Wicked Wisdom

March 14, 2010, 10:21 pm
Filed under: Fiction, Writing

Last night I went to sleep with the lights on. Not just one light, but every light from my kitchen into my bedroom. It was one of the tiny pills I had taken moments before stumbling up the staircase, I can never remember their names but I believe it was the pink one.

Like so many things in my life, it was hard to swallow.

I woke up to the smell of cigarettes and Sam. Apparently I left the door unlocked, too. The lights were still on and I couldn’t breathe.

I drank water constantly, trying to force my body to remove the oxygen molecules from the liquid and fill my lungs, I’m not sure that’s how it works but it’s what I was hoping for.

Sam stared at me from across my kitchen table, tapping her ashes into my cereal bowl from the day before and often offering me puffs.

“Come on, we’re going to tea.”

The tea was fine but the pastries and conversation were overwhelmingly dry. I constantly find myself not enjoying the company I surround myself with.The emptiness that had followed me for days now had not lifted and I found myself wanting – but what was both unsure and unimportant. Mostly, it was out. I wanted out more than ever before, probably because at this point in my life out was not an option. Not even remotely.

I went to dinner with Steven, he ordered his steak cooked medium well. I couldn’t have been more disgusted. I reminded myself to be ladylike as I cut my own rare meat into small pieces, and reminded myself to look human as I sopped the blood that covered my plate up into these small pieces. I didn’t put too much care into this, and Steven didn’t seem to notice.

Steven’s middle name is Jonathan, which I think is pretty much pointless. Middle names infuriate me, I’m sure I am the only bitch in the restaurant whose middle name isn’t Nicole or Michelle. My middle name is Kathryn, with a K. My grandmother was Mary Kathryn, and she was a powerful bitch.

I excuse myself to the parking lot for a cigarette. Steven doesn’t smoke, and I only smoke as an excuse to get away from him. Slowly a beat up car barely pulls up next to me and the window lowers.

What sits inside is one of the most gross displays of a man I’ve ever seen, and he’s giving me the most hideous glance ever.

“Girl, you retarded sexy,” he screams over the loud rap music that blares from his speakers, the bass making my chest rattle.

I deeply inhale my cigarette and then blow the smoke out in a slow, steady, even stream.

“You’re quite retarded yourself.”

“You fuck?”

This question is not a question, and for some reason it catches me off guard. I fuck. I fuck all night long, I’ve made men cry I fuck so well.

“Yes. I fuck.”

He unlocks the car door, and I’m not sure why, but I get in.

This is probably one of the stupidest things I’ve ever done, and I can see myself ending up dead in a dumpster behind K-Mart in record time. I can see the re-enactment on one of those TV shoes I hate, but they’ll probably make it seem like I was forced into the car when they reenact it. I wonder how many of those stupid bitches did exactly as I did.

“Do you have any water?”

The stranger looks at me, shakes his head, and licks his lips. I fumble through my purse and find a pink pill and throw it down my throat dry.

“Do you have a condom?”

“Don’t worry about it, I’m just trying to have a baby.”

The stranger looks surprised – “I’m not ready to be a father,” he says.

“I don’t care, I don’t even know your name. Don’t worry, I won’t be looking for child support.”

“What will you name it?”


“My mom’s name is Catherine, she’s a bitch.”

I look deeply into his eyes and nod.


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