For A Good Time, Call... (9 page)

“Hold
on one moment, Fiona Mary.”

It
was always my full name. Because Fiona was not an acceptable name.
Fiona was the name my mother had given me because my father refused
to be in the delivery room. Because men were not supposed to be
involved with such an unclean act. And my mother, my poor, poor
mother, had found her spine long enough to scribble a non-biblical
name on my birth certificate. I cant even imagine what the
repercussions were from that event. Because my name was supposed to
be Mary. I was supposed to be named after the virgin mother.

Little
did they know, I would end up being a lot more like Mary the whore
than Mary the virgin.

But,
for some reason, they never insisted it get changed: my father and
grandmother. Which I had always found odd. They had the power. My
mother was nothing but an ant under their shoes. But they had left me
with my first name, calling me Fiona Mary every time they spoke to
me, or about me, instead.

Hell,
maybe they blamed my awful name for the reason I turned out so badly.
So ungodly. Normally they would blame my mother like they always used
to. But she was long dead. So it had to be the name.

“Fiona
Mary, are you still there?”

“Yes,
ma'am,” I said, looking up at the small slice of sky above my
head.

“Good,”
there was a strange fuzzy sound, like you used to get when cellphones
first became a thing, when there was static on bad connections.

“Fiona
Mary,” a different voice said, deeper, masculine. Familiar. So
fucking familiar. It was the voice I still heard in my head in dark
moments. It was the voice that still broke into my dreams. “Fiona
Mary this is your father.”

No
shit, Sherlock. As if I could ever forget. No matter how much I
drank, how many slices I carved into my skin... I could never forget.

“Grandmother,”
I said instead, my voice with an edge to it.

“Don't
you dare hang up, Fiona Mary,” she warned with a voice I knew
wasn't one for bluffing.

I
probably shouldn't have been surprised. It was really more shocking
that this was the first time she pulled this stunt. Knowing I was at
her complete mercy, knowing what power she had, knowing how easily
this would wreck me. She really was one vindictive, monstrous bitch
when she wanted to be.

“Fiona
Mary,” she said, her voice checking if I was defying her.

“I'm
here,” I said, a croak of a voice.

I
turned on my egg crate, letting the side of my face touch the wall
then starting to bang it against the bricks silently.

“Go
on, John,” she encouraged my father as I felt the side of my
face between my eyebrow and my hairline break open on a sharp piece
of mortar between the bricks.

“Fiona
Mary,” he said again, his voice taking on the edge I remember.
“You need to stop all this foolishness and sin and come back
home. Your grandmother told me about your little stunt at her house
and I am appalled at your behavior. I did not raise a girl to grow up
and become one of Satan's playthings. Spreading your legs for every
horned creature that comes your way. Letting them penetrate you. And
sodomize you. You whore. You evil little whore...”

I felt the blood trickle down the side of my face, dripping onto my
dress. At the end of the alley, I saw the homeless man standing there
watching me, his eyes sad. You knew you were a pathetic, worthless
piece of shit when someone with no home was taking pity on you.
Noticing me noticing him, he screamed like I had asked. Five minutes
too early, and five too late.

“Fiona
Mary... what is wrong? Fiona Mary!” my grandmother yelled.

“I
have to go,” I said, numbly. “I have to go. I'll talk to
you next Sunday.” As soon as I finished speaking, I hurled the
phone at the ground, watching its pieces shatter and spread across
the ground.

I
was rocking. Back and forth. My arms were wrapped around my middle
like they could hold me together. But it was too late. I was pieces
across the floor for years. I saw something on the ground catch the
light, shining, pulling my attention. A long, jagged piece of glass.
Green. Like it had at one time been a beer bottle. I reached out for
it without thinking, bringing it quickly toward me and rolling up one
of my sleeves.

It
was perched above the faded bruises on my wrists, just barely
touching my skin. I needed it. I needed it like smokers needed
cigarettes, like addicts needed their fix. I needed it like I needed
air in my lungs. Because I couldn't fucking feel like this. Not after
so long. Not after getting away. Not after creating my own little
life. I needed to feel better. I needed the cuts. And the rush of
adrenaline and endorphins my body would release. I needed to feel
better.

