My skinny arms are aching as I spotclean the stained lounge inside the small room. I must try and keep up appearances. It upset the family otherwise, and that in turn upset me. I am not enitrely a criminal. I still have a family, I still have people that think I am beautiful.
You will always have...family. Love them - in fact maybe just for this moment let them love you, close your eyes and feel them and feel a part of you that you never could do without. Let the imperfections slip by. Just be - for one moment - loved. You would be amazed how much your parents will do for you. You are, to them, forever a child - forever loveable. Now for some you , on this time you may struggle to think such things of a family memberthat you don't think you want to love, maybe you were hurt. Maybe you were abused. Maybe you just weren't loved enough. I want you to think of us then, the survivors. I am your family. This is our story and together we will be loved. From the gutter to the stars...
Even though I am quite stoned I manage to collect up the trash. I have spilt one of the overflowing ashtray on the white tiles, soot spray on everything. Straight down my white skirt. I rub it away and it smears. . I hide the needles and apply concealer to my track marks. The shade does not match my skin and it looks pathetic. This does make me sad. I am running out of disguises . I am cashing in on my third and fourth "second chances". What can I do - right in this moment ? I shrug my shoulder to the deafing silence as I spray the room with toilet spray and wipe the mascara ruins from my eyes. Two more minutes.
What is that smell ?
I think it's the fridge. All we had was a small bar fridge laden with congealing rot and takeout containers. I light a cigarette and tensely stare out into nothing. One more minute. The room snarls with smoke and I taste lipstick. I told the Ex to clear out a while ago. Just alone with my thoughts - then alone with him. Light another ciggarette. I exhale and guide the smoke in a plume in front of my face then begin to pace the room.
What in fuck's name could he say to me? I didn't want to be lectured from anyone - I already knew deep inside myself how repulsive I had become. I didn't need no telling. I did not want to see any more tears or wringing hands. I was sick, I was well in the haze by now. I didn't respect him. I only humour him. Ever.
Still I am nervous. I am always nervous when he is around. He has that way of looking past me, so guilty that I still remain sheer under his gaze. He can still see into me. But he cannot get into me. Not anymore. I'm like an angel from a bedtime story, I fascinate him and I intoxicate him. He has never worked me out. Because, he can't. Because I am beautiful. Because, he was cruel.
Because he stole my innocence. My smiles only shatter. My laugh only mocks him. Well, he should of kept his filthy hands to himself. He should of. Maybe things woulda been different.
I don't know - that is something I won't ever know.
Light another cigarette and march to the door in falsetto stride. He is there.
I welcome him inside the home. Not by choice. As always, he looks uncomfortable and I turn my cheek to his peck. I don't have time for this. I just want to get back to my life. To my struggle. You would'nt understand , how much money I needed to make. All your concern, won't put that needle in my arm any quicker. You will leave after tea and forced pleasantries and I will have to walk out onto the highway to wave you out - promising to see you some time. But I won't . I will stand there waving with a plastic grin until you are gone. Then, I will walk out to the same road you left on , I will put out my thumb and then my real life begins. Maybe for him, I won't wait till his car rounds that corner. Maybe you will , for fucking once , see me in your rear-view mirror. You will see truth.
I know he is embarrased by the smell of the unit. I do not care.
In fact if there was one benefit of replusion. I never cared about what he thought of me. I reveled in his discomfort. I felt like I wanted to whack up right there in front of him. What can I say - he fucking makes me mad. He brought me wildflowers I see him offer them into my direction, almost wilting with the the tension that bound us, the blooms suspended in hope. I did not reach forward. They fell to the floor. My eyes, pinned and cold never left his face. I wanted him to explain why he felt the need to come and see me.
Who had sent him. I know exactly what he wanted to do. He wanted to gawk at me. He wanted to stop blaming himself for my downfall.
He did not sit down. I levelled with him.
"So -I guess you have heard that I am a junkie now." It was not a question.
"Yes" Almost pathetically overloaded with remorse "I want to apologise for you know.." he trailed off and I saw his lip tremble. I light a cigarette, the whole time my glazed eyes never leave his face. I want to see the first tear. I want to watch him face me. Entirely.
"No - I don't know?" I refused to bear the pussyfoot. It was my house, and my advantage.
"Back when we where kids - the stuff " He waits for me to jump in, as I had so many more times before, every birthday he had, every christmas we shared , every fucked up occasion I had to pretend that his cock had never been thrust down my throat, that he never crept through the wrong window - and look who he found. Me. Aint I lucky? It went on for three years. He took my virginity at six - it was not stuff - it was all of me and all of my innocence.
I was not letting him chide me into "getting over things" . I was over him telling me how to feel and how to be. He never got that and he never will. There is NO EXCUSE.
He is crying. Telling me stories about being beaten with phonebooks by policeman in the genitals. He was 14. It was hard on us both as children, but if I never said anything to that school teacher on that day - he would of done it for as long as he could. Dad wasn't around. No one knew. I just wanted to fit in and be a part of the "family" But not like this.
Please believe, I never wanted this. I thought you were the family I had always dreamed about.
But the promises broke and the make-believe ran out. So here I am.
I am watching him cry and I feel bad. This makes me mad. It always goes like this. I can't fucking handle his sobbing and pleading - thank god I am stoned. I made sure I was.
I wave away his tears. I tell him that I forgive him - that I won't ever forget and that I am on some made-up rehab program. He stops crying and looks genuine tortured. I know it fucked up his ability to have relationships. Just like it ruined the "first" time I slept with someone that I actually wanted to , and cared about. How it ended with me floating on the ceiling, how long it took me to come down. Does he still feel me under him as much as I feel his wieght on top of me?
I walk him to the door. I am emotionally spent - yet I know that I save the best till last.
"Thank you for coming today. I know it was hard for you. I hope you feel better. I honestly do. It must be so hard to live with yourself sometimes. However, my burden now is that I am sick. The fact you took my virginity is another issue - for a stronger day.
I look forward to this conversation again when I am well. When I am happy. When I am able to look you in the eye and ask you why and make you explain how you could. When it is even.
He recoiled slightly. He was about to feel Heroinegirl , just like you are now. I continued.
In the frame of the doorway , I was free , I was an adult and it was my door to close, not his.
Don't come over when I'm stoned and think you have settled it. This is not over and never will be for you, what's done is done. Now get the fuck out of my face.
I slammed the door shaking. He did not leave for sometime. Then - he was gone.
Perhaps if I was stoned, I would not of faced up to him as strong.
But in the end, I spoke from the heart. In the end , I clamboured over the numbness and I finally got straight - with myself. In the end ... this day became a new begginning.