The Way the Light Hits
I have found a lot of people are not fans of Nikki Newman. I find, I am her biggest, or would so like to believe. I know she is snotty and bitchy and whatever other unpleasant thing you want to call her. But, I think she is a true character genius because she has all this back-story to validate her snootiness. Snootiness that comes from insecurity. It's torturous! I, personally, am a strong female, although it's taken time, I can take care of myself. But, once I ran from my own demons, much like Nikki. I, likewise, sought an escape. I am an addict. Alcohol was never my personal poison, but, something else certainly was. Nikki acts out in ways to placate her own insecurities. I get it. Anyway, here it goes, just a short bit on Nikki Reed….or Nikki Newman. Whoever she is.
I'm in my favorite place. A dark table with a perfect view. I look inconspicuous, pretending to be engrossed with my iphone, casually sipping my tea. Tea. Usually it's tea, but not today. Today I'm indulging. I look at my tonic with a zest, my tongue longing for something it can never have, while watching the sweat on the glass drip onto the napkin below. I bring the glass to my lips, waiting for the familiar taste to warm me. It doesn't. Its tonic water after all. But, that's where the perfect view comes into place. With each sip I glance up, bottles placed side by side on glass shelves. Perfect bottles, all reflecting the light cast onto them. It's a sight to behold, and I should know. I come here often enough.
Some would think the lights on the French Rivera would be a sight to behold, or some grand firework show. The New York skyline? No, not me. I love the way the light hits these bottles. They are perfection, a promise of what could be. These bottles call out to me. They want me, you know? They want me to want them, and I do. Maybe that sounds desperate. Maybe that sounds cheap. Well, I was never expensive to begin with.
I excuse myself to the restroom. Something about the heavily wallpapered wall comforts me, makes me feel safe, but the bottles are gone, and I miss them already. I look into the mirror. God, this fluorescent lighting does nothing for me. Where did that wrinkle come from? How had I never noticed this before? Whatever, I shouldn't care. But, I admit I'm vain, and I do care.
I look elsewhere, to my eyes, make sure my mascara isn't running. Same old eyes. Nikki Reed's eyes. Nikki Reed was no one. Nikki Reed was nothing. I steel my eyes and lift my chin. I am Nikki Newman. Nicole Newman. Sounds far more distinguished don't you think? I do. I think back to my seat with a view. I miss those bottles and the way the light hits them. Nikki Reed would march right out there and indulge. Oh Hell, so would Nikki Newman, and I laugh out loud at this revelation. I glance back in the mirror, I look distinguished in my Channel suit. I look important. Somebody. Who am I kidding? I look like a stranger. No, worse. I look like Nikki Reed, the nobody, dressed up in 5,000 dollars worth of cashmere-wool blend. I need to get myself under control. Out loud I say, ' I've got this under control, completely under control'. The corner of my mouth turns up with a smirk. I fight it as I say again to myself, I have this under control. A laugh breaks out. I'm an addict talking about the control I possess. Good God, the irony! And suddenly, I'm hysterical. I can't stop laughing. I am nowhere near in control. I have no self-control! If anyone was in the restroom with me, surly they would have thought I was drunk, or, perhaps crazy.
If I had to choose, I would choose to be crazy. They have pills for that. There are no pills for alcoholics. Maybe Victor could donate money for research, surely that would serve me better than a diamond necklace? Oh, but I do love the way diamonds sparkle in the light. Just like those bottles.
Those bottles. Those fucking bottles. They get me every time. Why can't I stop thinking about them? I look back in the mirror, I'm Nikki Reed again. A frightened girl searching for an escape. A victim of circumstance. A victim. I hate that word. Then, I remember killing my father, in self defense. I remember stripping, in self defense, because I could see no other way to pay the bills that kept pilling up. I remember it all. Wearing these rose colored glasses, because Nikki Reed thought it would get better. Escape was just around the corner.
I'm Nikki Newman, still searching for an escape. If not alcohol, it's Victor on his white horse, his promises of love and a better life. If not Victor and his fairytale, it's back to alcohol. Neither of which are healthy. But it's something. Nikki Reed thought someone would save her from herself. Nikki Newman knows nothing will. I hate Nikki Reed. I hate her naiveté. I hate her for letting me think anything could change. But, I hate Nikki Newman too. For not letting me have the hope that things will get better. I stare into the blue eyes reflected at me, I am still Nikki Reed. Always, Nikki Reed.
My hysterical laughter has now turned to tears. I reach for a folded towel, because they don't have paper towels in the places Nikki Newman frequents. I dab it under my eyes. It's bad enough I have found a new wrinkle, I don't need mascara running down my face. I think back to my bottles. All lined up, the light hitting them in glamorous fashion. My breathing slows into haggard rasps. How has my life become this? I blame Nikki Reed, but I am not Nikki Reed. I am Nicole Newman. I am in control. However, slightly.
I leave the restroom and slink back into my chair at my dark table. The bottles are waiting for me. They call to me, promising they can take me far, far way from Nikki Reed, from whatever I chose to run from. I believe them. The bottles never lie. But, not today. I take a deep, rattling breath. No, not today.