by R. J. Lewis
Never had someone stared at me with such fascination. After all, I was an object, not a person. I was the short fleeting moment of ecstasy before I was forgotten. Yet this man seemed to look at me not as an object, but as a person worthy of getting to know and understand. And for the first time since I could remember, I cared about what he saw in me.
Could he see my secrets? Could he see the liar that I was? Could he see my sins looking for holes to break out of me? Or was I so fucked up, I was yearning from within for attention, and this was all a desperate mind trying to conjure up something that didn’t exist? Most likely.
“How old are you?” he asked in a low, demanding tone.
I licked my lips as I stared down at his. “Twenty.” Just barely.
“Very young,” he remarked. For a moment, his eyes dimmed and he looked away, shaking a thought that stiffened his body for a second. Then he turned back to me and broke the serious spell he was responsible for creating. “So what made you want to travel to Oz?”
I didn’t care that the strange moment was over. I just liked hearing his voice directed at me. So desperate for attention, aren’t you, Claire? Pathetic.
“Crocodiles, beaches, palm trees and kangaroos,” I answered with a smile.
He laughed lightly, his humour returning. “How touristy!”
“But nobody ever told me about the spiders!”
He looked at my mouth and then skimmed over inch of my face – it was like being fucked by those eyes. “Yes. Nobody mentioned those to me, either. Big as my palm.” He stretched his long hand out, and I absentmindedly noticed scars around his knuckles.
“And the snakes!” I added with more excitement than I should have.
He nodded. “No, we mustn’t forget those. King browns and–”
“Anacondas!”
Pause. “No, little lady, I’m afraid Anacondas aren’t native here.”
Little lady.
Little lady.
I’d never been called little lady before.
I blushed and looked away. “Of course they’re not. I was just testing you!”
Amused, he said, “Of course you were.”
I ran my hand through my hair. Then I ran it again and again. What the hell was wrong with me? I never raked my hand through my hair, but I couldn’t help it. I was sweltering under his gaze. I hadn’t felt like this since I was ten and had the biggest crush on my creepy fifth grade teacher, Mr Crates. That freak collected snails by the bucket loads. Creepy Crates has nothing on this man!
“So tell me,” he said, breaking the awkward moment of silence, “what will you be doing at the Showgrounds today?”
“I don’t know exactly. What would you recommend?” Liar. I knew exactly what I was going to do: eat a shit load of cinnamon donuts, go on a shit load of rides, and chat every hot man up until my pocket was exploding with more numbers than Emily. Competing with each other was a pastime that dulled the boredom. It was also a way to feel more important than we were.
“Definitely the rides,” he answered. “One in particular called ‘Hurricane.’ Ninety miles an hour, the bastard flings you around like you’re made of air.”
“Really? I like being flung around.” Claire, you slut. I eyed him as I said the words with a small, flirty smile on my face. Fuck you, shyness. I was not going to succumb to your horrifying embrace. I was going to be me, Claire Landon, the confident little slut I’ve always been. I wanted this man. I would have gladly fucked him right there on the creaky old seat in front of the middle-aged, decrepitly old, and obnoxiously young.
He was that hot.
“Is that right?” His voice turned pensively quiet as he regarded me with a thoughtfulness that was far, far from lustful.
I instantly felt stupid.
Here was a guy who was conversing cheerfully with me. There had never been an underlying meaning in any of his questions, no hinting that he wanted my number or even my goddamn name! If anything, he appeared suddenly reserved.
He looked away from me and at the random faces around us. Then he turned to me again and smiled the most disinterested smile I’d ever seen in my life. If the word rejection had a face, it belonged to this man.
Suddenly leaning into me, he whispered, “You don’t need to do that.”
I blinked at him in surprise. “Do what?”
“You know what.” His grey eyes, barely a foot away from mine, stared into my own, and it was as if he saw everything.
Who was this man?
“You’re incredibly beautiful,” he then added, quietly. Like this was some sort of secret between us. “The kind of beautiful that would pave an easy way for you in life.”
I wasn’t sure how to respond to that. Nobody had ever spoken to me like this before.
“And you know that, don’t you?”
“There’s nothing wrong with knowing you’re attractive,” I replied softly.
His lips twitched. “While confidence is sexy, arrogance isn’t.”
My jaw dropped. Excuse me? “I’m not arrogant.”
He smiled at me now, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “I see you.”
My heart sped up in my chest. He saw me? What the hell did he mean by that?
“What do you see?” I challenged, half-expecting someone to jump out and tell me I’d been pranked. Because this guy was working my emotions like it was as easy as flipping a switch, and he looked at me as though he could see into every corner of my being.
“You’re broken, and you depend on those looks to give you something you’ve been without. It doesn’t work that way, little lady. And instead of purposely dropping those Skittles into my lap –”
“M&Ms, actually.”
“Next time a simple ‘hello’ would suffice.”
I swallowed a lump in my throat as I replied, “That’s not true.”
“Which part?”
Waiting for me to respond, he cocked his head to the side and settled his eyes on my lips. A part of me wondered if he’d cut the short distance and just kiss me, because lord knows he looked like he wanted to ravage every inch of me.
