Witness

11. Chelsea

I've spent the last three Friday evenings with Damien Mierro, today being no different. 

My clothes are often a little edgy - dark and gothic, usually with fishnet tights and combat boots, but I try and dress down for him on Fridays. Jeans and a oversized t-shirt probably make no difference whatsoever to how Damien views me, but the outfit makes me feel more secure. 

Usually Vik drives me home at around nine in the evening but it's already quarter past ten and I've not seen him for the last hour and a half. Instead I'm sat at a table, bored out of my wit, while Damien's friends play poker. Damien excused himself over half an hour ago and hasn't returned since. 

Maybe that was my que to leave. If so, I haven't taken it. 

The beer is free and I have absolutely nothing else to do. 

It's pathetic, but it's true. 

My life is at such a low point that I'm sitting in a gangsters house and drinking with his friends. 

All I'd ever wanted was an inch of normality. My own car, check. A mortgage. Someone to spend the rest of my life with, who I could come home to and talk about my day with. My mother's obsession with marrying me off might've been annoying, but deep down I knew that I wanted it. 

Aspirations that aren't even that big. Aspirations that I truly thought I'd accomplish, and here I am, Damien Mierro's fucking prisoner. Or play thing. Or just this months entertainment. 

Ironically, Tony Mierro doesn't touch his brothers toys. He hasn't spoken to me since he tried to wrap his hands around my throat and kill me, and I doubt he plans to look in my direction ever again. Truly forgotten. 

Out of the frying pan and deep into the blazing fucking fire. 

The house is nice, at least. Tall ceilings, expensive furnishings, lots of liquor. I drink some more of it and lean back into my seat, glancing to my left and right at the men sat around me playing poker. I don't know the first thing about it but two of them still hide their cards from my view. 

Resistance feels pointless. 

A woman wearing very little walks around with a tray of shots like we're in some sort of strip club and I grab two by instinct, taking them one after the other. 

Someone arrives and looms over me from behind.

"Take it easy, Stockholm." 

"Stockholm?" I ask Damien, barely lifting my eyes from the new drink in my hand. They seem to be coming out of nowhere now, and I'm not about to start complaining. All I want to do is get drunk and forget I exist. 

"You seem awfully comfortable here already. Stockholm fits well." 

I snort. Stockholm syndrome. As if. 

Damien pushes my hand away when I lift it towards another drink. I frown but eye him carefully, letting my face scrunch up. Maybe I'm a little drunker than I should be. 

"Move," he orders, shifting his head back. I let my own head fall backwards, trying to look past his body to wherever he wants us to go. My arms flail slightly. "Fucking - Christ." 

Arms scoop me up. 

"I'm heavy," I complain on instinct. 

"Uh huh," he grunts. 

People don't even turn to look at us. As if this grown man carrying a drunk girl around is completely normal. Maybe I should be worried that I'm about to be assaulted, but I've truly given up on life. All I need to do is fall asleep. Every problem can be handled by tomorrow me.