Chuckling as she makes her way to my bed.
"God knows you need it. You need to impress Alexander Russo."
She sits down at the end of my bed like a queen, crossing her slim legs and looking at my reflection through the mirror.
"You know, he's second in command. This means that someday he will be the boss. He will own this city and all who work and live under his rule. You'll be his queen."
The bitter tone in her voice as she says the word "Queen" lets me know she hates me even more now.
"How the fuck you landed this guy is beyond me. He's hot as fuck and built like a Greek god. Screw a 6-pack, this guy has an 8-pack."
She lifts her hands and starts looking at her beautiful manicure. I look down at my hand, my nails are short due to the fact that most of the time I have paint under them, and it's hard to dig out with long nails.
I've never taken the time to look this guy up or even read the folder my father gave me to look over. What's the point? My fate is sealed, so why invest more time in something that will only draw the darkness deeper?
I can't talk to good-looking people, especially men, or most people really. I can't form the right words, or I start to babble, and that's even worse because then I start to talk about shit no one wants to hear. Who gives a crap about art history, except for other art history majors or painters? I've spent years in therapy and have no social skills to speak of... Oh God, this marriage is going to be a disaster for both of us.
Rebekah tisks her tongue and returns her attention back to me.
"It's a waste, really."
She gives me the once over, her eyes pinching together in disgust. I wrinkle my brow and whisper, "What's a waste?"
She runs her eyes over my body again, mentally ticking off every fault she's forever pointed out.
“You!"
Christ! That one hurt, like right to the heart. She rises from the end of the bed and walks up behind me, flipping my hair over my shoulder; she grabs a handful and piles it on top of my head.
"Put your hair up for once, and change out of this fucken dress. You look like a sweaty ho." As she steps back, letting my hair tumble down, covering my face, she gives my head a little shove forward.
Pawing the mass of hair out of my eyes, I turn and watch her head toward my bedroom door. Over her shoulder, she states, "And put some makeup on; you look like a drowned raccoon."
And with that, she slams the door, leaving me to start my breathing all over again.
"Chester, Charlie, and Chad." Breathe in.
Breathe out, "Chester, Charlie, and Chad."
I am beginning to feel my muscles relax. This works!
It's short-lived as I think about tonight and meeting my husband-to-be. He will perform his duties, I think as my mindbriefly races.
He will drag me to social gatherings and parties until he gets tired of paying for a wife he can't stand to look at. Then, one day, an "accident" will "happen" to me, releasing him from the conditions of the contract and providing him with his freedom while keeping the status that came with the marriage.
No condo and kitty cats for me... just a bullet.
Once again, fear causes my eyes to widen slightly, and I start sweating profusely as I contemplate what my life has become. Never-ending fear with tiny increments of happiness.
Fear. The basis of my life.
Fear of my parents, fear of the disappointment I am to them. The fear that one day I'll fall into my head and never come out. The fear I'll never be what this so-called "Greek God" of a husband needs. My vision starts to fuzz again, and like a crack addict, the warmth of the void pulls me again.
Nope! Not going to happen!
I snatch my pills and pop one in my mouth and swallow. Tilting my head back, I look up at the ceiling and watch the blades of the fan whiz by.
So what are your choices here, Izzy? Fall into the void, your home and stay there. It could work, but then I'd miss my job, painting, and Anna. She is my co-worker, guru, and my best friend. She's more of a sister than Rebekah has ever been. Speaking of which, I should text her. She always sets me straight.
