Ripped- Chapter One

Crap. Not again.

I wince as Hugo’s mouth moves from my lips to my neck, tracing the shape of my collarbone seductively. His hand has somehow managed to get around the manual gearshift sitting between us, and it starts moving up my leg, squeezing. He’s pushing against me now, his mouth moving lower and lower.

Then he starts undoing the buttons of my blouse.

Nope. Too far.

I straighten up, lean away from him, breaking the embrace. He recognizes my movement as a silent but powerful “No.” He sighs and untangles his body from mine, and leans back against the door of the ancient Honda. “Okay. What is it this time?”

I try to act innocent, but I am well-known as a terrible liar. My face becomes awfully flushed as I stutter out “It’s just that...I mean we...I’m not…” He sighs again. “Whatever Mars. I’m done.” He stares at me for a moment, waiting for a protest, but we both know there isn’t going to be one. This has been coming for awhile. So, when he shakes his head in disbelief, grabs his keys off the dash, and angrily jams it into the slot, I am expecting it. He starts the car, about to drive off, probably speeding, to dump me back at my parents’ place, when suddenly, he stops.

He pauses, hands on the wheel, head drooping. After a moment, he looks at me. He takes in my partially unbuttoned blouse, my rumpled hair, my somewhat irritated face. He gives me a complete once over. Then again. Self- consciously, I redo the top three buttons of my shirt. Finally, he meets my eyes. “I tried, Mars. I really did. We both know I tried. No one could ever say it wasn’t great for awhile. Right?”

I stare back at him, confused. This, I wasn’t expecting. “Yeah. It was a good run. For what it’s worth, I’m sorry, okay? I just don’t feel it any-” He quickly cuts me off with “Yeah. I know.” We both just look at each other. Three years together, this is the way it ends.

He ends up breaking what probably will be our last intense moment together. He shakes his head again, and expels a heavy breath of air. He jabs the gear into drive, then throws the car forward, almost flooring the gas pedal. I grab at the door handles. There is a sad, somewhat awkward silence between during the ten minute drive to my place. It creates a permanent, uncrossable chasm between us.

I wake with a start to the sound of my phone ringing right into my left ear. Groaning, I slide my lock screen. “You rang?” I say sarcastically into the receiver. I am totally expecting to hear my best friend’s grating voice on the other end, and I am not disappointed. “WHY DIDN’T YOU CALL ME?!” I sighed, sat up, and looked at the clock. 11:55pm. On a Sunday night. “Liza it’s midnight. Can we not do this now?” I hear her snort over the phone. “Oh, okay. let’s not do this now. Or ever. I mean you’ve been single for almost” - she paused here, presumably to check the time- “three hours! You didn’t bother to tell me.” There is another pause, this one dramatic, as she let me marinate in how angry she was. “I would have come over. We could’ve had pizza and ice cream. And watched sad movies. And had ice cream!!” Now she’s practically screaming at me. About ice cream. At 11:55- wait, 11:56 at night.

I pull the phone away from my face and let her yell aimlessly. I groan again, this time from the throbbing headache that just kicked in. I glance around my room, and I kick myself when I notice the empty whiskey bottle laying on my rumpled, unmade bed, along with half of a frozen pizza. The tv is on low static, like somebody turned it on to the wrong channel, then cranked down the volume to 1. Four bottles of paint lay open on my desk, and there is a sheet of paper, disturbingly not painted, lying smack in the middle. All I can see from my increasingly uncomfortable position on my bed is that it’s colored in a gray scale. I must have painted it, while drunk, last night. Before I can investigate, I hear “Mars? Mars? Where are you?! I swear if you hung up on me-” Controlling my curiosity, I sigh, put the receiver to my mouth, and say “Yeah, yeah, I’m here.”

“God, girl imma end up killing you for your own stupidity one of these days. You drank again, didn’t you?” There is a morbid silence on the line as I refused to answer. “...How much?” Again, the silence stretches between us. “Really? God, Mars, we’ve discussed this…” “Just shutup about it, okay?!” I randomly snap.

The third silence is much more hostile. “Mars, I don’t got a damned clue what the hell is up with you lately. You just get one thing straight. You do not take your shit out on me. Ever. I get you’re upset about Huge and all but that’s no reason to go on a whiskey binge. And its most definitely not a reason to go off on me, yet again, for caring, when most people would’ve dumped your sorry ass years ago when you were still a broken, drunk slut.”

