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A waitress in a cocktail dress with sky-high heels floats past me, her movements a perfect dance. Even with her hands full of high-class food, she still walks with more elegance than most people I know.
My father’s voice finds its way back into my mind, telling me I don’t belong here. Reminding me that at my core, I’m just trash.
But I force it out.
I’m not that man anymore. The one who lived in the rundown trailer park, in a home that was more shell than anything else. Where the lights never worked, and the water ran brown. In a place where the neighbors may have argued, but our tin walls shook with the force of my father's fists.
It’s a painful thing to remember; my childhood. My life before Divinity.
There’s a reason I ran with Cami and Roman. It wasn’t just because I was craving the sight of long, winding dirt roads and acres of cornfields—though I have grown to love them.
It’s because I couldn’t do that anymore.
Be there.
But more than anything, it’s because I didn’t want to become them. I didn’t want to be an alcoholic with a penchant for violence, like my father. Or be like my mother—someone who loved drugs so much they’d rather spread their legs for their next fix than remember they had a child to feed.
No. I did the right thing. I made the right choice and even with his voice in the back of my head telling me I’m just like him, I know better.
I might struggle with addiction, but I’m not trash.
I am not my father.
With a deep breath, I swallow another mouthful of water, ignoring the sweat gathering on my brow and the way my starched shirt collar is sitting awkwardly. I try to force myself not to adjust it, to not focus on the way it’s rubbing against the wrong spot on my neck.
Breathe.
In.
Out.
In.
Out.
I can’t stand it.
Reaching up, I readjust my collar until it’s perfect. Until I can’t feel the fabric rubbing my skin raw. I stare at the folded napkin on the table, debating if it’s clean enough to touch my face with. I can’t risk staining my dress shirt with sweat right now, but I can’t walk around like a sticky behemoth. It’s improper and I have a reputation to uphold here. An image to maintain.
Fuck it.
Grabbing the white cloth, I bring it to my forehead, letting the fabric hover over my skin while I debate my next move. It smells like bleach, which is the only saving grace I can cling to. If it were bleached, there wouldn't be any germs.
Gently, I dab at the sweat beaded across my brow, cringing every time the fabric touches my skin.
I never used to be this bad. I could walk through a dirty supermarket and not worry about the germs clinging to me. I could leave my bed unmade, or my towels unfolded, but now I can’t. Now, any amount of imperfection makes my skin crawl, like a million fire ants are skittering across my body.
It started four years ago, after Jane’s death. I scrubbed the floor that was stained with her blood for hours and it still wouldn’t come out. Every day, I sank to my knees and scrubbed. I’d feel Eve standing over my shoulder, looking as broken as I felt, but she wouldn't say a word. She’d just silently watch.
Then one day, I stopped scrubbing that spot and moved onto the next. Then the next. Then I realized I had to double and triple check the locks at night, or else I couldn’t sleep. Slowly, I began rereading my Sunday sermons three times—not two, not four. Three.
Somewhere in the last four years, my quirks stopped being quirks and started being my way of life.
My phone rings and jolts me from my thoughts. Carefully, I place the napkin back on the table, knowing I won’t touch it again. Pulling my phone from my pocket, I read the name and let out a quiet groan.
“Hello, Mary,” I sigh. “What can I do for you?”
“Well, I have some news,” she says, sounding giddy as hell. Knowing her, it’s some useless catty drama back home. I pinch between my brows as I wait, already feeling a headache coming on.
