Same/Difference (The Depth of Emotion #4)

by D. D. Lorenzo

  Vegas.

  I’d always been able to lose myself in this city. I have a tendency to get lost in my own head and the Vegas vibe always took me to a place where the mundane fell away and the magnificent shined. You’d think that all the commotion would have create pandemonium, but when I’m in the midst of it I hear the words of an old hymn that my mother would sing when she was besieged with things she couldn’t control; it is well with my soul. I was nowhere near having the amount of faith that my parents did, but when so much was happening that I would become dazed an airplane became a church. I’d feel the decompression begin and my confusion would become crystal clear. I’d get rid of the muddled thoughts by confessing in the tabernacles of Prada, Tiffany and Dior where my penance was done in dollar amounts. By the time I returned home, my veneer was bulletproof. I’m recharged and ready to stand my ground against anyone and anything, especially the bitch that tried to kill me both physically and professionally.

  Marisol Franzi.

  Her profession is very unlike my own. She’s an international model known for a flawless physical form. But she’s proof that beauty really is skin deep. Her soul is a dark pit where happiness goes to die. Her kind of nasty creeps through the cracks of her beautiful face. She’s possessed by psychotic manipulations that have threatened the lives of my friends. Her madness has created an illusion of aesthetic normalcy but it disguises an evil web of deception. She’s a human black widow. She sucks the lifeblood of any poor soul who shows vulnerability. I was once among them and felt the effects of her venom firsthand.

  Never again.

  I closed my eyes and erased the mental pictures. I had to stop marinating in what was behind me. My thoughts had to be purged of all the negativity, and the only one who could do that was me. If I wanted to enjoy my trip I had to enjoy what was right in front of me and leave the stressful things behind for the next few weeks. For now, all I could think about was getting a hot shower and a good night of sleep. Exhaustion was not my friend. The shadows of my self-critical nature have a tendency to take control when I’m not well rested, and travel days had a tendency to be the worst. All I had to do was grab the key to my room from my purse.

  Room 1022 was calling my name.

  Once I was inside I closed the door behind me. I leaned against the backside of it and took a deep breath. I wasn’t able to enjoy much solitude before meeting Liz for drinks and now I couldn’t wait to get settled in. My bags were brought to the room upon my arrival. The valet humored me as he brought my luggage in but I saw him strain when he lifted the largest suitcase. The problem? Shoes and accessories—but mainly, my shoes.

  I had to stifle a laugh. He was so polite when I tipped him but I knew he suspected that’s what was in there. I didn’t try to explain because I didn’t have to. Men would never understand how or why women were obsessed with footwear, but to the female species they were an unspoken language—not to mention they really made our legs look good!

  I laid my clothes out on the bed and arranged my outfits. I had my mother to thank for my love of clothes and accessories. Some people would think what I was doing to be odd, but I loved it! My mom has always been beautiful and stylish. I inherited her fair skin and deep brown eyes. I grew up in an upper, middle class family and my parents lived on a budget, but my mom dressed us so well that people thought we had more money than we did. Even after my accident. That was when her true talent came into play. She was creative when it came to hair and make-up and, when I became a teenager, my mom taught me her skills of illusion.

  Most of my memories of the accident were jumbled. I was such a little girl that I barely remembered much about it, but for years I’d heard the details. I knew more than I remembered but what I did remember was that there was a lot of pain. Of course I couldn’t remember the actual pain, but I remember how it made me scream. While I recovered my mom diverted attention from IV drips, bandages, and pain medication with hairstyles and fashion magazines. In the days after I was discharged from the hospital my mom would page through them as she sat with me in bed, often until I fell asleep from the painkillers. It was just a diversion to pass the time and I liked having my momma nearby. I never dreamed that the distraction of pretty things could be a lifeline.

  Like most children, I was resilient. I healed, but the scarred skin hurt and itched. My mom would apply cream and would gently massage the soreness away. She later told me that every day in the hospital she was planning how special my first shopping trip would be. I honestly don’t know how she did it. I mean, how do you console your child when you are hurting for them? Her way was to spend some girl time with me. Just mom, pretty clothes, and me. I was little and she thought a big girl lunch would right my world to its former, happy axis. I guess it sounded silly, but unless you’ve been in that situation you couldn’t possibly know what you would do. What I do know is that my mom tried to prepare me for what was to come and how I could fight it.

  “Sweetie, one day, people may not be nice to you. You mustn’t pay attention to them.” Her momma’s expression was tender. Paige carefully put her little cup of hot chocolate on the saucer. Her nose wrinkled up and her forehead furrowed in confusion.

  “Why would they be mean to me, momma? You always say I’m nice with my friends.” She reached across the table and held Paige’s little fingers in her palm.

  “Baby, they might not see you the same way that daddy, Ricky, and I do. We think you’re a brave girl, and we think you’re beautiful, but some people…they only look at the outside. They shouldn’t, but they do.”

  Paige touched the edges of her bandages, her little fingernails sparkling from the polish her momma applied.

  “Momma? If you kiss the booboo’s, will they go away?” Kyla swallowed the lump in her throat. She only wished she had that power! She moved a tendril of Paige’s silky hair, pushing it behind her shoulder.

