A TOTAL ANNIHILATION OF PLEASURE
My first attempt at short fiction
SO WHAT IF I’M A FREAK?
The sound of birds. My eyes opened slowly, hesitantly—the kind of hesitation you feel when you’re nervous about what you might see, or where you may have ended up the night before. A fabric draped my body, but it was unfamiliar. Not my blanket, not my bed. After a moment of deliberation, I clenched my eyes shut again and decided to sit still, waiting for something to happen. Why move? The birds were singing in harmony.
What happened last night? My jaw tightened—an involuntary reaction, the same one my dad has, and, so he claims, his dad before him. Dinner at Char’s, drinks at the bar, drugs in the bathroom—I started to piece it together, trying to cut through the fog of a splitting headache. I remembered Jace, I remembered Nate. I remembered laughing with Ian. I remembered the sound of music and a beautiful curly-haired girl with piercing green eyes. Maybe a friend of Shauna’s? Beyond that, though—nothing.
I began to feel around. My shirt was off, but I had on a pair of shorts. I’d left the house wearing my favorite early 2000s Jil Sander corduroy trousers. Now they were gone. My socks, however, were still on. With each new realization, I grew more confused. Was I letting myself go? Giving in to impulse? I’d always oscillated between riding the wagon and falling off it. Was this what regret felt like? Never hit the bottle too hard and I didn’t start doing cocaine until 6 months ago (at 28 years old) but now the party feels over, the lights are on, there’s no afters and I’m still there. The wagon had left me behind, it seems. Where’s my phone?
A memory, sitting on the couch, staring at two palm trees swaying in the breeze, while my mom told me she’d dropped my dad off at rehab. I wouldn’t see him for a few weeks. I was probably 11 years old. A high-functioning alcoholic and gambler, apparently. He had almost lost his job—and our house. Like many women before her, my mom refused to let him hit rock bottom. In true Slav fashion, behind every strong man stood an even stronger Slavic woman. A real matriarch. But that was neither here nor there.
I felt deflated, weak, and struggling to make any movement. My joints were tight and tender—a side effect of the gym this past week. I’d been trying to shed my old skin. Kill an old version of myself. Would the green-eyed girl remember me? How much had I drunk last night? A whole bottle of champagne, followed by too many beers to count, then shots of anything put in my hand. Had I blacked out? I’d never blacked out before. My self-control, or maybe my high-strung personality, usually prevented me from reaching that point. I knew how to have fun, but I was even better at not having fun. I loved being in control of my mind and limbs, but I also loved that fleeting looseness of my lips. Saying everything I didn’t say earlier. My breath didn’t smell of vomit, so that’s good.
It was almost July. What kind of person did I want to be this year? I didn’t want to be the person lying in this unfamiliar bed. This felt like meditation—suddenly, the sound of chewing pierced through the silence and my thoughts. Gnawing, gabbing, tooth-sucking. My body recoiled at the repulsive, disgusting collection of sounds. There was no worse noise than that of bad manners. My eyes shot open as I threw my body upright.
“Will you please shut the fuck up?”
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