I
pushed the tip into my skin when I felt a hand touch my arm, shocking
me enough to not pull away. I looked up into the deep brown eyes of
my homeless man. I saw the knowledge there. The pain. The acceptance
of it. “Don't,” he said, his voice coaxing. “Don't,”
he said again when I just blankly stared up at him. He reached for
the glass, taking it out of my hand and tossing it toward a far
corner. He sighed as he heard it shatter against the ground. A sound
almost like relief. Like he actually gave a damn if I cut myself to
pieces. “It's not worth it,” he said, shrugging.
“Whatever it is. It isn't worth it.”

It
was. It so, so was. His voice alone, his words alone were enough to
send me spiraling to a darkness I had been denying for years. I was a
cowering child again. I was useless. Oh my god, how I believed in how
useless I was. Every time he said it, I fell for it. I believed it
somewhere in my marrow. It was a part of me, my uselessness.

I
released a strangled breath, bringing the palms of my hands to my
eyes and pushing painfully. Keeping the tears away. Because I
wouldn't cry. I wouldn't ever cry. Not over this. Not over them. Over
him. Never. I sucked air into my lungs, greedy for the tightness to
release, and stood up. “Want to get drunk?” I asked him,
waiting for the pause. There was always a pause. But he would agree.
Why the hell would he refuse?

“Alright,”
he said.

We
walked in silence to the closest bar, a rundown shithole of a place
that didn't even have a back bar. I ordered endless shots of vodka.

I
drank until my body couldn't take it anymore. Then ran to the
bathroom and let it all come back out. When I walked back into the
bar, my homeless man, my little savior, my drinking buddy was gone. I
shrugged, feeling too shitty to care, and started drinking again.

I
was obliterated. I walked home a stumbling, pathetic, numb mess. I
dropped my keys four times trying to unlock my door when I heard
Fourteen's open. “What the fuck, Sixteen?” he asked,
sounding as groggy as he looked. He took one look at my face and
shook his head. “Jesus, Fee,” he said, reaching for my
keys and unlocking my door himself.

Up
close, he smelled like comfort. Like sawdust and soap. Like him. And
I smelled like cheap vodka and old cigarettes and vomit. “Thanks,”
I managed, feeling my high sink toward a low at a pitch that made me
unsteady.

“What
the...” he said, his hand reaching out toward my face. “What
is this?” he asked, touching the skin next to my eye.

“Bar
fight,” I managed, sinking into my apartment. “You should
see the other guy.” Then I slammed the door and locked it.
Because I couldn't take his niceness. I didn't deserve it.

Eleven

The
banging woke me up. Not the hammering, but banging on my door. I
didn't have to ask to know who it was. While the night before was a
blissfully fuzzy mess, I did remember running into him in the hall.
And judging by the blood all over my pillowcase, he was going to want
to know what happened to me.

Just
give up dude. Accept that I am some kind of fall down, pass out
alcoholic. A hopeless case.

“Give
me a minute, Fourteen,” I yelled, going to my closet as I
stripped out of my clothes from the night before which smelled awful.
Like... frat house awful. I pulled on an old white t-shirt and a pair
of bright pink shorts, threw a mint in my mouth, and made my way to
the door. “What?” I said as a way of greeting, the
pounding in my head from the fight my face had had with that alley
wall was making me beyond grumpy. Not to mention that his idea of a
reasonable hour was eight in the morning.

“What?
Where the fuck were you raised with manners like that?” he
asked, pushing inside my apartment, a tray of coffee with a bottle of
aspirin in one of the cup holders in his hand.

I
cringed at the mention of my family. Sore, sore spot at that moment.
“You're only allowed in because you brought coffee,” I
grumbled, following him toward my kitchen. What was with him and the
thinking he owned the joint thing?

