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Covered in ants.
I scramble out from under the bed and toss it onto the floor, frantically trying to get them off my arms. I scream and cry, and then I scream some more. I let my body sink to the floor and waillike I’m in pain—like I’ve had my guts ripped out because it feels like I have.
Devon.
You didn’t.
How could you?
I punch the floor and tear at my hair and sob until my voice goes hoarse, and I have nothing left anymore.
And then I lie there, face down in my own snot. I look at the mashed-up funfetti cupcake on the floor and the pink icing on the wall, and my stomach growls.
I pick up the piece closest to me, turn it over in my hands, and once I convince myself not to eat it, I cry again.
Then, I go down to the kitchen and open the fridge. I pull out a gallon of milk and chug it straight from the carton for a good minute before replacing it. I take a block of sharp cheddar cheese from the drawer, open it, take two huge bites from it, and then toss it haphazardly back onto the shelf. I dig around for something else and find two giant ribeye steaks.
I take them out, hurl them onto the counter, and then pull a pan from the cabinet below. I toss it on the stove, turn on the burner, and melt butter in the pan.
Because it’s my mother fucking birthday. And now I have nothing to look forward to except this goddamn steak.
I laugh hard at that realization, then decide I need music. I ask Alexa to play Everclear because that’s what my mom would be listening to if she were the one in the kitchen cooking for me onmy birthday. I toss the steak in the sizzling pan, and my eyes settle on Grace’s wine rack.
“Don’t mind if I fucking do,” I say to no one but myself.
So, I pour the wine and cook my steak, and I drink and I cook and then I drink some more. I finish off the steak and make another one. I polish off a bottle and open a fresh one.
I lie on the sofa, putTeen Momon the television, and cover myself with a blanket. I think of Darci and how she’d watch this every night before bed and how, even though I was only over there once or twice a month, it always seemed to be the same three or four episodes that were on TV. I miss that house. I miss Darci’s white down comforter and the smell of their fabric softener. I miss Devon’s eyes on me and cedar and sandalwood.
I miss swimming.
My eyes flutter closed, and the wine bottle slips from my hand and spills all over the carpet.
And I laugh. And I stay there. And I don’t really care what happens next.
I wake up to hands in my hair, and not in a good way.
Grace pulls me from the couch, and I crack my head on the coffee table on my way down to the floor.
“What do you think you’re doing?” she snarls. “You think this isyourhouse, and you can just do whatever the hell you want?”
I force myself up onto my knees, head pounding from the wine.
“You forgot to say happy birthday,” I say right before her fist connects with the side of my face.
My head whips to the side, saliva and blood dripping from my mouth. I wipe it away with my forearm and turn back to face her.
“I don’t care what you do to me anymore,” I tell her. “I don’t care what happens to me. And that’syourfault. This is all your fault because you let it happen.” I attempt to pull myself to my feet. “You’re fucking pathetic—look at you. Everyone acts like you’re some kind of saint. You’re amonster.”
She hits me again, and I lose my balance, just barely managing not to fall again.
“You stand next to him on stage—on TV and in front of everyone when you know what he’s doing.”
“Shut up!” she yells. “Shut up, you disgusting little—”
Her hand shoots out and digs into my hair again, pulling my face into hers, her breath hot against my cheek.
“Just kill me!” I scream. “Do it! Get it over with!”
