I don't sleep for the rest of the night, just stay awake listening to the sounds of the city. I only feel safe to sleep when the sun comes out once more and the old clock outside the abandoned movie theater across the street reads noon.
As I lay there trying to sleep, I think to myself that maybe it should strike me as depressing that this isn't my first time out on the streets. Maybe I'm supposed to look down upon my past with disgust. I guess I'm supposed to rise above the mistakes I made and the consequences that came with them. But by definition I'm always supposed to fall into the same traps over and over again. I'm a villain, after all, or at least I was. And villains never learn.
So when I wake up uncomfortably damp and stiff on the cracked concrete underneath the overhang, I apologize to Delores, take my only twenty-dollar bills, and go to the only place I can think of- the bar.
Smoky's Shack, or S.S as it is so fondly called by its regulars, is probably the most disgusting bar I've ever been in. It definitely lives up to its name, because in addition to place looking like a single gust of wind would send the entire structure tumbling down, when it's not out of business it's so thick with cigarette smoke that it's almost impossible to see at times. Other people avoid S.S like the plague. I find that I fit right in, especially now when I'm tired and dirty and battered. Everyone here is a little rough around the edges. Just like I am. But not quite- because I'm not making the same mistake I made yesterday. I'm using the best I've got- an illusion that would fool even that German bitch. Now I look all pretty, put-together, and stronger than I feel.
As soon as I step across the threshold, a red dart flies right by my face and sticks into the sagging board on the other side of the room. A guy with dinner plates for hands high-fives his buddy, who is smoking the fattest cigar I've ever seen. I keep my head down low so I don't accidentally make eye contact and offend anybody, and I only deem it safe to look up when I'm seated at the long counter.
The bartender is a very Goth lady with way too many piercing and a half-shaved head. She greets me with a spacey look that suggests she's either incredibly stupid or is on drugs. It's probably the latter.
"Whaddaya want?" She chomps on a wad of nauseatingly raspberry gum. The Goth bartender commends my silence with a roll of her makeup-crusted eyes.
"Vodka. Cheapest you've got," I tell her, folding my arms across my chest and looking away. I've got this panicky feeling in my gut, and it just worsens every time I glance at the twenties sticking out of my pocket. One half of my brain is telling me: you're making a huge mistake. The other half is telling the first half to shut the hell up.
"You sure you're up for that, buttercup?" The bartender smirks a little at her own wittiness, but grabs the bottle of clear liquid from behind her anyway. Her many lip rings flash as she pours me a glass.
"I'm tougher than I look," I respond dryly. She doesn't say anything, just hands me the glass. When I tip half of the glass down my throat and swallow unflinchingly, she raises an eyebrow. "What are you looking at?" I challenge her. She just rolls her eyes once more and turns around, with a look on her face like Oh my God, these crazies I have to deal with. I'm left with in peace to nurse the last half of my first glass. I notice that I'm getting some strange glances from the gangster-wannabes seated next to me, so when nobody's looking a thick black tattoo of a snake winds its way up my shoulder. I figure it's a bit of tribute to Delores, who may have inadvertently saved my life last night. To fortify my image, I throw in some Emo eyeshadow and some ridiculously dark lipstick. Hey, when in Rome...
The guys around me happen to glance over again, and they do a double take, probably thinking wow am I drunk.
Anyone who would look over would see an ordinary but tough-looking woman, not the ragged blonde woman with the bandages and the crazy eyes. They don't see the twisted, very not-ordinary interior, and I'd like to keep it that way. But if I continue to drink- and I will- I don't know if I can keep the amount of concentration it takes to uphold an illusion. That's why I never use them if I know I want to get drunk, because it comes with a risk of exposing myself to others and blowing my cover. I guess this time I just couldn't help myself.
Don't do it, my brain screams. Fortunately my logic is quickly overruled by my overwhelming lack of judgement and I down another glass. A soft buzz starts to creep its way through my veins. There's the uglier part of me resurfacing once more- the part that really doesn't give a shit. It's the one that craves that next glass, because drowning in oblivion is better than facing the reality of my life's hopelessness.
"Maybe you should slow down, honey," the Goth bartender is back. Does she see that my tattoo is starting to shimmer and fade? That my shirt is slowly giving way to the dirty stains and the rips underneath the illusion? That my hair is losing its luster and the brown eyes mix with the tired blue? Can she feel that I'm slowly losing myself like a boat cast out at sea without an anchor or any means of steerage?
"Gimme another," my tongue starts to feel like a slippery eel in my mouth when I speak, and that thought makes me laugh giddily to myself. But I guess I'm laughing too loudly because the bartender is giving me another concerned look.
"Do you have someone to take you home?" She asks me this like she has firm belief in the goodness of the world, like there will always be someone to catch you if you fall and there will always be a home to come back to after a rough night when you just want to close your eyes and go to sleep.
"It's just me, myself and I, sweetheart," I giggle back to her as she reluctantly places another glass before me. Her concerned frown wavers for a moment as my concentration starts to slip away from me and my nose starts to change shape. She quickly turns away, blinking rapidly.
Another few gulps down my throat. Enjoy that feeling as the world gets fuzzier, as the lights overhead seem to dim and you can't smell the cigarette smoke lingering in the air. Ignore the fact that you're spending the last money you own, ignore the fact that your bones are broken along with your heart, ignore the fact that you might not survive the night. Let your inhibitions spiral away with your pain and your worry; succumb to the wallowing feeling of drunkenness. Let go of your life preserver.
I'm gripping the counter and then suddenly I'm not. As I tumble off of my stool and land on the floor, I see patches of bruises starting to span across my skin. Someone tries to help me to my feet. Amid my confusion and desperation, I shove them back. Oh God, what if someone sees me? Somehow I manage to get to my feet, grabbing onto the edge of some stranger's table.
