The Guily Ones

Bottled up

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When I finally got home, I flopped down on the couch (which, as I remembered with annoyance, I had meant to get rid of long ago) and found myself once again frustrated by how comfortable it was. I could have dozed off right then and there.

After leaving the kids with a frazzled Arlene, it was supposed to be time for me to handle my own business. Supposed to be being the key phrase. 

But instead, one memory after another flashed before my eyes—memories of surviving terrible foster homes. Those who fed and clothed their foster kids decently would definitely have nothing left of the government money by the end of the month. So, anyone looking to make a profit off us had to cut some corners. I knew Arlene really tried with her kids... most of the time. But she could be selfish at times just as well, especially when it came to her love life. 

Her kids were self-sufficient. Way more self-sufficient than kids their age should be. My heart was still pounding with the barely restrained anger flowing through me. 

Not my circus, not my monkeys. Not my circus, not my monkeys... 

The kids were alright. I had given Toby my card. There wasn't anything I could do right now and I wasn't in the position to intervene. I'd done all I could for the time being, but it was hard to let go when you knew what neglect, true neglect felt like. 

I shuddered. Never again. That time was behind me. 

Looking for a distraction, I glanced around the room, my eyes landing on the scribbled wall through my open bedroom door. Today's to-do list? Enhance the house's security. After all, someone had broken in without me even noticing.

A quick trip to Walmart's electronics section and with me being 300 dollars lighter, that task was done. As was I. Exhausted and at my wits' end, I dragged myself through a grocery run, grabbing a few extra microwave meals for Arlene's kids, then headed home, utterly spent. Despite myself, I ended up back on the couch, face down, feet dangling over the edge. Lying on my stomach—an uncomfortable position, you'd think. But still, my eyes drooped, and my limbs grew heavy. 

Time for a nap?

Nope. My swirling thoughts screamed at me, refusing to let me rest. I thought of my crazy dreams, the message on my mirror, and my messed-up childhood. My stomach clenched—not from hunger, but from remembering it—and I grimaced. I hoisted myself up and trudged to the half-off-its-hinges cabinet in the kitchen to pour myself (yet another) large glass of bourbon.

"As soon as all this shit calms down, I'll drink less," I declared solemnly to the empty room, raising the burning liquid to my lips. "Promise. I don't have a problem... yet." The first sip eased my nerves a bit. Bottle in hand, I settled back on the couch.

God, if Tom could see me now... "But he can't. Because he's dead! Woohoo!" Another swig. One for the pain and another for the guilt. Slowly, a fuzzy warmth spread through my veins.

Bored, frustrated, and jittery all at once, I channel-surfed.

Feeling empty?

Yup.

Don't know what to do with yourself?

You bet!

Is life just too much sometimes?

Had the ad writer read my diary?

Talk to your doctor about Prozac, the leading antidepressant.

Groaning, I threw my head back and turned off the TV. None of this was helping.

I was stuck. Between Tom and Eric or James and Eric, Lafayette and Eric... Damn it, between Sookie and Eric.