Page 10 of Brat Baby
And I have eighteen weeks of this shit.
Fuck. Mondays.
Chapter 6
Emery
The resounding thud of the dorm room door slamming shut as I use my sneaker-clad foot to close it is oddly cathartic.
Fuck today.
Fuck them.
Fuck this heavy-ass backpack.
Fuck these textbooks.
Fuck the long-ass walk back from the library.
Fuck my nonexistent laptop.
All the fucking fucks.
Dumping the textbooks that didn’t fit into my backpack and my actual backpack onto our tiny dining table—both with audible thumps—I head to my bedroom, ready to cash in on the promise I’d made to myself as I’d lugged approximately one thousand pounds of textbooks across campus—a face-first flop onto my bed. I’ll deal with the books later.
Oakley has been texting since about fifteen minutes into my macro class, a constant stream of observations about her classes and the people in them. Her messages were confusing at first, because why would one person want to be in contact with another person that much? But then, as Hudson continued to ignore me for the rest of his class, I came to depend on Oakley’s messages. The distractions helped to remind me that I’m not actually invisible.
Even though that’s what Derek and Hudson apparently want me to believe.
Pushing my bedroom door open, my plans for a face-plant into the pillows dissolve when I see all the unpacked bags still scattered around my room. And I do meanallof them.
Black lingerie bags from my Friday shopping spree. Baby blue duffel stuffed full of the Saturday shopping spree. And Oakley’s rolling suitcase. Not to mention all the gifts that I dumped from my backpack and left on my bed in my haste this morning, so I could use the backpack today.
Shit. How had I forgotten about all of this?
My heart pangs painfully in my chest at all the reminders of the weekend and the future that I lost today.
Instead of my promised face-plant, I sit on the side of my bed, one foot tucked under my ass, and stare at the bags of clothing that I literally have zero places to wear and even fewer people toshow them to. If I could trade them all away to have my daddies back, I would. Faster than a heartbeat.
Wearing it all just for myself seems like such a waste. I’m happy with my thrift store finds. Besides what I’m wearing now, I didn’t really purchase that many everyday outfits.
Maybe I could find new daddies so that I have a reason to wear them? Or even just one?
Something about the idea makes the already twisted emotions in my stomach turn over in a sickening way.
Nope. That’s a pass.
They are my one and done. If not them, then no one.
I lean forward and hook a finger into the handle of one of the lingerie bags and gently drag it toward me with the care of someone handling a bomb.
The contents of the bag haven’t changed. It’s all the things I didn’t take with me to their apartment. Lace, satin, little flower patterns, sheer, snaps, hooks. What the hell am I supposed to do with all this now?
I shove the bag aside and reach for the other lingerie bag and then dump the contents of the second into the first, just so that I feel like I’ve accomplished something with all this mess.
Reaching for the duffle bag and unzipping it, seems to cause the mental load of the day to slam into me while I stare down at the plaid mini skirt I wore for Hudson’s free use scene. The weight of the day is so heavy that there isn’t even a trickle of heat accompanying the memory.
With a sigh, I look at the mess scattered across my bed. As much as I want to forget everything and curl up under the covers, I need to normalize all this shit as mine or get rid of it.
