to protect them. But there’s nothing like a bitter dosage of neglect and lack of attention from your parents while growing up to fuck with your head and sense of self-worth.
Trust me. I know.
As I get in the elevator with its cherry wood covered walls, smelling the fake clean cotton aroma embedded in the rug, feeling my heels sink in it, I wonder how I got here. I don’t love Walker, but it still hurts. It hurts because someone else just proved how unworthy of love I am. So as I wait to make it back to the lobby, watching the numbers of floors decreasing, I recite that old and familiar chat.
Love is selfish.
Love is unkind.
Love hurts.
It wasn’t his fault though … he didn’t make me do anything. It was all me, and maybe that’s why it’s so painful. I have no one to blame but me.
I look down and try to slow down my breathing. I’m not a crier, so I can’t say that I want to cry, but I am hurt. And my pain is clearing a path for anger to follow with regret one step behind.
When I step outside the building, the doormen avoid me as if they already know I’m an outcast and not welcomed anymore. I glance down at my body dressed in the same outfit from last night; I look like a hooker and feel like one. As humiliation and heartache fill every crevice of my body, I decide I need to move. I’m attracting too much attention standing on the corner while I wait for a cab. Maybe my feet will take me away. Maybe my feet will take away the pain that comes with the knowledge of who I am.
After a couple of minutes pass, I’m calmer and standing in front of an entrance to a subway station. Laughing, I have to be honest with myself. What did I expect? How can I be angry with Walker for using me when I was pretty much doing the same? It was his money, his name, and his handsome face that attracted me to him at first, so if I’m hurting at the moment, it’s my fault because I let my guard down.
As I walk down the stairs, submerging myself in the subterranean darkness, the acrid smells of pee and sewage fill my nose. I scrunch up my nose at the subway perfume while I avoid stepping over a homeless man sitting on the bottom step. And because it looks like he could use a cup of coffee more than me, I take a twenty out of my clutch and hand it to him.
“Oh, thank you, miss! Thank you!” he says, smiling a toothless grin.
“No problem,” I say as the kindness in his eyes makes my heart contract.
I’m about to close my clutch when I see my ticket out of this mess. My heart starts to beat faster as I grab the card and hold it in between my fingers. Maybe that upgrade came sooner than I’d expected.
That night …
I STAND IN FRONT OF MY MIRROR once more and take in my appearance, applying lipstick over my bruised lips until they are a dark red. I observe how, layer-by-layer, I create my phony façade until I’m Blaire again. Until I hide all of my flaws.
But I’m a fraud.
As I continue to stare at my reflection, I remember a memory I had forgotten about. And it paralyzes me.
“Mommy! Mommy! Don’t leave!” I cry desperately. My arms are wrapped tightly around her middle. My mom tries to push me away, but the harder she pushes, the harder I grip her. I can’t let her go. “No, Mommy, please stay! Don’t leave me. Please, please, pl-lease.”
Tears stream down my face. The pain goes on and on, but I continue to beg her and hold her. I hope that she will hear me this time. I hope that she sees how much I need her.
“Blaire, let go,” she says, struggling to break free from my hold. “I can’t stand being in this house with your drunk of a father for one minute longer. It’s driving me insane.”
I hear wild laughter behind us. I turn to look at my daddy as he walks into their bedroom, making his way toward the edge of the bed where my mom’s suitcase is lying open. His eyes are bloodshot, his untucked dress shirt has a greasy stain in the middle that spreads like spilled ink, and he’s slightly
Trust me. I know.
As I get in the elevator with its cherry wood covered walls, smelling the fake clean cotton aroma embedded in the rug, feeling my heels sink in it, I wonder how I got here. I don’t love Walker, but it still hurts. It hurts because someone else just proved how unworthy of love I am. So as I wait to make it back to the lobby, watching the numbers of floors decreasing, I recite that old and familiar chat.
Love is selfish.
Love is unkind.
Love hurts.
It wasn’t his fault though … he didn’t make me do anything. It was all me, and maybe that’s why it’s so painful. I have no one to blame but me.
I look down and try to slow down my breathing. I’m not a crier, so I can’t say that I want to cry, but I am hurt. And my pain is clearing a path for anger to follow with regret one step behind.
When I step outside the building, the doormen avoid me as if they already know I’m an outcast and not welcomed anymore. I glance down at my body dressed in the same outfit from last night; I look like a hooker and feel like one. As humiliation and heartache fill every crevice of my body, I decide I need to move. I’m attracting too much attention standing on the corner while I wait for a cab. Maybe my feet will take me away. Maybe my feet will take away the pain that comes with the knowledge of who I am.
After a couple of minutes pass, I’m calmer and standing in front of an entrance to a subway station. Laughing, I have to be honest with myself. What did I expect? How can I be angry with Walker for using me when I was pretty much doing the same? It was his money, his name, and his handsome face that attracted me to him at first, so if I’m hurting at the moment, it’s my fault because I let my guard down.
As I walk down the stairs, submerging myself in the subterranean darkness, the acrid smells of pee and sewage fill my nose. I scrunch up my nose at the subway perfume while I avoid stepping over a homeless man sitting on the bottom step. And because it looks like he could use a cup of coffee more than me, I take a twenty out of my clutch and hand it to him.
“Oh, thank you, miss! Thank you!” he says, smiling a toothless grin.
“No problem,” I say as the kindness in his eyes makes my heart contract.
I’m about to close my clutch when I see my ticket out of this mess. My heart starts to beat faster as I grab the card and hold it in between my fingers. Maybe that upgrade came sooner than I’d expected.
That night …
I STAND IN FRONT OF MY MIRROR once more and take in my appearance, applying lipstick over my bruised lips until they are a dark red. I observe how, layer-by-layer, I create my phony façade until I’m Blaire again. Until I hide all of my flaws.
But I’m a fraud.
As I continue to stare at my reflection, I remember a memory I had forgotten about. And it paralyzes me.
“Mommy! Mommy! Don’t leave!” I cry desperately. My arms are wrapped tightly around her middle. My mom tries to push me away, but the harder she pushes, the harder I grip her. I can’t let her go. “No, Mommy, please stay! Don’t leave me. Please, please, pl-lease.”
Tears stream down my face. The pain goes on and on, but I continue to beg her and hold her. I hope that she will hear me this time. I hope that she sees how much I need her.
“Blaire, let go,” she says, struggling to break free from my hold. “I can’t stand being in this house with your drunk of a father for one minute longer. It’s driving me insane.”
I hear wild laughter behind us. I turn to look at my daddy as he walks into their bedroom, making his way toward the edge of the bed where my mom’s suitcase is lying open. His eyes are bloodshot, his untucked dress shirt has a greasy stain in the middle that spreads like spilled ink, and he’s slightly
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