Chapter 9 #2
Mum makes a derisive sound, but it doesn’t cut me as much as her words. “That’s rich coming from you. You’re not happy unless you’re the centre of attention, are you? We all know how much you crave everyone’s eyes on you.”
The air is sucked out of the room, and I struggle to breathe.
“Get out.”
“I beg your pardon?”
Tears sting the corners of my eyes, but I refuse to let her see how much her words hurt. “Get out.”
Thankfully, Nora calls out for her, and she shoots me a final icy glare before leaving, not bothering to close the door behind her.
I storm over and slam it shut.
My body vibrates with unchecked anger, frustration and hurt as I pace my bedroom.
How can the one person who’s meant to love me unconditionally be so cruel?
Ever since Dad walked out on us, she’s taken it out on me, like I’m the problem.
I don’t know if it’s because I look more like him than her—whereas the twins are a carbon copy of her—or whether she somehow blames me for him leaving.
I never gave up on her.
When her first husband tried to sneak into my bedroom, and when everything happened with Dylan, I went to Mum.
It was a slap in the face when she turned it all around on me.
My stepfather tried to molest me when I was fourteen because I wore provocative clothing around him.
In the middle of summer. My ex-boyfriend spread nudes of me around school because I’d been stupid enough to put myself in the position where he could take them of me—never mind I’d been asleep in his bed at the time.
She didn’t care that her daughter’s privacy had been violated.
I don’t know why I keep expecting her to change. She’s never taken my side in the last nine years.
A single tear slides down my cheek, and I brush it away angrily.
Three months. I just have to make it through the next three months in this godforsaken house, then I’ll have my degree, and she won’t be able to control me anymore.
With a fierce surge of determination rippling through me, I return to my desk and start writing. Professor Johnson wants me to write something real about a moment that changed me, well he better strap in, because I’m not holding back.
My fingers fly over the keys as I pour my heart into my assignment. It’s cathartic to get it all out. I’ve repressed it for so long. I don’t think about what I’m writing, I let it flow, knowing I can go through and edit it later. The assignment isn’t due until Thursday, so I have time to refine it.
By the time I stop for the night, my stomach is growling, and I realise it’s almost midnight. No one even bothered to ask if I wanted dinner. I guess I really pissed Mum off.
I lean back in my chair to stretch my stiff muscles. This isn’t like me. I don’t usually leave assignments this late, but I’ve been putting this one off for obvious reasons. When I rub my hands over my face, I’m surprised to find my cheeks are damp.
I think about just going to bed, but my stomach rumbles again. My head hurts, and I release my hair from the top knot, running my fingers through my scalp to relieve it. I groan, close my laptop, and push away from my desk.
The house is eerily quiet as I make my way downstairs to the kitchen. I make myself some yoghurt and muesli and settle at the bench to eat it. As I do, I pull my phone from my pocket and scroll through my notifications.
There’s a text from Willow about meeting for coffee in the morning. I reply with a yes. I’m still wired from working on my assignment, and with all the memories I’ve dredged up tonight, I doubt I’ll get a good night’s sleep.
Flutters begin low in my belly when I see the notification symbol on the Euphoria app. Biting back a smile, I click into it, but my mood plummets when I see it’s not from @watch_me_watch_you, but a generic message to all members reminding us of the masked night this weekend.
My finger hovers over the message thread with my masked stranger, and for a moment, I consider asking him if he’ll meet me.
As fun as our phone interactions have been, it’s more fun to play in person.
The only thing that stops me is that he hasn’t contacted me in over a week.
As I scroll through our last messages, a sinking feeling washes over me.
The way he talks about how complicated his life is, and how he gave me the opportunity to run before I distracted him by getting naked…
I get the feeling he might have been trying to let me down gently, and when that didn’t work, he’s ghosted me altogether.
I’m not surprised. Men never stick around. Why would they? My father couldn’t be bothered.
Nausea causes my stomach to clench, and I push my food away. Not bothering to clean up after myself, despite knowing I’ll get reamed by my mother for it in the morning, I make my way to my bedroom and fall onto my bed fully clothed.
Staring up at the ceiling in the dark, my eyes burn, but I blink hard, not wanting to cry over a complete stranger who doesn’t deserve it. It’s pathetic.
I always end up here—empty, embarrassed, and wishing I was normal.
Wishing I didn’t crave people so much. I’m so sick of crumbling every time someone looks at me like I matter only to decide I don’t.
Dad. Dylan. Mum. I trusted them all, and it blew up in my face, so now I seek comfort and attention from strangers, and even they can’t be bothered to hang around.
Maybe I’m too much, or maybe I’m not enough. Hell, maybe I’m both. I try to play it cool and brush things off, pretend like nothing bothers me, but deep down, I’m over-analysing every interaction, every word, and wondering what the hell is wrong with me.
Thank God for Willow. If she hadn’t found me in the bathroom crying when everything went down with Dylan in high school, I’d have no one.
She stuck by me as I reinvented myself, building my daring devil persona.
When Mum reamed me out for dyeing my honey-blonde hair a fiery shade of red, Willow didn’t bat an eyelid.
She simply squeezed my hand and said, “You do you, boo. No one can make you feel any less than the queen you are unless you give them that power.”
Ironic, considering she still lets her mother walk all over her.
While her words have helped me through some of the toughest spirals over the past four years, they don’t erase the feeling of inadequacy, or the emptiness that consumes me until I go searching for my next validation hit. That’s what Euphoria is for me—validation.
With the way I’m feeling right now, even that won’t lift my mood.
Rolling over, I snuggle up to my pillow and fall asleep wondering if I’m destined to be alone forever.