Someone is trying to talk to me, but their voices sound distorted, like I'm underwater. My world spins as I stagger and crash my way through the smoke-filled crowd, trying to make it to the restrooms on the other side.
"Someone's gotta hurl!" I hear a drunken voice. My heartbeat thumps like a bass in my ears every time I lose my footing. The alcohol starts to take over, making my bones feel like noodles and my head like a bag of cotton candy.
My hair is sticking to my sweaty skin. Because it's long now. And blonde streaks run through the greasy locks. Shit. Shit. This was a bad idea.
No, it wasn't. Don't you feel so free?
My physical pain may be gone, my grief muted like I'm a living TV, but I'm not drunk enough that I can't realize how much of an idiot I've been. I bump into a flock of giggling, sequin-covered girls, and they all scatter with squeals.
"Don't throw up on me!" One of them is laughing, sounding like a fire alarm. It hurts my ears. I feel the carpet give way to smooth tile and I tumble through a door, praying it's to the women's restrooms.
My feet fold underneath me and I topple to the floor like a felled Redwood tree, feverish skin meeting grimy tile. Bile rises up from my throat and is suddenly coating the floor around me. I can feel my illusion shattering as I retch, can feel my head start to sway once more. For one terrifying yet hopeful moment, the bathroom stalls and the porcelain sinks blur before me and I think I'm going to pass out. At least I can't feel my leg.
My cheek is resting in a puddle of my own vomit, and I lay there without moving because I don't think my limbs will respond to me anymore even if I tried. Every time I try to think, my thoughts spiral away from me like they've grown restless wings. I wish I could fly away, too. I wish I didn't have to be me. I wish a lot of things, but I'm always let down. Every time that life gives me hope, it's brutally taken away from me- like I'm Charlie Brown kicking at that football, only to have the world pulled out from underneath me.
Tears run down my cheeks.
"I'm sorry," I whisper to myself, even though it's hard to form the syllables I want to say. For whatever it is I did to deserve this. I'm staring up at the crumbling plaster ceiling, wishing I was a little bit drunker and at the same time hating myself for letting myself get this way once more. Villains never learn.
I hear the bathroom door swing open. Footsteps make the thin, bacteria-ridden tiles underneath my skin tremble slightly.
"Jesus, Maya," A body thumps down lightly beside me, and a cool hand gently pulls my hair back from my sticky, feverish face. "Why do you do this to yourself?" He sounds like he's about to cry.
"Don't be mad at me, please," I rasp, closing my eyes and relishing the feeling of his hands running through my hair. The world spins a little bit slower.
"How could I ever be mad at you, love? Come on, let's get you home." Dave's firm hands grip my shoulders and help me up into a sitting position. He doesn't seem to mind the fact that I'm covered in my own regurgitation.
"I don't have a home anymore," I hiccup. For a moment I can't remember why. "Reggie got me 'victed." My tongue feels like it's swelling in my throat. I'm going to have the worst hangover tomorrow morning.
"You're homeless now?" He seems so alarmed. Then I realize it's because he doesn't know me. Not the real me, anyway. "Is this Reggie the reason why you look like a semi hit you?" He pulls me close to him when another tear leaks out of the corner of my eye. I let myself sink into his embrace, breathing in the smell of the fabric softener on his shirt- so jarringly different than the pungent scent of the cigarettes just outside.
"How d'ya find me?" For a moment, I'm afraid that I'm going to slip away again. The edges of my vision start to cave in like I'm running through a tunnel that's swallowing me whole and all I can see is the light at the end. But I ignore the sleepy buzzing in my blood and I focus on staying awake.
"I felt bad about what happened in Walmart, so I went to find you. I checked all the bars in the city. This was my last stop. I didn't see you at first, I just saw--" he takes a long breath, and I can feel his chest rise, "-- that other woman. The brunette one. The one who you were, but then weren't. I saw you running towards the bathrooms, so I followed you. I needed to make sure you were ok. What happened, Maya? What is going on with you?" His fingers run lightly across where a tear in my shirt exposes a part of my stomach and the discolored bruises dappling the skin. I flinch and his hand pulls away.
"If..." my tongue slips again and I close my eyes, focusing on getting the words right, "I tell you, you're going to hate me," I whisper. I feel him sigh again. He rubs his thumb underneath my eye, catching the tears gathered there.
"I'll let you explain when you're feeling better, ok? I'm going to take you home," he tells me. He sounds so caring. I almost can't stand it. It doesn't matter how kind someone is; they'll never be ready to hear the truth. I'm a monster and if anyone found out who I really am it would all go to hell.
"I told you, I don't have a home," I murmur in reply. He starts to get to his feet and gently but firmly drags me up with him. He puts my arm around his shoulder to support me. I'm too drunk, too tired, to protest.
"You'll always have a home with me," he tells me firmly. He half-carries me through the restroom doors, through the crowded bar, and out into the cool fresh night air.
"I can't leave Delores," I mumble absently. Dave turns to look at me, stopping. The wind tousles his sandy hair.
"You brought your pet snake with you?" He sounds touched. Someone kill me now.
"Yup."
To be honest, I don't really remember what happens next. I have brief glimpses- Dave ending up carrying me to his car, me rambling on about steroids and black mambas, and a very surprised man I take to be Dave's boyfriend. I remember thinking that I'm definitely not looking forward to tomorrow morning, before I surrender to the sleepiness and the alcohol dragging down at my bones.
YOU ARE READING
Super?
Adventure"Stop pretending to be an idiot, idiot." Ouch. It burns. "You're starting to sound like a dear old friend of mine," she adds, her tone implying that her "friend" isn't so much of a "friend" as a mortal enemy who she probably also dragged into an all...
