Violet Addiction

by Kirsty Dallas

  “Keep it down, kids. People are going to assume something fucked up is going down,” muttered Harry, using the electronic controls to roll my window up. “Or fucking up and down, if you catch my drift.” Cain used one hand to cover my mouth and the other hand to tickle my ribs. I wriggled and squirmed as he showed me no mercy.

  “I’m going to pee!” I screamed when his hand finally slipped away from my lips. Ever so slowly Cain drew away from my body and sat up, allowing me to find some composure. He glanced down at me as I lay across the back seat, my feet in his lap. He was smiling. Cain did that better than anyone I knew, took his anger and turned it into happiness.

  “At least I had clothes on,” he whispered, pulling me to sit upright.

  “I would say we are now even,” I said a little breathless, my body hard up against Cain’s. I lowered my head to his shoulder, and he took my hand in his.

  “Until next time,” he promised with a kiss to the top of my head.

  “What are you smiling about?” Cain asked as we dragged our luggage through the airport.

  “I’m just thinking your new Cookie Monster onesie is almost as cool as the fox one,” I confessed. Cain smiled, the blue costume stuffed back in the gift bag he had taken it out of only moments before. We had decided to exchange Christmas gifts at the airport, since we were both headed to our own rental cars and would not be seeing each other again until the twenty-sixth of December.

  “Are you ever going to let that day go?”

  I shook my head. Cain’s fox suit onesie arrest had taken place three years ago, and ever since, for Christmas and birthdays, I had always included a onesie of some kind with his gifts. The Cookie Monster onesie now joined the illustrious list of zebra, crocodile, Batman, unicorn, and teddy bear.

  “There are still hundreds of different onesies available for me to purchase,” I explained.

  “At least the blue will go with my eyes.” He sighed. Cain helped lift my suitcase into the trunk of my rental car before leaning against the driver’s side door to stop me from climbing in. It was cold; the sun had set a good couple of hours ago, and while I could barely wait for the blessed heater inside the car, I also found myself reluctant to say goodbye to Cain. “Please reconsider,” he whispered, his intense gaze holding me still and silent. He was so close I could feel the warmth seeping from his body to mine. I wanted to step into those arms and press myself in the safety of Cain’s embrace. It didn’t matter what I wanted though; what mattered was what Cain deserved, and that certainly wasn’t me.

  “Don’t be silly. Everything has been arranged; my family is expecting me. I’ll see you in two days.”

  Cain sighed and ran a hand down his face. “Okay, but call me if you change your mind and want to leave sooner.”

  I stood on my toes to give him a quick peck on the cheek, but Cain had other ideas. His arms captured me tightly, and his soft lips fell to mine. A kiss to the lips was forbidden, and even though he kept it chaste, nothing more than a whisper of a touch—there one moment, gone the next—it still left my lips tingling with warmth long after he pulled away. “Merry Christmas, baby,” he whispered.

  “Merry Christmas,” I breathed as I watched him head for his rental car on the opposite side of the lot. Dragging my gaze away from his retreating form, I climbed in the car and drove out of the airport. I was home, and rather than excitement and exhilaration, I felt anxious and scared.

  I stood on the doorstep to my family home, my heart beating in my chest as if I had just run a marathon. The two lines of coke I had done in the front of my car only fifteen minutes ago no doubt contributing to that race. My palms were sweating, and I put my bags down to wipe them on my jeans. I idly played with the necklace Cain had slipped around my neck back at the airport. It was my Christmas gift, a deep amethyst diamond in the shape of a tear surrounded by clear cut diamonds. Exquisite and unusual, apparently just like me. I smiled at his underhanded attempt at a compliment. He knew telling me I was beautiful or perfect wouldn’t be accepted, so instead he chose words that I could receive without an automatic rejection. I rapped my knuckles on the front door which was promptly answered by my dad. He actually looked good, which surprised me. His eyes were clear. He had put on enough weight to give his cheeks shape and put a cuddly pudge over the top of his belt. His head of curly blond hair was receding and grey, making him look a few years older than the fifty-seven he had recently turned. He was a bear of a man, tall, wide shoulders, and legs like tree trunks. I always thought of him as my very own big, cuddly teddy bear.

