Wife and Girlfriend

Chapter 8

** WARNING - this chapter discusses topics that involve depression and self-medicating.  If either of these subjects are triggering, please avoid reading**

Otanyi

The next week and a half had been anything but smooth sailing.

It had only taken one visit from my sister when I'd gotten home after my first day to realize what level of craziness I'd actually stepped into.

There were pictures of me on practically every social media platform depicting a scene that couldn't have been further from the truth.

All of the images, including the short videos set to music, depicted the soccer star, Tiger Davis, leaving the stage and approaching me in front of the doors to exit, which had been locked. Then there was a flurry of camera flashes, and Tiger hurriedly cloaked his arm around me, shielding me with his jacket, and bustled me behind the curtain.

People had entirely too much time on their hands if this was their form of entertainment.

Social media annoyed me to no end, so I was still nursing a Facebook account that had, until now, laid completely dormant. In fact, I'd only acquiesced and even set it up because my school paper made it a requirement to improve the accessibility of the editors to students on campus. I still remember arguing with my editor-in-chief at the time against making my profile public.

"We were mandated to create an account, but no one said I had to use it," I'd replied when he tried to force the issue.

But he'd quickly backed down when I reminded him that we worked for a god-damned newspaper and should be the first to uphold the values underpinning our nation's constitution as it applied to free speech and maintaining a certain free agency. I was still pissed off that the asshole needed reminding. I could've been a lawyer if I wasn't so obsessed with all things journalistic.

"So, what are you going to do about this?" my sister was on her second glass of Chardonnay, and I wasn't even supposed to have alcohol in the house when she visited. But she'd popped up on me without any warning, so I didn't have a chance to hide the bottles. She'd practically entered my front door and made a bee-line straight for my wine fridge. It'd come standard in this building, just one of the many reasons I loved my new home.

"I don't think you should be drinking when you are on anti-depressants?"

"Shhhh...I'm just sipping it," she answered, pulling her leg underneath her and getting comfortable on top of the lounger that she never wanted me to buy in the first place.

I took a seat on the furthest end of the sofa.

"Sipping two glasses of wine is still two fucking glasses of wine, you idiot," I sister-splained to her.

"Anyway, that shouldn't even be a concern of yours. You have a hot, global superstar trying to get in your panties, and you're worried about the way that I choose to relax. Get more concerned about how you should be relaxing with that hunk's cock in that tight, dusty pussy of yours," she'd started laughing.

Oh shit.

First came the drinking, then came laughing, and soon enough, there would be tears. There always were.

Being medicated had never been her decision completely. In order for our parents to pay her way through medical school, they'd made it a condition of their support that she get treated for depression.

I saw firsthand what toll that promise had taken on my sister. The once beautiful, gregarious woman who had everything in her life planned out before her had devolved into a shell of her former self.