And dare or no dare, I needed that bloody kiss like a pauper needed money.
“Who are you?” I breathed out in wonder. I’d never dare ask a question like that before, but, damn, I was in a trance and wasn’t thinking straight.
He licked his lip slowly, and something dark passed through his eyes. “Someone that’s no good for you, beauty.”
I swallowed an even bigger lump. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“It means it would do you no good to know.”
“Why?”
“Your world is too safe.”
I inched a little closer to his face. “What’s so unsafe about yours?”
“You don’t want to know.”
“Maybe I do.”
He just stared back at me. I felt a tremor run down my spine. A tight feeling emerged in my chest, and my mind screamed to back away – that I was being drawn into a web I didn’t want to get stuck to.
He was dangerous. I didn’t know how I knew that, I just did. And my naivety made it all the more thrilling. I yearned for excitement in my life. Maybe I just landed on it.
Disrupting our bizarre moment, the train came screeching to another halt. Realization dawned in his eyes as he moved away from me and looked over at our stop.
Then he stood up!
It was like being torn from the bubble we’d allowed ourselves in. Suddenly I remembered we were in a crowded space, and now he was going.
Panic flooded me. NO! I didn’t want him to leave me.
“This is my stop,” he said, looking down at me as he buttoned up the top of his jacket. “It was very nice chatting with you, little lady.”
So that was it? No “what’s your number, little lady?” Seriously?
SERIOUSLY?
I didn’t respond to him, even though he waited briefly for one. When it was apparent my stunned ass had nothing to say, he shot me a nod and ambled off
to the doors. I watched in despair as he stood within steps from leaving.
“You didn’t kiss him!” hissed Emily into my ear.
My eyes widened. Skank was right.
Without thinking, I stood up and took off after him, carelessly shoving aside the people in my way. He couldn’t walk out of my life. I wouldn’t let him. He stepped off the train just as I grabbed the sleeve of his jacket. Startled, he looked back. His eyes widened when they met mine.
“I forgot something,” I breathlessly said, standing on the threshold of the train.
“What was that –” I cut him off with a kiss. My hand gripped his collar as I pressed my lips harshly against his. It was a quick – yet long somehow – meeting of the lips that made my heart race and my body tingle. This… this felt different somehow.
To my surprise, he kissed back, moving his soft lips over mine with a lot more delicacy than me. He tasted of mint and all male, and I would have done anything to slip my tongue into his mouth. Dammit, why didn’t I?
I pulled away and smiled.
Wow.
Un-fucking-believable.
“What’s your name?” he suddenly asked. The emotion on his face conveyed an urgency to know. It made my heart constrict and then explode.
“Claire,” I answered just as I stepped back and let the doors close between us.
He stood still, frozen to the concrete, and watched me in startled fascination. And then the train started again.
For the first time in my entire life I felt loss after an encounter with a stranger. My happiness dissipated the second he disappeared from view. Who was he?
I would soon be too distracted by pain to care.
Two
All my ugly
…One year later…
“Were you just fucking my guy, you stupid cunt? I’m gonna fuck you up, you trashy little slut.”
Trying to get away, I hurried down the alleyway. But hands grabbed my hair and pulled me back. I fell to the ground, air knocked out of me.
“You just fucked him, didn’t you? I’ll fuck you up!”
SMASH!
*****
I opened my eyes, barely able to breathe from the fear. I sat up, with a hand over my chest as I fumbled out of the sheets and jumped out of bed. My heart was racing, my skin was slick with sweat, and my mouth wide open. I tried to scream, but nothing came out. An acidic taste swept my throat, and I knew what was coming.
I raced out of my room and down the hallway, colliding into the door of the bathroom. Shaking, I opened it just in time as puke erupted from out of my mouth. Half of it spilled over the tile floor before I reached the toilet. My body shook violently as I unloaded last night’s small piece of lasagne. Pressure built in my throat and head. All I wanted to do was breathe.
After I expelled everything and then some, I collapsed, half drenched in the vomit on the floor. Not wanting to feel my face, I threw my shirt off and wiped it. I stunk.
I’m vile. So fucking vile.
I groaned and shook. But this time it was sobs coming out of my mouth. I curled up in a ball and pitied my existence for the millionth time this year.
My heart hurt. My chest ached. My body felt weak. My life sucked.
So I cried. Even though it didn’t make me feel better, I cried.
*****
I spent an hour cleaning up my mess. It would have probably taken ten minutes if I actually gave a fuck. Then I took a shower and sat curled up on the tile floor. The water pounding down on me was cathartic. I liked to imagine the water had a healing power and could take away all my ugly.
I stood up on numb legs after and stepped out. I didn’t glance in the mirror once as I dried myself off and headed back to my bedroom. I threw an overgrown sweater on and baggy pants. I tied my hair up and slipped into my beaten up sneakers. Then I grabbed the keychain off my desk and threw my backpack strap over my shoulder.
The day was still young as I moved through the still house. I grabbed my lunch from out of the fridge and slipped out. I put my hood over my head and ambled down the sidewalk. It was a chilly morning. Crossing my arms over my chest, I stared down at my feet as I walked. Despite the early start, cars were motoring down the roads speedily on my way to the bus stop.
