My eyes heavy with loss, they floated closed for a moment longer than I anticipated. When I opened my tear clouded eyes, I saw the collection of white and brown boxes covered in a thin layer of undisturbed dust under my bed. Each package was a proposition from Mr. C, they were reminders I kept hidden of how much he still resided just below my skin, even a year later. He knew the power he had over me and seeing those boxes conjured an ache that thundered across my soul. He was my breaking point, the one I was convinced I could quit, just after this one last time.
I stretched my hand out to the closest box and pulled it toward me. In its wake the box scraped out an unmistakable clear path along the dusty hardwood floor, more evidence that I was disturbing the demons I struggled to keep dormant. It represented the agonizing moment when I would be at my lowest and seek out those who were the most damaging to my soul. I tossed the first box on the bed and collected another, then another. I didn’t stop pulling the packages out until they filled my entire bed. I welcomed Mr. C’s bribes like a lost friend, hoping by piling them up I would see the evidence of what I meant to him. I dropped my head one last time to the shabby hardwood floor and saw a silver cylinder tucked under the edge of a manila bubble mailer. The clank against the hardwood floor and the lopsided roll that led me to the buried past under my bed replayed in my head. Realization clung to me like an old friend . . . it was Sybil’s lipstick. I reached out and grabbed it and collected the last package from Mr. C.
I turned over and sat back against my bed. Chills rippled across my skin as memories shuffled through my head. Memories of Sybil as she dragged her dark-red lipstick across her mouth before she rolled and puckered her lips. How she would constantly go around and kiss all the mirrors in the apartment.
“Sybil, why the fuck do you keep doing that?”
“It’s the best way to keep track of my new favorite colors.”
“No, all it does is create more work for me. I try and look in the mirror and all I see is your freaking kisses are all over it.”
“Nobody asked you to clean my lips off the mirrors. Maybe you should look at yourself so my kiss is on your cheek and lighten up a little.”
I craned my neck, I looked over at the mirror behind the front door, and my heart tumbled into my stomach. Just a couple of days ago I had cleaned all the mirrors in the apartment. Sybil’s colorful kisses wiped clear from the reflection, without a thought of never seeing them again. Something she did which was so irritating, and now a reminder of how desperately I ached to have them back.
All right Rose, it’s time to shut this shit down. Yep, time to pull your ass out of this fucked-up moment and callous your heart. The familiar judgmental voice I’ve listened to all of my life echoed through my head.
Look at yourself, curled up on the floor! Nobody is coming to save your shit, Rose. There isn’t anybody who’s willing to shoulder Sybil’s life. Her family isn’t going to fucking come pick up her shit. You know it, deep down; you have to admit that nobody ever cares about the broken girls buried in shady back alleys or abandoned buildings.
I was good at shutting down, better than most my age. I’d lived my entire life filled with the sheer agony of wounds rubbed raw by the people who were supposed to love me. You couldn’t offer your body to perfect strangers and not expect to have scars. Take it from me; it was for the best when you couldn’t find a place to bury your feelings. It was the only way you stay somewhat sane when your heart was trampled and you were numb.
I reached over and picked up the dusty bubble mailer from the floor next to me. It was the first package Garrett, Mr. C mailed me after I told him I wasn’t going to see him anymore. It was the nastiest kind of torture when you fell for a date and pinned your future on him hoping he’d save you from all the dirty fucks who never gave a rat’s ass beyond just getting off.
I got up, stood there and stared at all the bribes Mr. C sent me before I pulled open the edge of the package, tilted the bubble mailer and watched the contents tumble out.
A soft black cashmere scarf fell into my hands. I caressed my thumb against it before I dragged it across my face. A deep hollow ache returned to my gut, a crave I had had for someone to fill the deserted hole left in my heart. But, I knew this scarf, every feeling it evoked through my body, every sharp stabbing fear it seared into my soul, all the memories of our three days together knotted into one night where Mr. C had broken me and shredded my heart. Truthfully, a year ago it was the scarf which had become my only comfort. Today, it pulled me back into a memory that was seductively frightening.
It was all so stupid because broken girls aren’t given hooks to hang their dreams upon. I wasn’t given the key to the castle; I was buried below the dim streetlights and darkened skies. I will never be the princess or the queen; I will always be the call girl, a romp in the hay, the whore for hire. At least with Mr. C I was with someone who gave my pain a purpose. I held the scarf to my nose, and inhaled, hoping I’d capture Mr. C’s essence. Disappointed, I dropped the scarf to the floor and it became lost against the black shaggy area rug. I was alone in my apartment, nothing but thoughts and memories thundering through my head.
PAST