  “Pumpkin,” he said with something surprisingly akin to pride in his voice. He pulled me into his arms, and I hugged him back, always loving these moments of sober clarity that my dad offered me. He was far more affectionate and emotional than my mother, and I was ashamed to say that I found loving my dad far easier than loving my mom.

  “Hey, Daddy, you look great.” My words were honest and full of encouragement. He did look absolutely wonderful, better than I had seen him in a long time. My father’s affection for liquor meant more often than not his meals were of the liquid variety. The fact he looked so good could only mean Mom was doing well, more than likely sober. My father’s health seemed to mirror my mom’s. Perhaps we could enjoy one of those scarce moments of a relatively normal family Christmas. My mood swung about, happiness seeping into my heart. Dad took my bags and led me into the house that was just as I remembered it, perhaps a tad cleaner though, another sign that my mom was sober. My eyes danced quickly over the familiar surroundings before I stepped through the doorway into the kitchen. My mother was leaning against the door that led to the back yard, a cigarette hanging from her lips. In stark contrast to my father, she looked terrible, which caught me completely by surprise. The sight of my healthy father and the clean home had lulled me into a false sense of security. My heart plummeted at the sight of my mom. Her cheeks were sunken and hollow, her eyes cloudy and distant. Her skin was blotchy, her fingers unconsciously scratching at an exposed sore on her arm. This was possibly the worst I had ever seen her.

  “Hi, Momma,” I whispered with disbelief. I cast my dad a worried frown, and his look was pleading, asking me not to make a big deal of it. The room was filled with an awkward silence, my mother choosing not to answer me. It was well into the evening, Christmas Eve, and I noted dinner hadn’t been started. “You want me to help get dinner started?” I offered, moving around the familiar kitchen. I knew it well, having made most of my own dinners here since I was a child.

  “I ordered takeout, should be here soon,” she waved off my offer with a hoarse voice. At least we were eating, I thought wryly. My mother’s glazed eyes looked me up and down, and I wondered what she saw. From the bitter curl of her lip, I assumed it was not pleasant. “When did ya get in?” she asked, drawing back another long inhale on her cigarette. My dad disappeared, most likely to deposit my bags somewhere and give us a moment of privacy. To be honest, I felt far too vulnerable without his presence and hoped he wouldn’t be gone too long. My mom was stoned; I could see it in her eyes. On what I had no idea. My mother’s drug of choice depended on price and availability. She would consume anything from marijuana to heroine, unlike me who had a special affinity with cocaine. From the look of her, I would say my mom was currently under the influence of heroin or meth.

  “About an hour ago, Cain and I had to sort out rental cars then we went our separate ways.”

  “Huh,” my mother said. “You still with that boy? That’s a surprise.” Her words unfortunately didn’t shock me. It was no secret that the Everett’s were a family of wealth and prestige in this town, and it had always astonished my mother how Cain and I managed to find a friendship when our worlds were so different.

  “You got a tree,” I said, ignoring her jibe at my relationship with Cain. I had noticed the Christmas tree in the living room on the way to the kitchen. It was small and sparsely decorated, but it was a tree, and the fact that someone had gone to the effort to put it up was touc
hing. We rarely had a tree during my childhood much to my youthful dismay. My mom shrugged and stubbed out the cigarette in a potted plant on the window sill that had seen better days. I guess if I was being used as an ashtray I wouldn’t want to live either.

  “Your father picked it up yesterday. I told him not to be stupid, we can’t afford it, but he said it would make you happy. So…” she waved her hand in the direction of the living room, “hope you’re happy.” I wasn’t. I was far from happy, but for some reason I didn’t want my mother to know that. It felt as though giving her that kind of information would give her some sort of power over me. As it was, she already held enough power over me, the power to turn me into a dejected, beaten down dog with nothing more than a few simple words. The front doorbell chimed and my dad called out that he would get it. I quickly escaped the kitchen to join him, pushing away his wallet as he tried to pay the delivery guy who stood on the other side of the door, eyeing me up and down with a little surprise. I guess he didn’t expect anything from within this house to appear so ‘together’. Luckily he couldn’t see beyond the clothes, hair, and makeup to the girl beneath who was very much not together.