At this point I realized that most people, if on the receiving end of such a rant, would just hang up. But, unfortunately, she had a point. I sighed and rubbed my right temple. Exhausted, I closed my eyes. It wasn’t worth the fight. “Yeah. Yeah, okay, you’re right. I’m sorry.” “Yeah, I’m right. I always am. Look, Im coming over, we can sort this out, put you back together before Barb sees you tomorrow morning.” I groaned yet again and said “Liza, you don’t need to do that.” “Yes, I do. You’re probably still drunk and the hangover is just kicking in. Barbara will be able to tell if you’re hungover five hours from now. You’re always a bitch hungover. Well, actually, you’re a bitch period, but ya know…” I snorted. “And you’re not?” I said, just to change the subject.

“Nope, I’m always an angel babe!”

“Tell that to Stanley McCoughlin.”

“That doesn’t count!”

“Sure it doesn’t… Case in point.”

“Whatever.”

“Whatever.” I can hear the smile in her voice as I say it. We’re okay again. Liza’s always okay, I think to myself as I say, “You really don’t have to come. I’m fine.” “If you were fine you wouldn’t have drank last night. First time in two months, might I add. Assuming you’re not lying to me about that, too…”

“What?” I say, confused. “When did I lie?” “Weeeell, you lied by omission. By not telling me about Huge!!”

I grinned. I actually thought she was legit mad at me there for a moment. Or worse, she knew I really had been lying. I grit my teeth as I peek at my closet, half open, containing a milk crate full of assorted liquors, ‘for emergencies only’. “That’s different. I really was going to call you, first thing tomorrow, I swear.” “Promise?” I smile again, admiring how easy some people are to fool. “Yeah, I promise.” “Fine, I forgive you for not telling, but we ARE going to discuss the binge. I can tell you that.”

My smile drops. “Yeah, I guess, just not tonight. Right. Now I need to sleep, girly. Sleep is our friend, remember? One of these days you’re gonna just keel over in the middle of Wal- Mart because you ‘forgot to sleep’ or you were ‘busy’ for a week.” She laughed despite herself, but still said, “Don’t change the subject, Mars. I‘m coming to get you first thing tomorrow. Bring cash, we’re going to Johnnie’s.” I rolled my eyes at the ceiling. “Gotcha. Night.” “Night.”

I toss the phone on my bed and grab my head, pulling at my hair. Goddamn. I truly did not need to deal with a nosy Liza in here tomorrow. I close my eyes, and wish it all away. I open my eyes, just a sliver. Ugh. No luck. The outline of where my glow- in - the dark stars used to be, the ones I ripped down last year while I was in a vodka- fueled rage, are still imprinted in the ceiling directly above my head. I lay there for a moment, then will myself to get up.

I sigh, throw back the sweaty, tangled comforter, and swing myself up, so I am sitting on the edge of my bed. I look at my clock. Ugh. 11:58pm.

I look around my room. It is the epitome of the average American teenager’s bedroom, from the filmy sky blue drapes, to the whitewashed walls, to the erratically stained carpet. I gaze at my atomic bomb of a closet, my thirty- something (I may or may not have an addiction to shopping) pairs of shoes littered everywhere, the bras hanging out of my top dresser drawer, the crooked lamp shades. I let myself revel in a moment of nostalgia, reliving the past seven months I have spent living in this room.

Then I think about the other, more recent things about this room that only I know about. Like the switchblade between my boxspring and mattress. And the bloodstained, oversized washcloth I keep hidden underneath my nightstand so my mom won’t find it and try to wash it. And, most of all, that corner of loose carpet, behind my dresser, that hides a squarish hole in the rotting woodwork underneath.

I sigh and stand up, my sweaty feet immediately freezing on the carpeted floor.

Not quite registering anything but the fact that I really want to sleep, but I can’t until I make myself and my room presentable, I stumble blindly towards the bathroom, cursing as I accidentally step on a pair of heels. Now limping, I stumble through the open door frame and grope for the lightswitch.

I turn on the left faucet and splash some shockingly ice cold water on my face.

I look up and nearly scream.

Scowling back at me from the other side of the into the mirror, I see the exact picture of myself from two years ago. My long, grungy pink curls are thrown into a slipshod bun on top of my head. Last night’s heavy black eyeliner smudged around my eyes, mascara marks clawing down my face, scarlet lipstick staining my upper lip. My face is pale and gaunt from the drinking and smoking, and the bags pull down my eyes from the endlessly sleepless nights. Rail thin and wearing a lowcut pink camisole and high denim shorts, I see the spitting image of myself, two years ago to this exact day.

Except one thing. Her eyes are dead black. Not a hint of any other color in them. I- she- looks demented and hell-bent on causing havoc.

I back away from the mirror, slamming myself onto the wall. Heart racing, and never taking my eyes off the girl in the mirror, I grab at the cloth shorts that I know,I know, despite the hangover, that I threw on before I grabbed the whiskey and drank it all away. Yes, they are cloth, not denim.

