Chapter Twenty-Two
Then…
Where am I?
My eyelids peel open, gradually. It’s difficult. They’re so damn heavy.
Speaking of heavy… My fucking head.
Dios… mi cabeza.
It’s killing me, temples throbbing like the deep bass from last night’s music. When my eyes finally wrench open, I immediately slam them shut again because the light! Jesus…
Why is it so bright wherever I am??
This sucks. I think I’m dying.
Eventually, I move my body enough to roll over, which brings me crashing onto the floor. Or rather, onto a body on the floor.
Oh fuck… Did I murder someone last night?!
Judging by the grunt and displeased groan, they’re not dead. They’re just dying like me.
Hung the fuck over and praying for death.
Wobbling to my feet, I stumble away from the person on the floor, instantly realizing that they’re not the only one. The floor is littered with bodies, as is the futon I apparently rolled off of.
What the fuck happened last night?
Tiptoeing between and stepping over unconscious people like a minefield of bad decisions, I’m moving on instinct in search of water, Tylenol, and a bathroom so I can question my life choices in private.
The more I come to, the more I vaguely recognize where I am as Dunk’s apartment. Dunk is this kid Duncan, who lives by Washington Square Park. He dropped out of NYU years ago but still parties with his former classmates, and lets people crash at his place since it’s close to campus.
Obviously I don’t go to NYU, but I’ve been hanging out with this kid Will who does, and he introduced me to some of his friends.
Okay, introduced is a stretch. We black out together.
That’s the extent of most of my friendships. Relationships are no better… It’s basically more of the same, only with the addition of sex. Rough, dirty, usually anonymous, but most importantly, casual.
Meaningless. It’s all… hollow.
I’ve been spiraling for a while now… Years at this point. Just waiting for it all to catch up with me. But it never does.
My life is an endless abyss of drugs, and sex, and hopping from place to place. Never settling, never slowing, I’m desperate for it to come crashing down on me.
To end this charade once and for all, and free me from the purgatory that is my vacant, worthless existence.
After the night at Club Edge three years ago, after I finally got my chance to exact my revenge, but instead, wound up succumbing to the temptation of evil like the epic failure I am, I considered slinking back to Colombia with my tail between my legs.
I’m sure that’s what he expected me to do, which is the only reason I refused to do it.
As strange as it sounds, it’s easier for him to find me there than it is right here, in the same damn city.
Still, dodging him wasn’t my only dilemma.
I had no one and nothing here. No job, no place to stay, no family, no friends…
Except Leah, but getting close to her was too risky.
I needed to stay hidden. I knew he’d be looking for me after that slutty, humiliating night, and I had less than no desire to see him again.
The jig was up. I tried, and I fucking failed. Miserably.
Shortly after it happened, I got a job as a server at a restaurant in Brooklyn because I desperately needed money coming in, as well as something to occupy my time and my mind.
But I ended up quitting after only a week when this sketchy guy started coming around, watching me.
I was positive he was eyes for The Ivory.
After that, I left New York for a bit. Tried out Jersey, then Philly.
I’d figured it was best to move around, but the couch and menial job surfing got so old it was on its deathbed.
Eventually, when I’d burned through enough aliases and burned enough bridges that had no more options left, I decided it was time to come back.
The city wasn’t the problem. If anything, it’s been the only thing that’s given me any purpose since I abandoned my life’s mission. New York became my only cohort; my sidekick.
My partner in crime, and ultimately, my enabler.
My bad influence.
There was nothing left to do after my defeat but to move on. Unfortunately, I had absolutely no idea how to do that. Revenge was my entire life. I don’t know how to do anything else.
That is, until I discovered humanity’s favorite remedy for boredom, grief and misery… Getting fucked up.
I began passing the time with lots of drinking and drugs and sex with strangers. Sleeping with random guys for more drugs or a place to crash, blacking out as often as possible to keep the memories away. Doing whatever I can to hide from the harsh truth…
My existence is a tragedy, and I have absolutely nothing to live for.
I’ve been back in New York City for about a year now, and things are growing progressively worse. But I just don’t know what else to do with myself…
Faded and frayed, I’m not sure how much more of this endless cycle I can take.
In Dunk’s kitchen, I empty stale beer from a Solo cup and fill it with tap water, drinking until my mouth is no longer a desert.
