2. Erica
I wake up with a pounding headache and a single, painfully sharp thought piercing my brain like an ice pick lobotomy:
I’m going to die tonight .
A hoarse laugh wrenches from my throat.
It’s true.
I am going to die, but when you hit rock bottom, all you can do is laugh or cry, and I pick the former.
I suck in a breath of tepid air, thick with the overnight smell of stale beer and half-eaten cup noodles.
Nausea rises sour from my stomach, but I swallow the bile and my emotions.
I’m not the type to feel sorry for myself and weep.
A childhood in the foster system and bouncing from family to family taught me that crying gets you nowhere.
I learned to grit my teeth and get shit done.
And I’ll get this done, too, even if it’s literally the last thing I’ll do.
It’s better than the alternative.
Because I also learned that things can always, always get worse, and I have no intention to stick around and find out how much worse.
I did that the past months, held out hope and waited for better times, but with every day, I’m in deeper shit.
No, I’ve had enough.
Enough of trying.
Enough of fighting.
I want to get off the ride, and the bottle of not-so-legally-obtained sleeping pills in my handbag is my peaceful ticket out of here.
My sore eyes open to a red glow from the massive neon sign right outside.
It lights up the whole room and I watch the word vacancy turn green, then blue, and red again.
Hold up, if I can see outside…
It takes a moment for me to register that the curtains are wide open.
Again.
It happened before, but usually during the day when I’m dressed, not—
Shit .
I’ve been passed out for God knows how long wearing nothing but my panties and a t-shirt.
Anyone walking past the window could watch me sleep half naked…
anyone like the sleazebag from the reception.
I wouldn’t put it past him to spy on me.
He’s the type.
I grimace, remembering his greasy hair, his ripe body odor, and that creepy smile missing a few teeth.
The ones he has left are brown.
While I checked in, he asked too many personal questions and tried to hold my hand when I gave him the money.
I’ve been here a few days and he seeks every opportunity to run into me, like when I go to the gas station for food.
Once, he even knocked on my door to offer me a bucket of ice and a bottle of screw-top wine I didn’t ask for.
I declined both.
A spring pokes my side as I turn over.
The mattress shifts and empty bottles clink, one rolling off and falling onto the dark brown carpet.
A strategic choice of color, probably to hide various bodily fluids splashed all over it.
I try not to think about those shows where people search hotel rooms with UV blacklight, but I feel as filthy as the floor looks.
My belly and chest are covered in a mysterious dried substance, cracking like milky white paint on my skin.
A shudder races through me.
Fucking disgusting .
In my drunken stupor, I must have spilled something on myself.
Given that I don’t remember when I stopped drinking and shout-singing to go to bed, I won’t try to figure out what the white stuff is.
I need a shower anyway.
I grab my phone from the nightstand, pressing my thumb to the fingerprint scanner.
The light of the screen has me hissing.
My burning eyes adjust slowly.
9:03pm ?
I slept the whole day.
A pang of shame worms through me as I recognize the open notes app.
Apparently shitfaced Erica thought it was a fabulous idea to write a bucket list twenty-four hours before offing herself.
A bit late.
A sex bucket list, no less.
I squint until the small black shapes on the screen become actual letters, forming actual words.
As I read about the depravity on my list, murky memories come back to me.
No, not memories.
Fragments of a dream.
I recall a tall man, a cowboy hat drawn low into his face.
Rolled up sleeves and strong, tattooed arms.
Big, rough hands sliding along my body.
Calloused fingers around my throat and in my—
“Holy shit!” I gasp and shoot upright.
Bad idea.
The room spins.
My headache kicks up a notch, and my stomach heaves.
Tangled strands of hair fall over my shoulder as I turn on the lamp on the nightstand to chase away the remnants of my dirty dream.
My pussy clenches.
Did I have an orgasm in my sleep?
I’m not sure if that’s cool or awfully embarrassing.
Sure, I had a bit of a dry spell since things with Nate ended, but wet dreams are for horny teenagers.
I smack my chapped lips.
My tongue is a thick sponge in my mouth, and my whole skeleton is…
misaligned.
Too big for my skin.
Being hungover is like they show on TV.
I feel horrible.
Sticky.
Dirty.
Sick.
It’s a miracle I didn’t throw up last night—or now for that matter—but I guess I have a strong liver and hearty constitution.
I stare at the peeling green wallpaper across the room, seeking a pattern in the swirls disappearing behind a sideboard with a microwave on top.
A sigh rattles in my chest, and my eyes drop to my phone.
What a stupid list.
It reads like I didn’t have fun for a single day in my life and it’s true.
I didn’t.
I couldn’t afford to let loose.
Being the daughter of good-for-nothing junkies I had something to prove.
Namely that I’m stable, not like my parents.
