I smacked myself lightly on the side of my cheek. I had been sort of reading, aka STARING STRAIGHT THROUGH THE PAGE WHILE DAY DREAMING ABOUT A LIFE BETTER THAN MINE. I had actually tried to concentrate on reading, but my mind sailed away. I tossed Mr. Urrea's The Devil's Highway on the floor. I was feeling pretty relaxed, but I guess not relaxed enough. Actually, I wanted to sleep. I rolled over and opened the top drawer of my little night dresser (don't need to open the second drawer oh no sir we aren't in the mood to look at naked photos of Mr. Gael Garcia and pulling out the vibrator that sits on top of those photos no sir not right now), my hand patted blindly against the random stuff in the drawer until it found what it was looking for: a caramel-colored packet of ten, with foil bust-outs on the other side. I pulled it out and popped from it four white rounds. I had already taken a few already but my tolerance to soma is quite high these days.
I swallowed all four of the nasty, bitter pills, thinking yes o yes I'll be able to sleep now, then I can wake up rested and refreshed in the morning to start another pointless day in my fucking life o yes
I picked up the book again. After a few moments, the book began to fall slowly in my weak hands. I turned my head to the side a bit, stretching my neck. No use in fighting it anymore, my eyelids dropped to a close.
One eyelid rose. The second followed. I stared at my ceiling light for a moment, I was still lying in the same spot, same position. I looked at my clock. Last time I check it said eleven o'clock, now it declared in red SIX-OH-EIGHT. My brain didn't register it and I said aloud: It's three o'clock
My eyes swept over to my feet. I had be lying the the same position I feel asleep in, but the bed was crooked, the bed was way crooked.
What the hell? I shouted abruptly. My brain became less slow and less sticky as I took a good look around my room.
The plastic supply organizer broke off my art table. Movies that were once neatly stacked on top of my TV were now strewn across the floor. My case for my glasses was destroyed. All my precious silk-flower-making things were out of their proper cases and lying on the floor in a staggering mess.
I got out of bed. Another look down my legs revealed colored gems embedded in my skin.
What the hell? I repeated as I painstakingly peeled off all the gems and crystals I could see off my knees and thighs.
My mouth had been hanging open all this time, and I finally realized something else was wrong. Bewildered, I shuffled out of my unrecognizable room and into the bathroom. I turned on the light.
I don't know how long I stood there. Maybe a few seconds, maybe several minutes. The soma had worn off but I still couldn't comprehend what I was staring at: because the idea of it was so so horrible. Blood had oozed from where I once had my lip pierced down to the bottom of my chin. Blood swam in my mouth along with thick saliva. I rinsed out my mouth and washed the thick, crusty blood off my chin and right cheek. But the most ghastly of all was the swelling of my right eye and the odd look and shape of the bridge of my nose.
Scared and confused, I went straight into my parents' room and (but it is three o'clock in the morning) woke my mother. As if (and probably is) well-trained to awaken at ungodly hours of the night for disasters her children and husband often find themselves in, my mother was awake instantly and immediately grabbed her hearing aids and glasses and followed me out of the room, across the living room, and into the room that appeared to have been struck by a natural disaster of some sort.
My mother slowly looked at everything while I blabbered on and on. I kept repeating I can't believe it I cannae believe it, I tore my flowers off the walls, I can't believe it I cannae believe it
It looks to me as confusion, not that you meant to do it, my mother replied to my endless mutterings. She held out her palm--
I want them. Give them to me, all of them, and I will get rid of them.
I immediately went to the top drawer and gladly gave her every single 10-packet I had, of which she proceeded to take to the kitchen garbage disposal.
So baffled and bewildered was I.
I took several photos, especially of the nastiest-looking bruises I had ever seen (on ANYONE) that ran up and down my thighs, buttocks, back, and shoulder. But I'll spare you those photos.
That was almost a month ago.
Now, I'm taking a cake-decorating class, just for the hell of it. If I like it well enough, I will take the rest of the courses so I can be an expert, maybe get a better-paying job from it than the one I have at Schloztsky's Deli.
I still have no recollection of what happened that evening. I was reluctant to tell anyone about it really because I am so ashamed. My unhappiness had finally reached a limit, and now I am trying to do what I can to make my life the way I want it to be. I intend to find a psychologist (or psychiatrist) that I can talk to (for free or that is on my ghetto insurance).
There is more, much more but my carpal tunnel in my right hand is starting to get angry with me so I'd better knock off the typing for awhile.