Page 4 of Lust
“Fuck.” Her arm lazily smacked against the edge of the bed. More pain, naturally. “How much did I drink last night?” This was a woman who still didn’t remember the craziest detail of her night. Of course, Acedia’s existence hung out at the edge of her consciousness, but Mercy was in no position to fully remember the woman in white or her insistence that she was a goddess, of all things. Mercy was barely capable of sucking her spit back into her mouth as she dumped herself off her bed and crawled toward the bathroom.
What time was it? Daylight filtered through the window. Too much daylight. Was it the hangover making it seem like it was noon already? Or was it actually noon?
Wasn’t she supposed to be at work?
Funny, wasn’t it? Last night, Mercy was not concerned about showing up for work at all today.I’m supposed to be dead.That bitter taste in her mouth, which took much too long to wash out in her dark bathroom, wasn’t from the leftover vodka still stuck beneath her tongue. That was the harsh realization that she had arranged for everything to be taken care of. She wouldn’t leave her decomposing body in this house to fuck up its salability.
Why hadn’t she jumped, again?
Did I make it out last night?Knowing her, she had drunk until she passed out. Funny. Mercy could have sworn she had been sober enough to drive out to the bridge and look over the edge.I want to die. I don’t want to take other people out with me in a car accident.Then again, she was desperate enough. A self-fulfilling prophecy was a guaranteed way to go out. Maybe Mercy had that much assholery flaring within her, after all.
She turned off the faucet and hung her head over the sink. Tangled, greasy hair fell toward the drain. After bracing herself against the counter, Mercy briefly recalled having a couple of drinks at home before driving out to the fateful bridge that had a million signs warning her away from “a grave mistake.”
At some point, she must have gotten back in her car and driven back home, where she attempted to drink herself to death. Hence, the hangover from hell.
Her phone was on her bed. A blue light flashed, alerting her to God-knew how many notifications. Probably from work. They were the only ones who would miss Mercy.Only because they need me to sign off on grunt work. Also, replacing me would be a great inconvenience, and that’s the end of the world for my company.Shareholders didn’t like it when pesky middle-management and worker drones had crises that impeded their ability to work. Didn’t they know that the corporation was a person itself? A person in need of “nurturing,” as Mercy’s boss had put it during the last meeting.I’m sorry, I mean “brainwashing circle.”They had really compared their finance company to a preteen experiencing puberty.
Ugh. Guess I should…Sure enough, three voicemails from her bossandHR lit up her screen. The first was a polite inquiry. The second was a warning. The third was a decent freakout about her whereabouts.
Mercy summoned the wherewithal to call her boss and tell him she had overslept. There. Simple. She wouldn’t try to make excuses or lie about being sick.Yeah, right. I’m definitely sick.Unfortunately, her company didn’t care about mental health. That was made clear when she asked for a leave of absence due to her nasty breakup, and all they said was,“Sure, take some time, Mercy. We’re not paying you for the pleasure, though.”
She was supposed to pay for a three-month leave with what money in her savings, exactly? Oh, right. She didn’t have enough to cover the mortgage, never mind everything else.Who needs lights and food? Give me more vodka.A part of her hated how dependent she became on alcohol after her breakup. Another part embraced it. Why not?
“Pull yourself together,” she muttered at her reflection. “You’re a fucking mess, Merce.”
What did it matter?
She lay back down. No point rushing to work before her lunch break, which wassupposedto start in fifteen minutes. She could have a hair of the dog, shower, and put on some clean clothes to be at work by the end of her lunch break. She would numbly sit in her chair (one without lumbar support, because why would middle-management need that?) and read through boring emails, sign off on vacation time, and yawn into the back of her hand. Very productive. Great use of her life.
Remember when you used to, like, do things?That seemed so far away now. Mercy couldn’t have a drink for the thrill of it. It had to be for self-destructive reasons. Marissa made sure of it.
Marissa.
It was Mercy’s fault. Everything.
Most of all, right now, it was her fault that she still kept a picture of the two of them on her dresser. What better way to self-inflict pain than to stare at the woman she had loved more than anything? More than her own useless life?
Mercy hesitated before the picture as she pulled off her smelly clothes and left them on the floor. She stepped into the shower with memories trickling through her brain like water dripped from the showerhead.She gave me everything. All the joy in the world.Mercy had been content before meeting Marissa. Then she was introduced topleasure.Going out to dinner was an adventure. Finally, a reason to do all that traveling! Was it possible to get married one day? They sure were! How about a house for them to make into a reflection of their tastes? A garden full of flowers blooming with love? Kids?Kids,for fuck’s sake!
Marissa was the one who brought up adopting. Mercy was the one who imagined transforming a child’s life. She was, after all, the one who knew what it was like to be cast away by one’s family.
She showed me the love my mother never showed me…And yet, that love was expressed the same exact way. Once Mercy crossed a woman too many times, she could kiss her fantasy-world goodbye.
Mercy wiped her hand towel over her shoulder. She still had the scar from the time she fell and hit a dining chair.We were more upset by the broken $300 chair than the cut on my shoulder.
Mercy pressed her head against the wall and allowed the water to run down her back. Her muscles were always so tense. Not even the hot water hitting her worst spots could soothe them.
The shower left her a little more refreshed, but she needed something in her system. As soon as she had a robe on, she went downstairs to the kitchen, which was a fucking mess from her party-of-one the night before. She pushed aside Hot Pocket wrappers and an empty bottle of vodka to find the hangover cures. She thought about eating.I’d rather vomit, which is what it would make me do, anyway.
She filled a glass with water and turned to the dining table. Before she sat down to swallow her medicine, Mercy did a double-take at the small bouquet of flowers in the middle of her table.
White lilies. Four of them, all neatly arranged with sprigs of green inside a round, clear vase. A lacey doily separated the bottom of the vase from the varnished wood of the dining table. It looked like the kind of centerpiece Marissa would have created. Except Marissa hadn’t been there in months, and Mercy sure as hell hadn’t brought any flowers home since.
She took her medicine. When had these flowers appeared? Was she already losing her memory to her depression? It had happened before. Probably would happen again. Entire days of her life lost to the void expanding in her mind.
Unfortunately, she couldn’t stop thinking about the day ahead. Mercy was needed at work. Otherwise, she might lose everything she had earned since becoming an adult.What have I earned, again? My life is going nowhere.
She bent down to smell one of the lilies. Definitely looked like one of Marissa’s concoctions, but wasn’t she seriously allergic to lilies? That’s why Mercy could never bring them home around Easter. The first time she did, Mercy never heard the end of it. One would have thought she was trying to kill Marissa.