I’m a good girl, and good girls don’t get off on being slapped or cut or choked or any of the other perverted stuff on my list.
Despite getting pushed around foster families, I did okay for myself when I was a kid.
I went to school and had decent grades.
For the first years after high school, I did random, seasonal work before I eventually ended up as a waitress in a small restaurant.
Not exactly a dream job, but I considered myself lucky to find employment at all.
It was enough to live a frugal lifestyle devoid of most pleasures.
The one indulgence I allowed myself were my tattoos, a collection of art on my skin I slowly added to over the years.
I never touched drugs or a single drop of alcohol until last night.
In hindsight, it all seems pointless.
Denying myself.
Struggling.
Putting on a brave face.
Who am I really trying to prove myself to…
and why?
What good is following the rules of society just to end up like this, anyway?
Angry tears brim in my eyes, but I swallow them, too.
I followed those damn rules all my life.
I even scrounged to save up some money in case times got tough.
Well, I didn’t count on times getting this tough.
I didn’t expect a shitty boyfriend with a gambling addiction to steal my savings from the shoebox in my closet.
Or getting fired right after.
Or losing my apartment and living in my car before I settled on going to Mexico.
I didn’t have a plan what I’d do once I got there, but I needed to set a goal for myself, or I would’ve lost my mind.
Things went fine until my car broke down in the middle of fuck-ass-nowhere in North Texas and I dragged myself on foot to this awful motel straight from purgatory.
I rub over my face.
This is the end of the line for me.
I don’t need to check my bank account to know that the balance is zero.
My credit cards are maxed-out.
Tomorrow I’ll end up on the streets, and fuck dying under a bridge.
I want control over the way I go out—even if it happens all alone on a stained mattress in a seedy motel.
I slide into my soft, worn-out leather boots and yelp as I slip on a chocolate wrapper, nearly falling on my ass.
The scare makes my head throb like a jackhammer is digging into my skull, but at least I catch my balance.
I open the music app on my phone and pick my current favorite playlist titled Fuck shit up .
It’s a mix of everything alternative.
Metal, emo, rock, and a little pop punk.
Billy Talent blares from the crackling speakers.
I turn up the volume.
The heavy guitar riffs sound like they come from a tin can, but it’s better than listening to my thoughts.
Unfortunately, the noise does nothing good for my headache.
I grab my wallet from my faux leather handbag on the TV stand.
“Dumb bitch,” I curse myself when I find a whole $2.
“Did you think the money magically multiplied overnight?”
With a sigh I toss my wallet back into the bag.
How am I supposed to pay for my last meal and some drinks?
I don’t want to die hungry, and I sure as hell don’t want to die sober.
Coward , a voice in the back of my head whispers but I ignore it.
I look over my shoulder, out into the darkness beyond the window and the glowing sign.
The gas station across the road is still open, but I know from my previous visits that everything there is out of my budget now, too.
The vending machine in the motel parking lot might have a snack more in my price range.
My brows rise as I remember a shady dive bar down the street, next to a small diner.
This so-called town is basically just a stretch of dusty road with a few run-down buildings.
I’d bet a kidney they don’t get many single women here.
With a bit of luck, I might be able to charm some horny idiot into paying for my drinks.
And maybe, by some incredible miracle, an eligible bachelor will appear out of nowhere to save me from my dry spell.
Or at least someone who still has all their teeth and knows how a shower works.
I open the squeaky closet doors and dig through my messy weekender.
All that’s left of my life fits into this bag.
How depressing.
I grab a bottle of generic pain killers from the zipper compartment.
The pills stick to my dry throat as I swallow them.
I suppress the urge to gag, force them down, and put the bottle back.
A criminally short and tight, cherry-red dress finds its way into my hands and a black, barely-there lace thong.
I toss the clothes on the bed and stumble to the bathroom.
My fist hits the light switch as I close the door behind me.
The fluorescent ceiling light flickers, illuminating my makeup scattered on the grubby counter by the sink.
Catching a glance of my reflection in the broken mirror is like watching a gruesome accident.
I don’t want to see the dark circles under my eyes or the sharp angles of my gaunt, pale cheeks, but I can’t look away.
I kick off my boots and undress, throwing my shirt and panties onto a pile of dirty clothes in the corner.
A cockroach startles from underneath, and I jump as it rushes past me to the crack under the door.
Skin crawling from the encounter, I step into the shower and turn it on.
A forceful stream of ice-cold water hits my chest.
I squeal before the temperature gets burning hot—only for a few seconds though.
Then it’s arctic again.
Then hot.
Cold.
Hot.
Teeth chattering, I squeeze the last bit of shampoo from the bottle on the floor and work up a lather between my palms.
One more night to check some things off that ridiculous list.
Sure, I’m going to die, but that doesn’t mean I can’t have some fun before I do—or try to.
Fuck being a good girl.