Then I go to the bathroom in search of something to ease the throbbing inside my skull, and maybe a toothbrush I can use to get rid of the disgusting taste of cigarettes and booze.
The moment I step inside, I catch sight of myself in the mirror and balk. Jesus Christ…
Not only do I look strung the fuck out, but I hadn’t even noticed what I was wearing… a Catholic schoolgirl skirt and knee-high stockings.
Cringing, I press my thighs together and bend over the sink to wash the smeared lipstick and smudged eyeliner off of my face.
Right… It’s all coming back to me.
This frat guy and his friend came to party with us—their names would be irrelevant even if I could remember them, which I can’t.
I’d seen them out a few times. They always brought good shit, so naturally I migrated their way when I saw them last night.
We were getting fucked up, and I vaguely remember one of them mentioning how last time they partied with us, Will and I did molly and put on his friends’ lingerie.
Yea, Will es un chico loco.
It’s why I like hanging out with him. He definitely brings the distraction.
So, the night we did the molly, Will and I were at his friend’s house, and I’m not sure how or why we ended up in lingerie, but we were high as fuck and the night ended with us screwing each other’s brains out.
I guess that appealed to the frat bros, because they promised to get me extra high if I dressed up like a girl and let them fuck me. I was skeptical, but I also really wanted to be high, and I wanted to be high more than I was skeptical.
So I agreed, and they went out and somehow found a Catholic schoolgirl costume somewhere? I have no idea where it came from… I think someone borrowed it from someone’s girlfriend?
Hardly matters. They presented it to me to try on, and the rest is… hazy. But I know they both fucked me—even without the broken memories, I can feel it in various areas of my body—and as much as I want to pretend I was just super fucked up, I definitely remember liking it.
I remember getting off hard… On all fours with random frat boy gripping my skirt and pumping into me from behind while other random frat boy fisted my hair and pushed down my throat.
“Mmm, that’s a good girl. Take this cock in your little pussy…”
“Such a pretty whore…”
Lifting my face, I wipe the water away, gazing at myself in the mirror. I don’t recognize the person staring back at me.
“Who are you…?” I whisper.
“…you shouldn’t be giving yourself to random fuckboys who will never truly see you…”
I touch my reflection.
“They will never understand you, pajarito. Not as I do.”
Rage blooms, and I snarl, “Ugh!” Punching the glass.
Blood from my knuckles smears my reflection in the mirror. But I feel nothing more than a dull throb from the untreated wound in my chest.
A noise outside the door tells me it’s time to go. I don’t want to be around when these people wake up.
Popping a few Advil from the medicine cabinet, I find my clothes and get dressed.
Then I slink out of the apartment, zipping up my puffy coat and tugging my beanie onto my head to shield from the cold of December in Manhattan.
I’m instantly shivering, from the frigid air or coming down… Probably both.
Digging in my pockets, I find some drugs, some cash, and my phone. I go to McDonald’s and order some greasy food to help this hangover, sneaking off to the bathroom to fill my nostrils with powder while I wait for it.
I’m kind of just lingering, sitting at the table with my knee bouncing rapidly, eyes flinging up at every sound or movement in my peripheral.
It’s not a good idea for me to do coke… It makes me way more paranoid than I already am that one of The Ivory’s guys is going to show up at any moment and grab me.
I’m constantly looking over my shoulder, and it’s exhausting.
Will today be the day…?
Will he find me…
My phone buzzes on the table, startling me out of my exceedingly worrisome thoughts. It’s a text from Leah. She’s saying that she misses me and she hopes I’m okay…
Even this prompts a crashing wave of panic.
What if he got to her?? What if he’s using her to get to me…
Scoffing, I shake my head and power off my phone. He must think I’m really fucking stupid…
Sniffing, I peer around the fast-food restaurant as people come and go. I guess I should just go home—if that’s what you wanna call it.
For the last few months, I’ve been living in a two-bedroom apartment in Flatbush with four roommates. The place is crowded as fuck, understandably. And still, my rent is five hundred bucks a month… For an air mattress in the corner of a five-hundred square-foot apartment.
Oh, New York, you overpriced cunt.
Needless to say, I try to spend as little time there as possible, stopping by just to sleep and shower. And recover from wild nights of raging and debauchery.