past him, focusing on a jagged crack in the wall. Every time I look at it, it seems to have grown. One day, I swear the entire wall is going to crumble.
“No, it’s something else . . . You seem out of it.” He states it like he knows so much about me. But how could he when even I don’t know anything about myself?
His endeavor to delve into my psyche makes me regret coming here. Miller is good for one thing—taking a break from being the Anna everyone scrutinizes and constantly worries about.
I push up on my elbows. “Maybe I should go.”
He splays his fingers across my chest, pinning me down. “Don’t get pissy. I was just pointing out you seem out of it.” He squints at my face. “You aren’t high, are ya?”
“No, I’m just . . .” I sigh. “Look, I don’t want to talk about me, okay? I’ve had a shitty day, and I just want to relax and hang out like we usually do.”
“Relax, huh? I think I might have something for that.” He jumps off the bed and strides out of the room. When he returns, he has plastic cup in one hand a small plastic bag in the other. “Pick a hand,” he says, even though I can see what’s in both. He’s giving me a choice: temporarily escape reality and be left feeling tired and achy or plummet into an unknown world that I might never find my way out of. How fast and far do I want to fall? How hard do I want to crash?
I want to fall hard.
I want to fall fast.
I want to crash and burn and never feel anything ever again.
Past the pills I take sometimes to kill the pain inside. Past the alcohol. Past the scars I always have to carry with me.
But the faint memory of Dancing, Dreaming, Good Girl Annabella clutches onto the ledge.
“I’ll take the cup,” I say, trying to figure out what my answer means. Am I good? Bad? What?
He seems mildly disappointed but still hands me the cup. “This’ll take the edge off a little.”
I inspect the brownish liquid that smells like gasoline. “What’s in it? Just whiskey, right?”
“Just drink up and find out.” He kicks the door shut and climbs back onto the bed, tossing the plastic bag on the mattress beside him. “I promise it’ll blow your mind.”
My parents’ words of wisdom race through my head. Don’t do drugs. Don’t drink. Don’t give into peer pressure. You’re such a good girl, Annabella.
“You’re wrong. I don’t know who I am anymore,” I say aloud to myself. Miller gives me a confused look, but I raise the rim of the glass to my lips. This is why I come here. This is what I need . “Goodbye, Anna. Goodbye, rainstorm.”
Chapter Four
As Destructive as the Rain
After I down half the cup, Miller finishes the rest off, does a line, then goes to get a refill. As the alcohol flows through my veins, I sink onto the mattress and drift from reality. Not too much later, Miller joins me, and we lay side-by-side, floating in and out of meaningless conversation.
I can’t see straight. Can hardly think. My body is so numb that I can’t even feel my messed up leg.
“See, much better, right?” Miller asks as he stares up at the ceiling with his arm draped across his head.
“Yes . . . much . . .” Is it really, though? Am I lying to myself?
My phone rings, but I don’t—can’t—move to answer it.
“Good.” Miller smiles contently as he rolls on his side and props up on his elbow.
Minutes, maybe hours, pass before the effects of whatever I drank begin to wear off. I become restless again. Start thinking too much. Regret drinking. Being here. Choosing to be this person . I don’t like the feeling at all. Don’t like that the old me still resides somewhere beneath the purple hair and goth clothing, the one who wants to dance, be good—the one who should have just died in the car accident. For once, I just want to forget who I was, who I’ve become, the anger I feel toward my
“No, it’s something else . . . You seem out of it.” He states it like he knows so much about me. But how could he when even I don’t know anything about myself?
His endeavor to delve into my psyche makes me regret coming here. Miller is good for one thing—taking a break from being the Anna everyone scrutinizes and constantly worries about.
I push up on my elbows. “Maybe I should go.”
He splays his fingers across my chest, pinning me down. “Don’t get pissy. I was just pointing out you seem out of it.” He squints at my face. “You aren’t high, are ya?”
“No, I’m just . . .” I sigh. “Look, I don’t want to talk about me, okay? I’ve had a shitty day, and I just want to relax and hang out like we usually do.”
“Relax, huh? I think I might have something for that.” He jumps off the bed and strides out of the room. When he returns, he has plastic cup in one hand a small plastic bag in the other. “Pick a hand,” he says, even though I can see what’s in both. He’s giving me a choice: temporarily escape reality and be left feeling tired and achy or plummet into an unknown world that I might never find my way out of. How fast and far do I want to fall? How hard do I want to crash?
I want to fall hard.
I want to fall fast.
I want to crash and burn and never feel anything ever again.
Past the pills I take sometimes to kill the pain inside. Past the alcohol. Past the scars I always have to carry with me.
But the faint memory of Dancing, Dreaming, Good Girl Annabella clutches onto the ledge.
“I’ll take the cup,” I say, trying to figure out what my answer means. Am I good? Bad? What?
He seems mildly disappointed but still hands me the cup. “This’ll take the edge off a little.”
I inspect the brownish liquid that smells like gasoline. “What’s in it? Just whiskey, right?”
“Just drink up and find out.” He kicks the door shut and climbs back onto the bed, tossing the plastic bag on the mattress beside him. “I promise it’ll blow your mind.”
My parents’ words of wisdom race through my head. Don’t do drugs. Don’t drink. Don’t give into peer pressure. You’re such a good girl, Annabella.
“You’re wrong. I don’t know who I am anymore,” I say aloud to myself. Miller gives me a confused look, but I raise the rim of the glass to my lips. This is why I come here. This is what I need . “Goodbye, Anna. Goodbye, rainstorm.”
Chapter Four
As Destructive as the Rain
After I down half the cup, Miller finishes the rest off, does a line, then goes to get a refill. As the alcohol flows through my veins, I sink onto the mattress and drift from reality. Not too much later, Miller joins me, and we lay side-by-side, floating in and out of meaningless conversation.
I can’t see straight. Can hardly think. My body is so numb that I can’t even feel my messed up leg.
“See, much better, right?” Miller asks as he stares up at the ceiling with his arm draped across his head.
“Yes . . . much . . .” Is it really, though? Am I lying to myself?
My phone rings, but I don’t—can’t—move to answer it.
“Good.” Miller smiles contently as he rolls on his side and props up on his elbow.
Minutes, maybe hours, pass before the effects of whatever I drank begin to wear off. I become restless again. Start thinking too much. Regret drinking. Being here. Choosing to be this person . I don’t like the feeling at all. Don’t like that the old me still resides somewhere beneath the purple hair and goth clothing, the one who wants to dance, be good—the one who should have just died in the car accident. For once, I just want to forget who I was, who I’ve become, the anger I feel toward my
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