  “Violet, don’t be ridiculous. You’re the guest; we will pay for it,” my father quietly argued.

  “Dad, don’t talk crazy. You and Mom are putting me up for a couple of nights. The least I can do is cover dinner.” I handed the bewildered delivery guy a fifty, which covered a substantial tip, then followed my dad back to the kitchen. From the look on my stoned mother, funds would be tight, perhaps even nonexistent right now. Maintaining a drug habit was a luxury most users couldn’t afford. My dad quickly pulled plates and utensils out of the cupboards and placed them on the table, while my mom watched from her perch at the door. The frigid outdoor air blew in, and I was grateful I hadn’t taken my coat off.

  “Come on, Diana, close the door and come sit down,” my father encouraged my mother.

  Begrudgingly she joined us. I hadn’t eaten since breakfast and a feast of Chinese sat before me now, but my appetite was painfully absent under my nerves. As my mom fiddled with a napkin, I took the opportunity to closely inspect her. Her eyes were so lifeless, seeming to hold nothing but pain and sorrow within their deep orbs. Her skin was blotchy and sagged, as if the weight of the world was actually pulling her down towards the ground, beginning with her sad eyes and ending with her down cast, mournful lips. Her hair was stringy and bleached into a yellowing blonde, her body shockingly emaciated. Was this my future that I looked upon, I wondered with shame.

  “You look wonderful, honey. The music business is obviously agreeing with you,” said my father in an attempt to shake off the tension that surrounded us. It was odd to see my mother so obviously gripped in one of her fazes of unapologetic addiction while my father beamed with unfamiliar life. Usually when my mother was deeply entrenched in drugs, my father was washing away his own misery with alcohol. My father was also, if anything, painfully submissive. He never did anything without my mom’s approval or input. Right now, he felt like the man of the house, as strong and powerful as his physical appearance.

  “It is. Cain and I have a big concert in Vegas for the New Year. Harry held an auction where people could bid for the performance. There were five clubs bidding with large sums of money. I believe the final bid was somewhere around $85,000, with all the proceeds going to a homeless shelter back in New York.”

  “Why New York? There are homeless kids everywhere,” my mom snapped, completely disregarding the magnitude of what we had accomplished.

  “Then I guess it doesn’t matter where the money goes, as long as it goes to people who need it, right?” I calmly answered. My mom seemed to bite back a retort as my dad fidgeted nervously. Now this response from my father was familiar.

  “So, how are you both doing? Are you still working down at Barney’s?” My question was obviously aimed towards my father. I knew that Mom wouldn’t be working right now.

  Dad nodded and smiled proudly. “Yeah, I’ve got two young fellas working under me. They’re good under a hood; they’ll make good mechanics.”

  “That’s awesome, Dad. Do you make them fetch your coffee?” I nudged him playfully, and he laughed a big, hearty laugh that caught me by surprise.

  “Course I do. What’s the point of having lackeys working for you if you can’t boss ‘em around a little?” I laughed at his easy humor, but the moment was crushed under my mother’s spiteful eyes, and an awkward silence descended over us. My father cleared his throat in an attempt to alleviate the unease.

  “How ‘bout you, Mom? You still getting a few hours at the store?” Last I had heard, Mom was packing shelves a few hours a week, but that was months ago, and from the look of her, I doubted she would find herself sober enough to work a minute, let alone a few hours.

  She shook her head with disgust. “Got fired eight weeks ago, thank Christ. Like stocking shelves was my fucking dream job.” She chased her food around her plate with no real intent on eating it.

  “Try and eat something, Mom. You need to keep your strength up.” If looks could kill, a knife would have pierced my heart and ended my warm beating life instantly. I knew broaching my mother’s health was dangerous, but she looked so sick and frail I couldn’t help myself. Regardless of her bitter disposition, she was still my mother, and for that alone I would always love her, no matter how much she hurt me.