Other Me gets progressively closer to the mirror as I get farther away, pressing myself against the ugly, striped wallpaper. She sneers at me, then throws back her head and laughs. “You can’t outrun your past, Marguerite. Stop trying to be something you’re not. You know what today is, what it is that made you this way. You can’t change it. You will always be me, deep down.”

I can’t stifle the gasp that escapes my lips. I’ve got to be hallucinating. Oh well, my head was gone to hell anyways. I grab the huge, gaudy mermaid sculpture that Barbara keeps in our bathroom, and brazenly yell, “Go back to hell, you bitch!” and hurl the ceramic at the mirror.

The mirror shatters in the center, and the cracks ripple outward, like a bullet through a windshield. Other Me shrieks and disappears as the glass explodes, and I turn away before my face is filleted. The left side of the back of my neck and arms get the brunt of the pain, my old, gray cotton T-shirt protecting most of my back. Of course, all I hear is a loud, ominous laugh that echoes in my head and throughout the tiny bathroom.

The old, cheap wooden door slams as I scream and cover my ears. But I can still hear a high keening sound, and suddenly the lights start flickering. I side down the wall, staring at the shattered remains of the mirror. The temperature inexplicably plummets, and I suddenly make the connection to the cold carpet and ice cold water. The sound is getting louder and louder until unexpectedly, the lights snuff out completely.

Then, dead silence.

Tentatively, I uncover my ears, and I slowly stand back up. Keeping my eyes glued in the general direction of the mirror, I grope around on the wall until I find the light switch. Before I can flip it, the lights come back on just as suddenly as they went out. I look in the mirror and cover my mouth. Crimson- colored- is that blood?- has seeped out of the hole, and is filling the cracks in the surface of the mirror. I barely see Other Me laughing, through the cracks, before she disappears again. I scrutinize the mirror, the blood pooling and starting to spill over the cracks. I step towards the mirror and reach out to touch the surface, when I feel breathing on my neck. I freeze, then spin around, ready to attack.

Instead, I cough up blood as I stare into the eyes of a slightly younger, more malevolent version of myself. “Can’t get rid of me that easily!”

I am confused for a moment as she laughs her ominous laugh and then- I feel the white-hot pain in my stomach. Then, even more excruciating pain as Other Me twists the jagged, obsidian dagger further inside me. Tears start falling down my cheeks as she yanks out the blade, and with an evil smile, disappears one last time.

I collapse into a heap on the floor, and, losing more and more blood by the second, I make a vain attempt to get to the door. No use; I can’t get more than two feet, what with the hole in my side. I try to call out, but my voice won’t come. I moan vaguely as I register the utterly sickening feeling as my shirt begins to soak up the blood, causing it to stick to my skin. I am aware that I am dying, and the last image I see is my wide, bathroom mirror, completely drenched in blood, as my brain shuts down and I black out.

I sit bolt upright in bed, knocking the whiskey bottle to the floor. I am gasping for air and screaming simultaneously. Barbara rockets into my room and is suddenly holding me, as I melt down. I look wildly around the room. I stare through my open bathroom door, in the half light of my nightstand lamp (Barbara must have turned it on). Mirror’s whole. No blood. I feel for my stomach. No hole, no pain.

It was a dream.

Barbara shhhhs me until I stop crying, and after I assure her that no, I don’t want to talk about it, and yes, I’ll be fine, she finally leaves me with a kiss and turns out my light. As soon as she’s gone, I turn it back on again. Cautiously, I step out of bed, avoiding the broken glass from the whiskey bottle. Thank god Barb didn’t see them. As luck would have it, they fell on the opposite side of the bed.

With great trepidation, I walk into the bathroom. I inspect the mirror, and to my great relief, I find no cracks, no blood, no nothing. Smiling, I silently scold myself. It was just a bloody nightmare! I sigh and take down my sweaty, grimy black curls. I flip my hair upside down to redo my bun, and as I come back up, I spot something that I don’t recognize on the back of my neck, along with getting hit with sudden stinging pain.

I drop my hair and I move closer to the mirror to inspect it. I pull back the lagging wisps, and twist my head to get a better angle. NO. IT’S NOT REAL. I back up, open the bathroom door and spill backwards out of the bathroom, breathing heavily, staring at the door. I feel my neck. “No, no, no.” I whisper. I fall to the floor just staring at the door, for a minute or two.

When I finally get up the courage to check again, I am shaking. So, it is with trembling hands that I hold up a hand mirror behind my head, in front of the big mirror, so that I can properly see the back of my neck.

There is a large gash, an inch long, a quarter inch deep, on the left side of my neck.

Right where the glass slashed me in the dream.

Dropping my hair like it was burning me, I stare at myself, the real me, for a moment. I shake out my admittedly grungy long black locks. I lean over the sink and try not to cry. I can’t handle this, not tonight.

