I love her, I despise what she's turned me into. Girls like me get to be the good little housewife. They don't get to be the girls on the back of a man's bike.
After I've rinsed the measly little bit of conditioner I had out of my hair, I cut off the water and step out carefully. There's no bathmat to keep me steady. As I pat my wet skin down with the washcloth, I decide that alone time is the last thing I need. Every time I'm alone, I start to think about everything and it makes me resentful and angry, not to mention really, really sad. Because as much as I hated being treated like a porcelain doll, at least it was something I was used to. There were no surprises.
I dress quickly back in my dirty clothes. One thing Aunt Gloria didn't pack for me was clothes. I've been over this time and time again in my head, why she packed the things for me the she did. Apart from the money, most of the small items in my bag have little to no true use. Surely, there was room for a pair of underwear and a spare bra. When I'm clothed, I walk back into the room to find it empty. Backing into the wall behind me, panic hits me square in my gut. Aside from the fact that I'm not comfortable being alone with my thoughts, I'm just plain uncomfortable being alone. Then I see him, outside on the porch. He's huddled in some kind of conversation with another man. Instead of standing around, spying on their conversation, I drop my bag at the foot of the bed and sit down on the corner.
I'm not certain when the last time was that they changed the sheets or replaced the pillows, but it's better than sleeping in that stupid van, something I wish never to repeat. Summoning the courage, I inch up toward the pillow and lay my head down atop it. It's dusty and there are cigarette burns in the corner , and the odor is just awful. This place isn't a motel. It must be some kind of club thing. I can't imagine anyone ever paying to stay in a place like this. It's beyond filthy.
Lying on the bed, I let my gaze travel the walls. Barely an inch of the painted wooden beams has been spared. Words are written in a sporadic fashion, overlapping each other, making half of them unreadable. In what looks like black paint, the word FORSAKEN is painted in letters nearly two feet high. Beneath that, it says, WHERE SOULS SPOIL AND HEARTS ROT. On the opposite wall in equally large lettering is NEVADA.
I shove my wet hair out of the way, letting it soak the pillow. I'm so far away from home it almost feels like some sort of bad movie. Even having been raised by a mob boss, I'm not prepared for this stuff. It's just crazy.
Outside, Ryan's voice booms. He's yelling now and seemingly unafraid of who can hear him. I want to stay right where I am and not try to listen in, but old habits are hard to break. Crawling off the bed and tiptoeing toward the door, I try to keep out of the line of sight from the sheer curtains covering the window.
"I see what you're doing, son." The voice is familiar. Jim's, I think. It's the logical choice, so I go with it.
"Don't," Ryan says.
"Ruby won't like it," Jim warns. The moment he says her name, I know for sure that it's Jim. With his warning, I know he’s talking about me. I’m not a stupid child, nor am I as innocent as Ruby seems to think I am. What is so bad about being interested in Ryan?
“I don’t give a fuck, and I’m not doing a fucking thing. Get off my back.”
“I’m just trying to help you out,” Jim says, then the sounds of heavy footfalls disappear into the distance.
“Fucking Christ,” Ryan says from the other side of the door. I move away quickly and stand beside the bed, separating my hair in preparation for braiding it. He storms in and slams the door behind him. I give him a casual sideways glance and then go back to focusing on braiding my hair. His mood wafts off of him and is covering the entire room with a layer of anger and frustration.
Plopping down in the recliner, he pulls out a bottle of whiskey from
After I've rinsed the measly little bit of conditioner I had out of my hair, I cut off the water and step out carefully. There's no bathmat to keep me steady. As I pat my wet skin down with the washcloth, I decide that alone time is the last thing I need. Every time I'm alone, I start to think about everything and it makes me resentful and angry, not to mention really, really sad. Because as much as I hated being treated like a porcelain doll, at least it was something I was used to. There were no surprises.
I dress quickly back in my dirty clothes. One thing Aunt Gloria didn't pack for me was clothes. I've been over this time and time again in my head, why she packed the things for me the she did. Apart from the money, most of the small items in my bag have little to no true use. Surely, there was room for a pair of underwear and a spare bra. When I'm clothed, I walk back into the room to find it empty. Backing into the wall behind me, panic hits me square in my gut. Aside from the fact that I'm not comfortable being alone with my thoughts, I'm just plain uncomfortable being alone. Then I see him, outside on the porch. He's huddled in some kind of conversation with another man. Instead of standing around, spying on their conversation, I drop my bag at the foot of the bed and sit down on the corner.
I'm not certain when the last time was that they changed the sheets or replaced the pillows, but it's better than sleeping in that stupid van, something I wish never to repeat. Summoning the courage, I inch up toward the pillow and lay my head down atop it. It's dusty and there are cigarette burns in the corner , and the odor is just awful. This place isn't a motel. It must be some kind of club thing. I can't imagine anyone ever paying to stay in a place like this. It's beyond filthy.
Lying on the bed, I let my gaze travel the walls. Barely an inch of the painted wooden beams has been spared. Words are written in a sporadic fashion, overlapping each other, making half of them unreadable. In what looks like black paint, the word FORSAKEN is painted in letters nearly two feet high. Beneath that, it says, WHERE SOULS SPOIL AND HEARTS ROT. On the opposite wall in equally large lettering is NEVADA.
I shove my wet hair out of the way, letting it soak the pillow. I'm so far away from home it almost feels like some sort of bad movie. Even having been raised by a mob boss, I'm not prepared for this stuff. It's just crazy.
Outside, Ryan's voice booms. He's yelling now and seemingly unafraid of who can hear him. I want to stay right where I am and not try to listen in, but old habits are hard to break. Crawling off the bed and tiptoeing toward the door, I try to keep out of the line of sight from the sheer curtains covering the window.
"I see what you're doing, son." The voice is familiar. Jim's, I think. It's the logical choice, so I go with it.
"Don't," Ryan says.
"Ruby won't like it," Jim warns. The moment he says her name, I know for sure that it's Jim. With his warning, I know he’s talking about me. I’m not a stupid child, nor am I as innocent as Ruby seems to think I am. What is so bad about being interested in Ryan?
“I don’t give a fuck, and I’m not doing a fucking thing. Get off my back.”
“I’m just trying to help you out,” Jim says, then the sounds of heavy footfalls disappear into the distance.
“Fucking Christ,” Ryan says from the other side of the door. I move away quickly and stand beside the bed, separating my hair in preparation for braiding it. He storms in and slams the door behind him. I give him a casual sideways glance and then go back to focusing on braiding my hair. His mood wafts off of him and is covering the entire room with a layer of anger and frustration.
Plopping down in the recliner, he pulls out a bottle of whiskey from
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