Page 44 of Misguided
SIXTEEN
Mel
Dog told me to get my ass downstairs well over two hours ago. Since then the noise penetrating the wooden floor beneath my feet has damn near tripled, the music shaking the old home right to its foundation.
The last fifteen minutes I’ve sat here with a tube of lipstick in my hand, screwing it out, screwing it down, over and over and fucking over.
It took me twenty minutes just to put my goddamn mascara on. To say I’m not all that keen on parading around like a painted doll would be a huge fucking understatement. But deep down I know Dog’s right in his twisted kind of way.
Only way to face my fears is head on. Only way to remember what I used to love about who I am is to be her.
With a sigh, I roll to my knees and peer up over the edge of the set of drawers to the mirror propped up on top. The deep red hue paints my lips in a slick path, completing the transformation from Mel 2.0, back to plain old Mel.
Back to the dense cow who didn’t understand how fragile life was until hers was ripped apart in the blink of an eye. I’ll never forget how that day played out; Daddy had been hibernating in his office for days on end, barely coming out to eat. I knew something went down, just not what. Women aren’t privy to the inner workings, and until they directly affected me, that didn’t bother me in the slightest.
“Hey, sugar. You got some time for your old man?”
He’d stepped out late in the afternoon, his weathered face even more scored with lines of worry than usual.
“Sure, Daddy.”
And like a lamb to the slaughter, I’d followed him, knowing full well I trusted him with my life. My confidence turned out to be pretty damn justified.
“You gotta go away for a while,” he’d said. “It’s the only way I can keep this pretty face smilin’.”
Only I’m not smiling anymore. Yet what a fickle price to pay for having the rest of my life still laid out before me for the taking.
My chest shudders on an exhale as I set the lipstick down on the wooden surface, and smack my moneymakers together. I used to love painting these bastard things, knowing full well my practiced pouts and wide smile drew the men in like moths to a flame.
Now … it all seems so vain.
“You can do this, Mel,” I mutter to the sad wreck that stares back at me. “You’re a badass bitch, made to take names and kick ass. You’re a Coleman.”
The noise is unbelievable as I descend the stairs toward chaos. I forgot how overwhelming the layered sounds could be when you smash people’s voices over top of thumping bass and throw in a healthy dose of clinking glassware to boot.
A couple make-out in the entrance—nothing unusual around here—another making lovey eyes at each other as they no doubt work toward the same end goal. I step through the wide archway that leads into the main living space, and cringe as the first thing I’m met with is the sight of our treasurer, Digits, feasting on his favorite whore, Heather’s, tit.
I’m literally one more inappropriate sight away from turning around and heading back upstairs. How the fuck did I once think this was normal? More to the point, how the fuck did my parents ever see this as an acceptable environment to raise three kids? No wonder we all turned out the way we did.
Look for Dog. He’s the only reason I went through with this, that kiss back at the convenience store the only motivation to put my war paint on and face the masses.
I scan the room, finding Murphy spread out on one of the armchairs while he engages in a heated debate with a lifer, Crackers at the bar with his ass of choice, Beth, and a circle of prospects in the far corner cheering something on.
Yet no Dog.
“Hey! You decided to join us.” Crackers’ girl, Beth, greets me as I step up beside the two of them to get a drink.
I like her. She’s probably the most levelheaded and honest of all the property girls. Sometimes makes me wonder how she ended up in the role; it’s usually only self-depreciating masochists who seek out a life of being used and degraded for others’ pleasure.
“Thought I may as well get back in the saddle,” I muse as I reach for a bottle of vodka.
More like my foot’s stuck in the stirrup and it’s a case of get back on or die from being dragged along with the beast.
“You need anything, you shout out, hey,” Crackers says.
I give him a small nod as I unscrew the bottle. “You know I will.” I take a swig and cough at the burn. Fuck, I’m out of practice.
“Get it!” One of the prospects hollers from the corner.