Lindsey and I haven't been together in about ten years, but he still reads me like a book.
I hate it.
It's why I have to avoid him like the plague right now. I've been hiding. From everyone, but mostly from him. I can't have anyone poking around in my personal life right now. I like to convince myself that it's handled. I also like to lie to myself.
Tonight, I'm alone. Mercifully. Richard left after our last fight, and he hasn't come back yet. I thought I loved him for a long time. Mostly, I just hate being alone, and I'm almost forty years old and feeling pretty washed up. I've put on weight since I quit cocaine. The pills they have me on make me completely worthless. The doctor says it'll get better, and I'm too numb to be too upset about it.
The pills are probably why I haven't run. Or maybe I'm just a total coward. I sit on the floor in front of the mirror and dab at the latest gash Richard left on my face. I was supposed to be recording at Lindsey's today. My phone rang probably 15 times. I couldn't show up, not looking like this. The second day is always the worst, and the bruising would have been impossible to hide.
They know I'm not okay. Maybe they think I'm just checked out. I supposed that isn't untrue. I'm also drugged and scared to be home, but even more afraid to leave it. The truth is that I have no business recording and album right now, but making an album is also the only thing that I know how to do. It's the only thing in my life that feels normal.
I used to think that everyone loved me. I used to think that I had a million friends and men that were dying to be with me and that I would never be by myself. It's amazing how quickly everyone disappears when you aren't supplying the coke anymore; when you aren't throwing the parties and letting everyone live your rock star life for a while. It's amazing how quickly you can end up alone.
I also used to think I could have everything. I could live my life and travel the world and make my music have my art and have these beautiful romances, and at the end of the day I could settle down and get married and have kids. What the hell did I do wrong? How do you go from where I was to here?
The first time Richard hit me, I'd hit him first. I earned it. Then it happened again, in the middle of a fight. The more he drinks, the more he hits, and at some point, he started drinking all the time. I just went numb. The first aid kit I hide in my vanity gets restocked weekly, and I've become an expert in corrective make up. A really sick part of me enjoys the art of covering bruises and contouring my face to disguise swelling.
There is no make up to camouflage my reality right now. The gash left by his ring is deep, and the swelling is still serious. I grab the ice pack beside me and hold it to my left eye, looking at myself. No one would believe that this was Stevie Nicks, I think, laughing to myself at the absurdity of my appearance. I don't even think I believe it sometimes.
I hear a key turn in the lock and my chest tightens. I'm not ready for Richard. Not tonight. I instantly turn the lights off, hoping that I can be in bed before he gets upstairs. Maybe he'll let me sleep.
"Stevie? Are you here, honey?" Christine's smooth British accent has never sounded more beautiful to me. I let out a breath I hadn't realized I was holding, forgetting for a second about the bruising on my face. I stand at the top of the steps, not saying anything. She gasps when she sees me, her hand flying up to her mouth in surprise... and the bruises are no longer forgotten. She slowly climbs the stairs, as if she's approaching a wounded animal who may attack her. "Oh, Stevie."