  “Baby, if I thought that would work I’d give you a million kisses—no, a billion kisses. Dr. Dylan said it would take time. Then we’ll see how you heal.” Paige reached up and placed her hand on Kyla’s cheek.

  “I want to be pretty like you, momma. Daddy says you’re boo-ti-ful.”

  She noticed tears against her mother’s lashes, and wanted to console her. Laying her head against her mother’s chest, she coiled her little legs around her waist and hugged her.

  “I love you, momma,” she whispered.

  It was one of my first memories of being in the hospital. I had revisited it so many times but I wished it hadn’t surfaced now. I was tired. Bad things happened when I was tired. When What usually was a sweet recollection could become a nightmare. Remembrances of helplessness, both mine and mom’s could put me in a bad funk.

  I exhaled the unconscious breath I’d been holding and placed the last outfit in the closet. My shoes were tight and I sat down on the bed to pry them off of my swollen feet. It didn’t matter how high they were or how uncomfortable I felt after wearing them for ten hours, the Vince Camuto’s were one of my favorite pairs. I’m sure some psychologist would have analyzed how accessories camouflaged my insecurities but I didn’t care. For years the pretty things I bought and wore were my magic. They cancelled out hospital smells, painful bandage changes, and pitiful stares. I placed them in the dark recesses of my mind but they could resurface at any time.

  Like now.

  I could still hear the name-calling, the taunts, and see the ugly facial expressions. They made me feel like I didn’t measure up and never would. Although my mother was an angel she learned the hard way that she couldn’t protect her little girl from a broken heart. The worst offenders were children with cherubic faces that became devils when they weren’t monitored. Mean girls.

  I stretched, flexed, and pointing my toes while I tried to put the sad thoughts back into their box in my mind. I had many boxes there. All were childhood memories, some pleasant, some not, but neatly catalogued nonetheless. As I grew up part of my healing was through counseling. They taught me to concentrate o
n the present in order to avoid the pain of the past, but I wasn’t always successful. It was a work in progress and I was still working on it.

  Although it was necessary for me to live in the “now”, relaxing my body couldn’t hurt. The flight had cramped me but the drinks relaxed me. Volleying the two was a perfect mental health cocktail—and not a good one. An exhaustion that was physically and emotionally draining was creeping in. My internal clock wasn’t cooperating well and, now that everything was put away, a hot shower sounded pretty good. I grabbed a tee shirt and some clean panties. The need for sleep was threatening to push me over the edge of rationale. My thoughts were beginning to get muddled and I felt scuzzy from the recirculated air on the plane. Shower. Sleep. Now. It was an easy formula. All I had to do was follow it.

  I picked out my outfit for the next day, a little business, and a little pleasure. Liz and I had registered for the conference but we also were planning to look at a few properties. I was thinking of buying a condo for my Vegas visits. Of course, the absence of hotel pampering could greatly hinder my decision. I loved room service.

  As I closed the closet door and placed my clothes on a hook I caught a glimpse of my reflection. Just like Narcissus, I was drawn to it, but there was one, big difference between us; I wasn’t in love with myself. Not at all.

  Quite the opposite in fact.

  As I looked in the mirror she stood before me. The girl that never measured up. The one that everyone hated. The one they brought to life because they hated her imperfection. In my sleep- deprived, maudlin state, I looked at her through their eyes. I pushed the dress off my shoulders but it was she that looked back at me. Her eyes watched it flutter to the floor, but it puddled at my feet. The girl in the mirror was the object of their cruelty. She fixated on the lacy bra and panties that I wore beneath, but she was disgusted by something so pretty against something so foul. I saw her as a conqueror, but all she saw was a freak.

  I should have shifted away from the mirror, or told her to look away. We didn’t coexist peacefully. I chastised myself because all I had to do was take off my underwear and step into the shower. Instead she hooked me through my peripheral vision like an unsuspecting fish. She knew I was weak when I was tired, and she took advantage of it. I wanted to turn away—but I couldn’t. Like a shark she fixated on my massacred flesh. The waters of exhaustion were the perfect opportunity for her to take a swim in my wounded mind. She swam in the waters of my anxiety, compulsion, and ritualism while I stood helpless on the shore side of the looking glass. They ripped her spirit apart with their bloodthirsty appetite. The voice in my mind screamed for her to fight, to turn away from the perilous waters, but when I was exhausted she swam alone in a masochistic ocean. I couldn’t pull the broken girl from the riptide.

  I watched a tear warm her skin as I reached behind to undo the clasp of my bra. Hypnotized by the girl in the mirror the breath I was holding escaped. She watched the garment loosen on my breasts. It slowly danced down her curves and hit the floor at my feet. My perfectly manicured fingers caught the edges of lavender panties and she watched with sick fascination. For one, brief moment we were connected by our love of the color purple, but it wasn’t strong enough to hold us together in our striptease. I pulled them down over the image of her hips and they added to the pile on the floor. The logical side of me was sacrificed to the unlovely girl. She was beaten with a whip made of memories, all to pay for the sins of an event that should have never taken place.