He
rolled his eyes, watching as I took one of the coffees and shaking
two aspirin into his palm and holding it out toward me. “You
got to have a headache. I don't think I have ever seen someone that
shitfaced and still walking before,” he said as I took the
pills.

“In
heels nonetheless,” I added.

“What
the hell happened to your face?” he asked, trying to peek at
the cut but I turned my head away.

“It
hit a wall.” A few dozen times. With no help from anyone else.

His
breath hissed out of his mouth as he moved across the room to me,
grabbing my chin and holding my face still as he looked. “This
probably needs stitches,” he said, his face looking impassive.
Like he had seen nasty cuts a million times. “You're lucky it's
not infected.”

“I
poured some vodka on it,” I shrugged, having a vague memory of
someone laughing as I dropped a shot down the side of my face.

“It
still needs to be cleaned up. Maybe if you don't want to go to the
hospital, put some glue on it.”

“I
know the drill,” I said, thinking of my own brushes with
cutting too deep in my leg. The horrifying realization that I might
have to go to the hospital and answer questions. Get a psych
evaluation. Glue and I were good friends.

There
was a long silence that had me looking down at my coffee cup. “What
is up with the self-destruct spiral, Fee?” he asked, his voice
softer than I had ever heard it before.

“Why
do you care?” I shot back. He didn't. No one really cared. They
just felt like they were entitled to the intimate details of your
life. Spell out your pain so I can make a map of it. I want to know
there are people more fucked up than me so I can feel better about
myself.

“I
don't know,” he said, tucking his dark hair behind his ear. “I
just do.”

I
ignored the warm feeling inside. The ping of hope that someone might
actually give a damn. That someone would notice if I just gave up
this fight after all. “Don't,” I said, the word coming
out sadder than I intended. I didn't want him to care. He couldn't
care. I wasn't the kind of person you should let yourself care about.
I will only let you down.

“Too
late,” he shrugged.

“Why?
Because we kissed? Because you got me off with a vibrator?” I
rolled my eyes. Shrug it off. Men hated that shit. Their silly
fragile ego. “Get over yourself.”

“This
isn't about me,” he said instead, not sounding the least bit
insulted. “But if I'm not mistaken,” he said, looking
cocky. “I heard you yesterday morning calling out my name while
you got off.”

Oh,
you fucker. Jesus. Was I really that loud? I didn't even remember
calling out his name. But seeing as I was thinking about him, that
was entirely possible. “Do you have a point? Being on someone's
highlight reel isn't a big deal. I had a pizza delivery guy end up on
mine for a month straight.” Nope. Not true at all. But I
certainly made it sound like it was.

“What's
your damage, Sixteen?” he asked, shaking his head.

“What?”
I asked, not sure if that was an insult or an actual question.

“I
don't know,” he said. “We all got it, but with the booze
and the bad decisions...”

“Maybe
I'm just stupid,” I suggested, finishing my coffee and dropping
the cup in the garbage. I needed to put some space between us. The
air in the small kitchen felt thick and stifling. I walked into the
hall and then the bathroom.

“You're
not stupid,” he said, following me. “You're just...
coping. I was just curious as to what you're trying to cope with.”

“What
makes you think you're entitled to know that?” I asked,
reaching into the medicine cabinet and pulling down the witch hazel
and glue. He watched my reflection in the mirror as I wet a swab and
dabbed at all the dried blood, trying to get it as clean as possible
before I put the glue on. I pretended to not notice his gaze.

“I'm
not saying in entitled to know,” he said reaching for the glue
as I tried to watch in the mirror and glue at the same time. His hand
pushed my hair out of my eyes and held my face still. “I'm
saying that I'm here. And I want to listen if you want to talk.”

I
closed my eyes as I felt him push my skin together and wipe glue on
the seam. God, how I wanted to tell him. A part of me felt like it
would ease the burden. To stop keeping it so secret. But the other
part knew I would never be looked at the same way again. “I'm
not in a talking mood,” I said quietly as he let go of my face
and stepped away.