Lost my reputation | B.E.

Chapter 16: who are you, really?

Narrator: Someone

When she was a little girl, Billie used to love New Year's Eve. She has clear memories of her dad leaning in close to her with a party blower in his mouth, just so it would hit her in the cheek and make her laugh. She also has bits and pieces of memories of family members and remembers thinking, every year, that they'd never looked neater; uncles smelling like shower gel for men - spicy and minty – and aunts carrying the scent of hair spray, ironed curls stiff as marble.

Around age 6, she grew fond of anything that glittered and sparkled, whether it was on her dresses, the plastic crown that came with her princess costume, or just the color her mom wore on her eyes each December 31stat night.

At age 8, it made complete sense, then, when Billie understood more clearly what she truly loved about New Year's Eve. It was not so much for the celebration of a new year in itself, but more so because she always saw beautiful women wearing pretty dresses and bright lipstick and those beautiful heels with the red soles. Her mom never wore such things, but in Billie's opinion, she didn't need to. Out of all of them, she shone the brightest.

Around age 10, Billie discovered she loved the smell of expensive perfume – the ones that sit proudly on a chest of drawers in the bedroom; the ones middle class people spurge on for Christmas and only dare a couple of spritz on big occasions. She discovered that she loved the feeling of being in a crowded room, too, loud music and people dancing as she sat still, staring at the bubbles floating up her father's glass of Champagne.

At age 14, Billie decided that New Year's Eve was overrated, anyway. Over the years, the giddy feeling of celebration had turned into an uneasy feeling right in her gut. Pressure to have the best time of her life. Pressure to be surrounded by so many of her friends. It got even harder when she grew a couple of years older and Billie realized she didn't even have that many to build a crowd.

A couple more years later, and all she can feel is the need to forget and be somebody else.

Billie looks down at two options of dresses she's neatly placed on her bed. She's now an adult, but they look nothing like those the women she desperately wished to grow up to be. Part of it is because she doesn't exactly feel like she's one of them yet; sexy, beautiful, grown up. But also, those dresses she's dreamt of no longer fit her vision - puffy dress, red lipstick, Louboutin heels.

This idea of women she'd grown up with no longer fit her vision, especially the one she'd had when she'd decided to become herself. She no longer wants puffy and red and shiny – she wants skin-tight and black coal and flimsy. She'd always been told she'd be prettier if she looked more feminine – but as she looks down at the dresses staring back at her, Billie can't help but feel like this is the farthest thing from the truth.

Shoulders slumped, defeated, Billie looks up into the mirror in front of her, and it almost scares her to see her eyes filled with so much venom. Had it been anybody else, Billie would've said nobody should hate themselves that much, but with her, it is different. There is every reason to, and even when she tries so hard to be what people want to see, she can't even manage to feel pretty.

She attempts to reason with herself, thinking that she just feels that way because she hasn't put on any of the dresses yet, and that when she's all pretty and glammed up, she'll feel better about herself. She tries to visualize her boyfriend's reaction, the heat of his stare and his compliments tickling the shell of her ear, because fuck, how good does it feel to be desired.

For a few long minutes, Billie fights against the need to destroy Billie, because at least, if she doesn't see any worth in herself, maybe someone will see it in her – her hair, her thighs, the dip in her chest. It briefly occurs to her that from wasting so much time looking for Billie, she came close to missing herself, too busy being an open slit – penetrated by the judgmental stare of women, pumped full of the exigence of men - filling herself with others hoping she'll feel woman again. Loved. Something.