My Name is Bitch

Chapter 6

Chapter 6

Jane slammed the door shut of the house, rocking the rickety old thing on its foundation.

She proceeded to take her anger out on the stairs, stopping relentlessly before her bedroom door seemed like a better candidate.

Then her pillow seemed like the perfect friend to wipe her tears as she cried into it. And her sheets were ideal for holding her when she most needed it. This girl doesn’t need friends, she thought to herself, they’re all right here, as she snuggled deep into her mattress, ignoring the reminder that her dad will be home soon.

Howard didn’t come home that night; he was far too busy drinking away his paycheck at the local, seedy bar. He had to do something with his problems, so why not drink to ‘em and forget?

Howie laid the drink down on the bar; barely sober enough to notice the people around him, or the fact the he was hitting on the bartender, who happened to be a man.

Someone slapped ole’ Howard on the back, jarring him away from his admiration of the male bartender. His old friend Kenny, from work, took a seat beside him and started blabbing on about God knows what.

Howie was distracted by Kenny’s chin wiggling as he animatedly talked about something or other. By the time he was done, his whole face was red.

“So what do you think, Howie?” Kenny asked.

Howard blinked a few times, nodding his head in agreement because he had no idea what he was talking about.

Kenny kept talking and Howard’s room started to spin.

Jane startled awake at midnight, surprised that she got some sort of peaceful sleep in. She assumed that her dad was up holed at some bar, spending the rent money.

She wiped at her eyes groggily, happy to have the house to herself and to allow the peace to soak deep into her pores and the silence to echo throughout her mind.

The peace didn’t last long when the memory of the kiss resurfaced. When she replayed the kiss over and over, trying to find the source of why it happened.

And source of why she never wanted it to stop.

James lay awake in his bed, his walls crowded with posters, trophies, medals, and achievements blaring PERFECT LIFE into his ears. He wondered what Jane’s room looked like, if it was the place she went when she needed time to herself.

He never even thought she might go to her room for safety, to hope that one day she might make it out alive.

Because Jane was running out of shooting stars, abandoned eyelashes, and rabbit feet. Her dad stripped her of wishes; all that she had left was dwindling hope.