Shaking, I gather my thoughts and try to reason this out logically. I must be dreaming, or maybe I rolled out of bed and knocked myself out; that would explain the gash, if I hit my nightstand on the way down. Or, there’s always the option that I am going insane. It wouldn’t surprise me.

I pinch myself to make sure I’m not dreaming, and when I determine that I’m not, I also decide that I am not insane, maybe just still drunk. Alot more drunk than I thought. Watching the pinched-white color on my skin slowly fade to a fleshy pink, I examine my arms, rubbing the raised scars by my wrist. Calming my breathing, I shake my head, and stride out the bathroom door, flicking off the light on my way.

Picking my way around the vague shapes of the shoes on my floor, I take the frozen- oh god, the pizza was literally frozen when I ate it; I didn’t even heat it up- off my bed and throw it on my dresser. Yeah, I was definitely drunk.

I scan my room and decide that because there’s no way I’m sleeping anytime soon, so, drunk or not, I am going to organize these damned shoes so I can stop stabbing my feet in the middle of the night. I start to do that, but I’m too tired to finish it, so I just shove them all in a corner. Grabbing random pieces of clothing, clean and not, everything from socks to hats, and shove them in another pile. Oh look, I can see my floor now.

I look at the clock. 12:22am. Shit. For lack of a better thing to do, I walk to my dresser and stuff the bras back into the drawer, and I grab a slice of now- lukewarm pizza. Cheese and pepperoni. I always loved the classic.

Searching for something to do, my eyes wander to my desk, and, spying the pieces of paper on my desk, I’m reminded that I haven’t investigated that yet.

I manage to drag myself over to the desk, and the first thing that I notice is that a bottle of my rosy pink paint has spilled onto the black- and-white piece, which I now decide was a pencil sketch. Of what, exactly, I’m not sure; It’s all covered up with paint. I sigh in frustration as I close the lid of the pink paint and bang the cap end on the table. Yup. All dried out. I toss the now- useless bottle into the trash can next to the desk.

The desk was old and beat up, an ancient, peeling, white-painted thing. It had a moderately- sized wood-framed mirror on the wall behind it. My makeup was sprawled out across the gouged surface of the desk. The only two things I really used this desk for was makeup, which I did in the bathroom half the time, and painting, which was my obsession. I shifted some materials back into their proper places, and shook the remaining three bottles of paint. Somehow, I had managed to remember to close the red and yellow paints, but the black paint was all dried up, just like the pink.

Frustrated, I stand up, on my way to grab another slice of pizza, and toss the bottle into the trash can. I grab a slice, take a bite, then stop mid-chew. My eyes widen as a rush of memory from earlier that night flushes through me. I back up, and, frantic now, I rifle through the crumpled up pieces of trash. It doesn’t take me long to find the crimson-colored page I’m looking for. As I uncrumple it, then smooth it out on the edge of my desk, my heart start racing yet again as the adrenaline starts pumping. At first, I drop the paper onto my desk, and flop backwards onto my bed. Then, I realize that if I leave the paper there, and I see it in the morning, I wont be able to go to school, I’ll just stay home, freaking out.

Moaning, I sit up, and I stumble to my dresser. Pulling it towards me, I blindly slide my hands across the fiberboard that forms the back of the dresser. I finally find the small black drawstring bag, taped to the back. I pull it off, and empty the contents onto the dresser top. Several small white pills, three razor blades, a band-aid or two, and a squarish, metallic object fall out. I sigh, and, sliding the lighter off to the side, I stuff everything else back into the bag.

I am about to tape the bag back to the dresser, when I hesitate. I dump the bag out again and grab two of the “emergency-only” knockout pills and put them on my nightstand, then quickly re-stuff and re-tape the bag. Quickly sliding the dresser back into place, I move to the desk, carefully fold the picture, then carry it into the bathroom, grabbing my lighter on the way.

I flick the switch on my lighter a couple of time. It won’t light. I sigh. I try a couple more times, and finally I get it to light. I hold the square of crimson-soaked paper over the sink, and i hold the lighter under it, hoping that it’ll catch flame before the lighter goes out again. Unfortunately, it doesn’t. I groan and mutter “forget it”, and I stumble back into my room. Carelessly, I throw both the square and the lighter into my top dresser drawer and slam it shut. I shake my head. My night from hell.

Shaking, I sit down on my bed and dry swallow the two pills, and turn out my lamp. Pulling back the comforter, I hide amongst the familiar warmth of my bed. Turning onto my side to situate myself, during the next three minutes I am tortured by the nights’ effects. Then the drug kicks in, and I am sent soundly into a numbingly dreamless sleep.