Page 4 of Cry, Little Dove

“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 Ireallytrying 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 gettingthistough.

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 titledFuck 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.

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