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Some days I wished I believed in God. I figured if I believed in God then I could ascribe some kind of purpose to the pain. I could believe that there was some person out there watching me and thinking “Yep, this is all for a reason.” Without God, I didn’t have that safety. I didn’t have that security. I had to navigate the waters on my own.
And it totally sucked.
I imagined the people who had faith could relinquish some of the pain. On days when it became too unbearable, they could say “God has a plan for me” and the pain would lessen. I couldn’t do that. I had to lie on my couch and stare at the ceiling, knowing that beyond the chipped plaster there was nothing watching me.
And that totally sucked.
I had tried to believe in God, I really, really did. When Christianity didn’t work out, I tried to be Jewish. I went through all the Judeo-Christian religions: Catholicism, Protestantism, Judaism, and even Islam. When none of them felt right, I read the Bible. Because maybe the Bible held all the secrets that the pastors and priests and imams just couldn’t grasp.
Did you know there’s a section of the Bible where a rape victim gets cut up into twelve pieces and sent to the twelve tribes of Jerusalem? That was the punishment for the rapist, to cut up the victim. Yeah, well, suffice it to say, after that story I couldn’t keep
reading the Bible.
After the Bible failed, I tried other religions. Wicca, Buddhism, and the like. Nothing stuck. I just didn’t feel that moment that people feel. That “a ha” moment where they know someone is out there. When you talk to a person of faith there’s a resolute and unwavering dedication that can only come from some kind of certainty. I never got that. Not with Christianity and not with Satanism.
So now I lay on my bed and stared at the uneven grooves in my ceiling, wondering what could possibly be the purpose for a person like me.
Seventeen
I drove home from my weekly trip to Tony’s feeling queasy. The tears had stopped but I still tasted them on my lips, a salty reminder of how far I’d sunk. Law had been texting me non-stop. On more than one occasion I readied my finger to block him, but then stopped. So my phone sat in a cup holder, buzzing like a wasp.
Now, I stared at a green light, knowing I needed to drive. Cars were honking and I was causing a traffic jam. I couldn’t bear to go home, though. It was so empty. Raskol wasn’t there to greet me. I couldn’t afford heat so it almost felt colder inside than it did outside. I hadn’t gone to work in weeks. Paychecks had stopped coming because they don’t pay you if you don’t work; go figure. My house was not a home, it was a prison. I was locked inside with my thoughts. I was trapped with my demons. I was jailed with my memories.
“What the fuck are you doing?” someone yelled out their window as they zoomed past me. I was still stopped at the light.
“Bitch!” another yelled, their middle finger jutting out. Just as the light was about to turn red, I zoomed through. I quickly pulled into the parking lot of a yogurt shop, about to hyperventilate. Even though I was parked, my car was still on. I knew it was bad for the environment, but I couldn’t focus on anything.
My phone was buzzing, a reminder of the betrayal that was still fresh like a knife in my side. I had always suspected Law…but I would have been lying if I’d said I hadn’t started developing feelings despite that. My head fell on the steering wheel as the weight of everything became too much to bear.
A knock sounded at my window and I jumped, turning to see who it was. My heart fluttered, the traitorous thing, as I thought it could be Law. Even though his knife was still firmly in my back, I wanted to see him. How pathetic was I?
My eyes widened in surprise when I saw who it was. Turning off my car, I opened the door and stepped out.
“What are you? Some kind of stalker now?” Effie laughed. I stared at her, unsure what to say in response. It was pure coincidence that we were at the same yogurt shop. Salt Lake City was often called “Small Lake City” for a reason. She knew that. We’d joked about it. I didn’t owe her anything, much less a reason for why I was parked at a public yogurt shop
“What happened to you, Effie?” I asked. “Don’t you remember us?” This was the girl that on the day my parents died had held me until I stopped crying. Now she was looking at me as if I were shit on her shoe.
Effie folded her arms. “I remember how crazy you were and I’m glad I got away before you did something to me.” She took a step back as if I was going to pounce or something. With one arm I rubbed my shoulder, trying to comfort myself. It was as if my sister was saying these things to me and, yeah, it hurt.
I wished it didn’t. I wished I was strong enough to just get in my car and flip her the bird. I wasn’t; I just didn’t understand how she could do this complete 180 on me. We had been so close. How could she possibly believe what was said about me?
I had no words left, nothing to argue. I had run out of steam months ago when the paparazzi had hounded me night and day. I was sick of explaining myself, sick of defending the fact that I was raped. The fact that I had to defend myself to Effie, who was basically my family, made me nauseated.
On top of that, I was dealing with yet another betrayal. I looked from Effie and up to the gray cloudy sky. A bit of blue sky briefly peaked through before it was smothered by a cloud. I sighed and shook my head before turning back to my car.
“Go back to your miserable little life, Nami,” Effie said to my back. I spun around, furious. I didn’t care if we used to be sisters; she had crossed the line. I stopped and turned to face her. She had a smug smile on her face, the kind she usually reserved for men who bought her drinks. I looked at her yogurt and back at her smug face. Without another thought I shoved her yogurt in her face.
She screamed, “You fucking freak!”
“And you’re a judgmental, spineless bitch. I’m glad we both know who we are.”
Wiping the yogurt off her face, Effie sneered. “I don’t know how we were ever friends.” I watched her, with her streaky, yogurt-covered face. Done up in the latest fashion, she wore black riding boots and black designer jeans with a flowing peach top. Her hair was inky black, cut into a sharp bob. On her right arm was a big, black Marc Jacobs bag, and in her left hand she had the rest of the yogurt. I knew she wouldn’t have eaten it anyway. Strike that, she would have eaten the top of it.
Later she would go to the gym and work out for a good two hours. On her way home she would text her friends about going out that night, then complain later about how she always had to be the one to set up plans. Everyone would meet up at some bar and she would kiss her current boyfriend on the cheek then proceed to flirt with anyone in sight. Afterward, when everyone had gone home, she would text. And text. And text until passing out with her phone on her chest. Then she would wake up and do it all over again.
“Me either,” I said. I turned around and hopped in my car before Effie could say anything more.
I gripped my steering wheel, stuck at another light. This time it was red, but I feared for when it turned green. My phone continued to buzz like an angry insect and it was starting to wear on my willpower. As it buzzed another time, I reached for it, ready to chuck it out my window. The words caught my eye, though: “It’s Jameson. I’m sorry but I can’t report your story.”