  I stood beside her watching and felt the dampness on my skin as she suffered the strokes of a commemorative accident that tore apart her heart. The memories braided and formed leathery strands that flayed her confidence until she was bloody. I’d been a witness to this scene many times before and no good ever came from it. Years of both of us staring at the scars only exacerbated the self-judgment. Her gaze traveled up, connecting our eyes, and I felt her energy spiraling down as she examined her skin. I mapped a fleshy star of pinkish-white. In the mirror, she traced it with her fingers. I cupped my breasts as she watched. Implants to correct their inconsistencies provided an aesthetic victory by improving their shape and size. Although plastic surgery also improved the scaring on my skin, the remembrance of jagged words was stronger than sanity. In this fatigued state of mind, even a seed of positivity was killed by a revulsive weed.

  The smooth glass rippled with aversion as she followed a scared trail over her shoulder. It snaked down her collarbone in multiple shades of red and pink until it reached the tip of her nipple. Obsessed, she fixated on the imperfect. Her fingers concentrated on an indiscernible shape known only by width, length and ragged edges. The front and back looked like the devil touched her with a wretched claw. It condemned her to a girlish hell where strapless dresses and bathing suits burned in the flames. I breathed in her pain. She didn’t recognize herself as the beautiful survivor that I saw her to be, only a victim.

  I ran my fingers through my hair and pulled at the sore spot on the backside of my head. She looked back at me as she inched through the chestnut strands. There, in a carefully guarded hiding place, was a hairpiece attached to my scalp with skin-safe glue. It was slightly larger than a silver dollar, as was the bald spot it covered. She gripped and pulled. There was a popping sound as the suction released it from my skin. I felt her grow weak. Instantly victorious, I sensed the scales were about to be balanced. It was time to try to put the pitiful bitch of self-debasement back in her cage.

  I don’t know for how long, but I closed my eyes to center myself. When I opened them I reached for a small bottle of alcohol. I placed the soaked cotton where the hairpiece had been and used a Kleenex to remove the sticky residue. Massaging the spot with gentle fingers, I hoped it would ease some of the tension that had formed tightly around my head as my mind reconnected. Although I felt sorry for her, I hated that girl.

  This was my life. My hurt. Mine! I owned my appearance and I could do whatever I wanted to do to change it. The woman whose thoughts took over my reflection was my enemy. My anger was nowhere near abated. Hatred diluted my blood. My carefully guarded serenity was crushed. I hated the children who created the fractured girl, and I hated the fractured girl for unraveling my self-assurance. I ran my fingers through my hair for consolation, but all I could feel was their remaining energy buzzing into my head through the follicles. I was pissed at them. I wanted them to die.

  So I ripped them out.

  It was a sweet revenge. A follicular assassination. The only way that I could delude myself into believing that I was still in control. With each one that I ripped from my scalp a little of the pain floated away. It hurt good, leaving behind a numbing peace. It had been several years since my hair was executed for the disgraced girl’s crimes but, nonetheless, it was a necessary death. I loved and loathed the process equally, but I owned it. Once the brief insanity was over, it left me feeling normal.

  Whatever normal was.

  I lost track of time as I humiliated the insecure girl inside by ripping out her hair. With each strand that was torn I felt a little more in control. She was represented by the threads on the floor and as parts of her fell from my fingers but when I looked down, a small pile of hair laid on the floor. I picked it up and threw it in the trashcan. It was over. I was tired and I was done with this shit. She had diverted my attention and I paid her back. It was over. Done!

  I grabbed my underwear and went into the bathroom. The cold tile contrasted my overheated skin. Hot steam filled the room as I defiantly stood under the scalding spray. Its pounding warmth assaulted me as it took my breath away and loosened my muscles. My thoughts cleared as the rest of the debauchery trickled down the drain. All I wanted was to get a good night’s sleep and put this night behind me. There was drinking and dancing in my future.

  As I wrapped a fluffy towel around me, I rubbed my skin until it glowed. The sheets cooled my skin under the chilly cotton and I hibernated beneath the comforter. I felt as clean on the inside as I was on the outside. I snuggle
d into the pillows and cleared my mind so I could sleep. My power was returning. I’d be damned if anything else would interfere with the good time I had planned because, dammit, this city was the hub of good times.

  And I deserved to have mine.

  Falcon Grey had posed an intimidating presence in the hotel security office that morning. He stood tall at six foot two inches with shoulders as wide as a semi-truck. His biceps strained against his clothes. By anyone’s standards he was a strong, thick man, big-boned some would say, and had an intense, determined look with a solid square jaw. As a Special Forces Navy S.E.A.L. he was a home grown, loyal to the bone, American made fighting machine. He’d served several tours of duty and, during his last one; he’d been sidelined by an injury. Months later he was cleared for duty, but never saw another active tour. He served out his commitment and decided not to push his luck by re-enlisting. Because of his stature most of his skills were rarely tested, but on those rare occasions when they were, he loved a good bar fight. Right now, the smaller man in front of him was very chatty—and was testing his patience—but he could play well with others when he had an ulterior motive. The hotel security officer eyed the business card he had handed him with a skeptical eye.