I Was Made For Loving You

Rescue Me

Creeping through the door of my house, the familiar sense of dread settles over me.
"You're back late," my mom slurs, spotting me from where she's sat at the kitchen counter, a half-empty bottle in front of her. Clearly, she continued drinking after I left. Her words were like an accusation, as if my mere presence was an inconvenience to her drinking.
"Carlyn, is that you?" My step-dad's voice booms from the living room. He emerges, his face red, and his eyes narrow. "Your mother and I have been worried sick. Where have you been until this time of night?"
I bite my lip, knowing that they don't like me being on the strip late at night
"I-I was just at work. We had to do a stock take and deep clean the coffee machine." I stammer, my heart pounding in my chest.
"Until 1a.m?" My mom lets out a harsh laugh. "Don't make me laugh, Carlyn. You work in a coffee shop, there's no way you were there all this time. You're fucking that boy that works there, aren't you? Just like the little slut you are." Her hurtful words sting, but I keep my gaze lowered, not wanting to see the contempt in her eyes.
"Believe it or not, I WAS working. Just because you used to sleep with anything and anyone does not mean that I do?" I shoot back, unable to keep the anger from my voice. "Maybe if you two didn't spend all your time fighting and drinking, you'd realize I'm not the disappointment you make me out to be!"

My step-dad takes a menacing step forward, his eyes flashing with anger. "Watch your tone, young lady!!"

I feel trapped, caged by their expectations and my own inability to escape this toxic environment. My anxiety creeps up on me like tendrils of smoke, clouding my thoughts and making my breath come in short gasps. I knew I should say something, but the words stuck in my throat. Instead, I turn and flee to my room, my familiar refuge from their constant bickering and my own inner demons.

That night, I toss and turn, my mind replaying the day's events. I feel like I'm leading a double life, and the weight of my secrets press down on me. Shauna is the only person who really knows what my home life is like. I almost considered confiding in Brendon earlier, but something held me back. I didn't want him to see me as a burden or, worse, pity me.

For the next few days I manage to avoid Brendon at school. As for the nights, I find solace in the bright lights and bustling crowds of the Las Vegas strip. Back to my anonymity among the tourists and gamblers, my problems fade into the background as I lose myself in the city's electric pulse. Wandering through casinos, sipping on free drinks offered by friendly bartenders, watching street performers and buskers, grateful for the distraction they provide.

Tonight the soft melody of a street musician's guitar draws me closer. The sweet, melancholy tune matches the feeling in my heart. Sitting on edge of a fountain, I watch the coins glimmering at the bottom. His song ends, and he offers me a polite smile, his eyes curious beneath the brim of his hat.
"You play beautifully," I say.
He inclines his head, his eyes warm with gratitude. "Thank you. It's kind souls like you who keep me going."
I offer him a faint smile in return and turn my attention to the sky, where the first stars of the night are beginning to emerge. "It's a nice change, being appreciated for once."
"I know what you mean," he replies, his fingers plucking a gentle rhythm. "The world can be cruel to those who show their true colours, but it's important to keep shining, no matter what."
My heart twists at his words. "It's easier said than done."
"Indeed, but the night always reveals what the day obscures," he says, his voice carrying a hint of wisdom. "Your true friends will find you in the darkness, attracted by your light."

I feel the weight of my isolation pressing on my shoulders. "I'm not sure I have any light left to offer."
"We all have our moments of darkness," he continues, his gaze empathetic. "But it's in those moments that we must create our own light. For some, it's music. For others, it might be art."

My eyes widen as I realize he is alluding to my sketchbook, which I have been subconsciously clutching tighter during our conversation.