Page 96 of Down Beat
Her eyes are hard, her jaw even more so as she seemingly bites her tongue and chooses to look out the windows at the skyline instead.
Jesus. Fuck. This is not how I wanted things to go. I march through to the bathroom and hurl the fucking towel at the floor. My knuckles turn white with the grip I take on the edge of the counter, my head low between my shoulders as I refuse to look at myself.
It’s catch-22s like these that drive me fucking insane. I need to look in that mirror to finish getting ready to head out, but at the same time I know if I do the usual dark thoughts will take over and leave me ready to punch myself in the fucking face.
She has every right to take a fucking walk if she wants to. Who am I to stop her?
Worst of all, why the fuck can’t I just go back through there and say sorry? Pride. It’s goddamn pride that tears my relationships with people apart. If I say sorry, it validates what happened. It says, “Yes, I know I was short-tempered and out of line” and reminds me that no matter how hard I try to be better, I. Just. Keep. Fucking. Up.
Do it, you pussy bastard.
I drag my gaze along the counter, up the backsplash, and to the mirror.
Hair wax. Hands. Hair. Simple.
Two twists and I have the lid of the wax container off. I set it down a little harsher than usual, which in turn makes the fucking thing ricochet off my damn deodorant stick. The plastic disc skims over the counter before tumbling to the floor.
A twitch jerks the side of my nose as I gaze down at the tiny little error.
It’s no big deal, Rey.
Except today it’s everything. The straws are piling up on this camel’s back: Kendall disapproves of me, we spent a shitty night in the airport to avoid her, Wallace cut off my privileges, the guys rehearse without me, and now Tabby pushes me away, rejects me… that stings most of all.
One deep breath. Two.
I lean down to retrieve the lid. My fingertips catch the white sticky wax residue and make a mess.
Something intrinsic to my state of mind snaps.
The plastic careens across the marble top with my frustration, quickly followed by the half-full tub. It skates off the end of the counter and collides with the side of the shower. The plastic tub cracks, and then falls to the carpet as my blood surges through my veins.
Fuck.
I tried so hard to keep my shit level. I really did.
But that useless plastic motherfucker.…
“Fuck!”
I should leave it where it is and walk away, cool off. Take some time to wind down and then start again fresh.
But I don’t have time. I’ve probably got ten minutes left to get downstairs if I’m lucky.
Fuck! My hands damn well shake as I reach for the cracked canister. Tiny fibers are stuck in the wax from the carpet. Tiny fibers that only bury themselves deeper when I try to swipe them out.
I. Do. Not. Have. Time. For. This.
The breaths I take leave me hysterical, whooshing out my nose like I’m some raging bull. I chuckle at myself as I fix my hair. At least by some swing of fate the hysteria helps to ease my rage.
That is, until one fucking spike refuses to play ball.
“Come on, you little fucker. Get over there.”
The strand droops at the end, which wouldn’t be such a problem if the rest of them weren’t straight as an arrow. Probably because your hair is wet, you fuckhead. Of course. I’m in such a hurry I forget to do something as obvious as drying my hair first.
The plastic tub doesn’t survive the second flight across the bathroom.
“What’s the matter?”