Intoxicating

I'm A Sad Girl, I'm A Bad Girl

Leia's POV

I stared down at my phone, an Instagram post from some random girl from school glowing on the screen, but my mind was miles away. A memory I hadn't thought about in years came rushing back, hitting me like a wave. I was eight years old again, standing in the middle of the dance studio, the sunlight flooding through the windows, making the wooden floors gleam. I could almost feel the smoothness of my ballet shoes against the floor, the soft music playing as I twirled around, weightless.

Back then, everything was so simple. My dad had signed me up for dance class, beaming with pride as if I was going to be the next big thing. He never missed a recital. Always front row with a bouquet of flowers that were too big for my tiny arms to hold. He'd call me his little star, tell me I was the most graceful dancer he'd ever seen, and I'd believe him. I felt invincible when I danced, like I had this secret world all to myself.

But that world fell apart when middle school came around. The fights started - not the small arguments that used to blow over in a day but the kind of fights that left cracks in the walls and hearts. Plates shattered. Doors slammed. I'd lie in bed with my pillow over my head almost every night.

The night he left is still burned into my brain. I stood at the top of the stairs with Zan, watching him throw his bags in the trunk of his car, not even looking back at us. That was it. He was gone. No explanations, no goodbyes, just the screech of tires as he drove away and left us behind.

I gave up dance not long after that. I couldn't step foot in the studio anymore without feeling like I was about to fall apart. My dad stopped showing up to recitals, and it was like the love I had for dancing just withered away. What was the point if no one cared? So, I quit. Packed away my ballet shoes and shoved that part of myself into a box I didn't plan on opening again.

Dad never called, never wrote. He was just... gone. Sometimes I think it would've been easier if he'd died. At least then, I could've grieved. But this? How do you grieve someone who just decides one day that you're not worth sticking around for?

And then there's Mom. Some days, I wish she'd go away too. I know that sounds terrible. But the truth is, she's just as absent as my dad ever was, even when she's sitting right in front of me. She's more interested in the bottom of a bottle or whichever guy she drags home than she is in her own daughters. Every night, it's like living with a stranger. One who's too lost in her own misery to even notice what's happening to the people around her.

It's exhausting. Pretending like everything's fine, pretending like I don't care. But I do care. I care so much it hurts, and sometimes I feel like I'm suffocating under it all. I'm angry at her, at both of them, for how screwed up everything became. For how I've had to be the one to hold it together for Zanny, while Mom slips further and further away. Sometimes I wonder if I'll end up just like her. Sometimes that scares me more than anything.

I can still hear him, my dad. His voice rings in my head like an echo I can't shake, calling my mom a "fucking whore" over and over, like it was her name. He'd scream it at her every night, not caring that Zan and I were upstairs, listening through the thin walls. Not caring that his words were branding themselves into my brain, burning an imprint I'd never be able to scrub out. It's stuck with me, those words. I promised myself I'd never end up like her, stuck in a cycle of bad decisions and worse men. I swore I'd never let anyone treat me like that.

But then... I think about how things have gone, and I'm not so sure anymore.

I try not to let it get to me, but I'd be lying if I said the past didn't creep in sometimes. Like those nudes... God, I can barely even think about it without fucking cringing. It was stupid, so stupid. One second, I'm sending them to someone I thought cared, someone I trusted, and the next, the whole school had a copy. I became the subject of every dirty joke, every whisper in the hallway. I felt like I was walking around with a scarlet letter plastered on my chest. A fucking whore. Just like my dad used to call my mom.