Page 33 of The Cruelest Chaos
It’s not always this bad, I tell myself.
It’s not always this bad, and tomorrow is Tuesday. Tomorrow I go to The Ark, where they treat me like a basket case, because I am a basket case. But they feed their basket cases.
An anonymous donor paid for my spot there—or rather, paid social services for a spot there, and since they come check in on me and Mom monthly, due to a nosy neighbor who called them four trailers ago, they extended it to me on their final visit. I was technically too old, but they must have felt bad. Maybe had a child age out of the system who’d recently killed themselves or some shit.
I didn’t want to go.
A farm with horses and camels and shit that needs mucking and a bunch of other freaks like me?
But Mom had asked if I was expected to bring my own food, and they said meals were provided.
I signed myself up.
Mom shot daggers my way, but she doesn’t eat. She shoots up, nods off, and the hunger in her belly is silenced.
It’s never quiet in mine unless I’m hurting, or numb.
I wonder why girls like Natalie stay numb. Wonder what eats at them.
She volunteers at The Ark, and I spotted her addiction a mile away. Pinprick pupils, a frozen smile, clicking jaw. When I called her out on it, she gave me pills to shut me up, offered to drive me to a New Year’s Eve party.
I went for the food.
Food I didn’t even find.
But it was still worth it in the end.
I pull my knees into my chest, rest my forehead against them and close my eyes. I can still smell Maverick on me; leather and marijuana and a scent that’s all his own. I can see his light blue eyes in my head, his sharp, angular cheekbones. The tattoos over every inch of his skin like he can’t stand the sight of himself.
I can feel his hand on my face.
You fucking bitch.
I press my thighs together.No.I need to get food. Orgasms will dull the ache, and I’ve spent many hours while my mom has been missing touching myself, trying to fill the hunger with something else.
It works. But only for a little while. And then I’m hollow all over again. Just like I am now.
I run my tongue over my swollen lip.He did that.
My ex never hurt me to benefit me. It was all for him.
With Maverick, it seemed like it was for both of us. A shared pain. The kind God himself might give me.
And Maverickcouldbe god.
I’ve already fell to my knees for him.
I close my eyes tight.
I try not to think about him. He’s not coming back here. I saw his face when he realized where I lived. Saw his frustration at driving over the potholes. Saw how he didn’t want to let me out because he couldn’t believe I lived somewhere so fucking awful.
Yeah. He’s not coming back. We didn’t exchange numbers. I don’t even know his last name.
I try to find the movie version of my life, something I’ve done for years to get myself out of my head.If this was a movie, which one would it be?I don’t have many hobbies, and I can’t watch many films, but I’ve got avividimagination. Happens to kids that get tied up and left to starve while their moms search for dicks and drugs.
If this was a movie, it’d be a dark romantic comedy.
Maverick would turn out to be a really nice guy who doesn’t like hitting me and just does it to indulge me. He’d sweep me off my feet with large fries and thick milkshakes. He’d kill my mom, burn this trailer to the ground. He’d marry me, tie me up in bed (but never leave me alone there), fuck me until I wasn’t numb anymore. Until I felt real pain. Until I felthispain.