  “You wanna go there?” she hissed.

  “I don’t want to go anywhere, Mom. I just want to have a nice dinner with you and Dad. It’s Christmas Eve, and I’m just glad to be here.”

  “Glad to be here?” she snapped incredulously. “This is the only time we see you. Twelve months to the day was the last time you graced us with your presence. It’s clear that visiting your mom and dad is the very last thing you want to do, but for some reason you turn up on our fucking door step, demanding food and a place to stay.” Her words were sloppy yet filled with poisonous barbs that bit into my heart.

  “I’m not demanding anything, Mom. I was hoping that, as your daughter, you might allow me a night or two in my old room. As for food, well, as always I will pay my way and then some. You will feel no ill effects financially from my visit.” I remained calm even though every fiber of my being wanted to scream and shout at the insanity and injustice of her words.

  Mom pushed up from the table, her chair landing heavily on the floor behind her. “Don’t you dare come into my home and speak to me like that, like you’re too good for me. I don’t need your fucking handouts. I’m not a child. I’m your fucking mother and you damn well better start treating me with a little respect. All I’ve ever done is provide for you, give, give, and give, and what do I get in return? A smart ass little bitch who thinks she’s too good for me.” She was screaming, spewing unkind and careless words that broke the dam of anger and bitterness too easily.

  I stood slowly, my eyes pinning her down as she paced around the small, dated kitchen. “Provide for me? Do your words come from any thought process, or do you simply vomit hate straight from your heart?” My father stirred anxiously, sending me a pleading look to let it go. I wouldn’t, not this time. I was sick to death of my mother blaming me for every poor decision she ever made. “The little you did provide for me was so fucking damaging and pathetic I wouldn’t even shame myself by bringing my own junkie friends into your home.”

  My mom screamed with rage, “You fucking whore.” The words seemed to snap something in her brain, her rattled composure shifting to an evil, knowing smile. “That’s it, isn’t it? That’s where you get all your money and pretty clothes; you’re a whore for that Everett boy, aren’t you?”

  My mouth fell open before I had the good sense to clamp it shut.

  My father stood abruptly. “Linda, that was uncalled for,” he snapped angrily. My eyes darted to my father who had rarely stood up for me and protected me from my mother’s ugly remarks. His sharp voice in a house more accustomed to his quiet submissiveness seemed to catc
h my mother by surprise, too. She looked at him as if he had physically hurt her, and with a narrowed gaze and thin lips pressed tightly, she stormed from the kitchen. With trembling hands, I took a small step away from the table, away from my father who stood looking as forlorn as I remembered, nothing like the laughing, easy going man he had been only moments before.

  “I didn’t realize my visit was going to cause you such an inconvenience. I apologize.” I pushed my shoulders back and turned to leave the kitchen. My bags were, thankfully, sitting on the vinyl recliner in the living room. I gathered them quickly before escaping from the house of painful memories and hatred. I didn’t stumble once in my haste getaway; however, my father’s voice did stop me just before I opened the back door of my car.

  “Violet, wait a moment, please,” he called, huffing in his own haste to reach me. I put my bags on the back seat before turning to face him. I opened my eyes to ask what the hell was going on, but words failed me in that moment. “I’m sorry about your mother,” he said, taking control of the conversation.

  I tried to shrug it off with a nonchalance I did not feel. “It’s no less than I’ve heard before.” Dad rubbed his head in what appeared like an attempt to soothe a headache. “Are you okay?” I found myself asking. He was such a big, powerful man, but right now he seemed so fragile, so lost. He kicked at a loose stone on the sidewalk before raising his head to meet my gaze.

  “I’m sorry, honey. I didn’t do a very good job of protecting you as a child.”

  His apology caught me by surprise. While I knew it was owed to me, I still hated the despondent sorrow in my father’s voice. “You did the best you could. You had to look after Mom, and to be honest, I think she needed you more than I did.” The words weren’t meant to be vindictive and mean, but the tightening in Dad’s shoulders told me they would leave a mark on his heart.