Page 47 of Like A Moth To A Flame

God, what had I become? When had I turned so fucking angry at the world?

Probably around the time I’d lost control… but had I ever really had control of my life?

I’d been abducted and abused, forced to become the new mom to my alcoholic father when my mother had gotten sick and passed away, and now I was stuck with a stalker who didn’t take no for an answer and a body that apparentlyliked that?

Stupid, brainless vagina.

I glared down at the half-filled sink of dirty coffee mugs and spoons and then pulled my phone out of my pocket.

If it was bugged, there was only one way to find out, and I may as well use it to my advantage. I lifted it to my mouth.

“Hey asshole, if you’re listening? Little tip. I don’t like doing dishes, so if you can find a clit, you can find a sponge. Wanna impress me? Clean my fucking house.” I paused, silently fuming. “Asshole.”

I grabbed the coffeepot and poured myself a cup of the coffee I’d made yesterday morning. Pulling open the fridge, I plucked out a container of coffee creamer when a sudden thought struck me.

Why aren’t you freaking out?!

That was a good question. I should be freaking out. I should be screaming and crying, not making coffee, and thinking about lunch. Why wasn’t I? Why did I feel so calm, if not a little fucking annoyed?

What good would it do to scream and cry and throw myself on the ground like a petulant child?

How would that help me? It wouldn’t.

I was being stalked. That was obvious. Last night he had broken into my houseand…

And what?

It wasn’t rape exactly. Was it?

What had even happened?

It was assault, that was for sure, but he’d stopped at that. Why hadn’t he raped me? Killed me? Played picture pages with my insides?

I was alive, but still, I should be freaking out.

Maybe I was desensitized or something. Maybe so much bad shit had happened to me that I couldn’t be phased anymore.

“Ha!” I barked a laugh.

Shaking my head, I moved over to the microwave and popped the door open, placing my mug inside. Two minutes would about have it boiling.

Good. I liked it hot. The more distracting, the better.

I needed another distraction. Maybe I should just get drunk.

I took up the bottle of whiskey I’d retrieved and spun the cap off. It went spinning off the counter and fell to the floor, rolling away and getting lost with the dust bunnies under the fridge. Oh well, what a shame. I guess I’d just have to finish the bottle. There was only about an inch or two of the amber liquid left, anyway. I brought it to my lips and took a deep pull, swallowing and cringing at the sting and the burn.

Burn, baby burn. Burn away the thoughts and all my worries.

It could kill me for all I cared, as long as it chased away the thoughts.

Finally, the well ran dry, and I sucked nothing but air. Sighing, fighting the sloshing and roiling in my stomach, I dropped the bottle into the sink, satisfied by the clink of glass on glass.

Good, let it break. Maybe I’d use the pieces to slash my fucking wrists.

In my pocket, my phone began to ring, and I jumped.

Threading it out of my pocket, I answered it without even looking at the caller ID.

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