. The blows were still coming, but Angel was gone. She didn't need me anymore. She had Jake. They'd been together about a month and were all lovey-dovey, all the time. It was a real vomit-fest for me, so I started pulling back. I waited for her to show interest, to ask after me. I was coming around less and less.
I don't think she even noticed.
Then, there I was, with all this time on my hands. The energy I used to expend over Angel and her issues was still there. Only there was no place to put it. Some might say I resented her and that's why I did what I did, but I think I was just bored. Or maybe I finally had time to realize I'd been starving for something, too, that I had needs, too. Only I never noticed until then.
Noticing that . . . emptiness really fucked me up. Because afterward, after I found that unnamable, everything else in my life was crowded out. Almost like a gloomy film was suddenly coating every other part of me. I couldn't focus on anything but this newfound irrelevance that shone like a spotlight in my face.
It was suffocating. It was a bitter tang that came on like a boulder rolling down a hillside. Constantly gaining momentum until it smacked into me full force. I'd tried running but it kept pace with me. I buried it underneath boys whose names I never caught but that rock-solid want would always rise up. Drowning myself in alcohol or getting blurred with sweet smoke never worked long, either. The dulled edges would sharpen the moment my high went away-when the waves of alcohol and THC receded, it always resurfaced.
We were rolling alone together.
+++
I was in trouble and I knew it.
I'd held the shame too close, let it gnaw at my chest. Every minute of the day, it was consuming me. I hated that feeling-of disappearing-of being eaten alive.
I had to let it out and I was ready to use anything I could get my hands on to stop it. What ended up in my hands on one particular day was a pocket knife. It had a long, thin blade, ivory handle, and it was razor sharp.
Sitting on my front porch, I knew that no one would come looking for me any time soon.
I held out my arm. The tip of the blade pressed into the crease at my elbow. I kept it there against the thin skin, just long enough to appreciate the imminent sting. Anticipation had stupid tears filling my eyes. I squeezed them shut. The cuts worked like release valves on a high pressure pipe. If I twisted just enough to the left, just enough to let the hot trickle down my arm, some of the weight would hiss away.
As I prepared to shift the slender edge, a noise from the house carried out onto the porch: my mother and her newest soon-to-be Ex were arguing again. I tucked the knife away and hopped up, aiming for the road. At the curb, I hooked right and kept going, walking along the roadside with my head down.
It wasn't long before I heard the hum of an approaching car. I debated jumping out in front of it, but noticed that the car was not passing but slowing down. When I looked up, I saw it wasn't a car. It was a beat-up van rolling alongside me.
The passenger window rolled down and Jake leaned over from the drivers' seat, keeping one hand on the wheel as he called out. "Hey stranger, need a ride?"
I had no plans, so I shrugged. "Think your girlfriend will care?"
He canted his head to one side. "I'm ninety-nine percent sure that she'd want me to pick you up."
The van came to a stop and I hopped inside. My back sunk into the seat as we took off.
"Where are you going?"
"Nowhere." I examined the colored vest he wore over his green t-shirt. The hardware stores logo was sewn into the left side. "You coming from work?"
Jake took turns glancing between me and the road. "That obvious, huh? You alright?"
I nodded, but said nothing. He wouldn't understand. I hugged my arms together tightly, trying to squeeze the pain from my chest.