I saw the same few people waiting when I got there. I felt their momentary stares, but never was there a word spoken. It was okay like that. Strangers weren’t very friendly, and that was exactly what I liked about people these days. They kept to themselves and were too concentrated on having their eyes plastered to their phone screens.
I didn’t even have a phone anymore. That was my own personal choice, and one that Mom forever scolded me about. There was an irony to that.
However, I wasn’t some electronic boycotter with a message to send. I did have an MP3 player, and it was my most treasured item I carried with me wherever I went.
When the bus came bounding our way, I slipped the headphones into my ear and blasted Everloving by Moby. Oh yeah, this was the shit.
I took a seat on the bus and pulled my enormous sunglasses (ones that made me look like a life-sized bug) from out of my bag. I put them on and stared out the window. I watched the world go by. Watched the countless faces through car windows alongside the bus. The tired, angry looks of some. The bored, discontent looks of others. All so generally unhappy.
What they didn’t realize was I’d give anything to trade places with them.
*****
The morning was painful. The classes went by at a dismally slow pace.
College sucked.
I kept my face down, my hood over my head, my eyes on my notes as I scribbled away. Halfway through History, I opened my sketchpad and continued filling in my latest creation’s face. I sketched the soft curve of Mum’s chin, the distinct lines of her high cheekbones, the crinkles around her eyes. I omitted a lot of wrinkles because, well, I didn’t want to remind her she was fifty three. What kind of fucking daughter would I be if I did?
“Well done, Miss Landon,” said Mr Finch before placing my essay in front of me.
I didn’t respond to him as I glanced numbly at my mark. A-
Whatever.
He moved along and I continued filling in the contours of her face. My lips curled up slightly at the mole on the corner of her mouth. She always hated the look of it. Always wished it wasn’t there. Of course she conveniently stopped complaining about it after the incident.
When class ended, I hurried to the nearest handicapped restroom. No, I wasn’t handicapped, but I didn’t want to go to the female restroom and surround myself with chicks who spent minutes on end re-drawing their make-up, hiding their ugly I would have given the world to have.
So I locked myself up and did my thing. Then I washed my hands and finally looked at myself in the mirror for the first time in four days. Avoiding my reflection was a norm for me. My record was ten days.
I swallowed as my eyes danced around my face. I grabbed the sketchpad out of my bag and flipped to the page I longed for to be real. I placed it against the left side of my face, right down the middle where my sketch beautifully illustrated the perfection I used to be.
When it got too hard to breathe sometimes, or if my morning round of puking was especially brutal, I did this. I looked whole this way. I wasn’t ruined. I wasn’t disgusting.
I was me again.
A tear fell out of my eye as I threw the sketchpad back in my bag and looked at what I’d become. At all my ugly. The marred features always felt like a physical slap to the face. The still pink scars ran deep and thick. Jagged and impossible to see past.
Scarface.
I spat at the mirror. “Disgusting,” I told my reflection on my way out.
*****
“Pick a card,” Emily pressed, flashing the splayed out cards in my face.
I batted her hands away so I could watch the television. “Not right now,” I told her irritably.
“Oh, come on. Screw Jeremy Kyle. Watch me.”
“I li
ke Jeremy Kyle,” I replied. “Their shit lives remind me that mine isn’t so bad.”
She sighed and threw the cards on the night table before crashing on the bed next to me. Chewing her gum loudly, she watched the show for a few minutes. Then she pulled out her phone and started her texting regime, with fingers that looked like they had little motors on them.
“Do you want to go see a movie?” she then asked. “It’d be nice to catch up with you somewhere that’s outside of your fucking house.”
“We can see one in here. Look at all the movies on my shelf.”
She glanced at my bookshelf where the very bottom shelf was occupied with movies I hadn’t watched in a millennia.
She grunted in disdain. “Fuck, there’s like one inch of dust on those things. It’d be like recovering a fossil digging around for something to watch.”
I laughed, and she smiled widely. “See, I can still make you laugh, skank. You’re still human after all.”
“Yeah, well, I certainly don’t look it,” I muttered under my breath.
Her smile dropped from her face. An uncomfortable silence ensued before she said, “I’m going to grab something for us to watch from your mother’s collection. They’re more up to date, which is kinda sad because you’re meant to be the hip one and all. Did you want me to grab some more pieces of pizza on my way back?”
“Not hungry,” I replied.
She sighed heavily and walked out. She knew better than to try and shove food down my throat the way Mom did. My appetite was non-existent, so it wasn’t like I was trying not to get fat. I didn’t give a shit about my body anymore.
When she returned, she popped in a sappy romance movie and feasted on a box of pizza.
“You know,” she said after a few silent minutes, “other people have it a lot worse than you, Claire.”
I knew that. I told myself that every day. But it didn’t make me feel better.
She looked at me sprawled out on my bed with the covers up to my chin and continued. “Some people have burns on ninety percent of their bodies. Or have lost their limbs in some horrible accident. And you know what? They’re still living their lives. They’re doing what makes them happy. They don’t bunker down in their house like a survivor on doomsday.”