I do not own Ella Enchanted. It belongs to Gail Carson Levine.
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The panic wasn't as strong as Hattie thought it would be. No, she felt reasonably calm. The bathroom door was locked; all she had to do was talk to her mother from behind the door, and hope that she didn't ask her to open it.
"Oh, Mama, I just--I just felt sick. That's all." Hattie was surprised that she was able to manage casualty while talking to Olga. The incident at the hospital had seemed to rob them of their good graces towards one another.
"Are you alright?"
"I am now."
"How was your appointment with Dr. Edith?"
Of course she would bring that up.
"It…it was fine."
"You remember that you have to go back today, yes?"
"I remember."
Was she really going to get away with this? Hattie almost couldn't believe her luck. But then again, Hattie assumed that her mother suspected that she had found Peter's straight razor, and was probably putting all of her energy into denying it.
"Well, goodnight then, Hattie." And Hattie heard her mother walk away; and was relieved and could finally breathe properly again. The razor was still clasped tightly in her hand, and with a rush of pain and fear, she realized that it had dug into her palm. A gash was there now; people would see that! She knew she had to stop; give it a rest for a while, but it was…that was…it was a compulsion now; a have-to, not really a want-to. But then again, it had never been a want-to. Hattie wasn't a masochist; if anything, she was much more of a sadist. But ever since Ella entered her life, it had been a have-to, a need-to. And once again, Dr. Edith's words echoed in her head:
Alcohol, drugs, sex…
She had choices…things that would work until it was safe to seek out another razor, or her precious box. But which one would she choose?
Drugs?
No, anything worth getting would take too much time and effort to score.
Sex?
Sure, that would be easy. Fucking was a talent of Hattie's; blowjob queen, perfect on top, and hell, she could even get girls off effortlessly. Yes…that would work…at school….on Monday…
And then there was alcohol.
Which, really, she'd already been hitting rather hard, especially Grey Goose. It was the fucking alcohol of her family; how many bottles had her father drained? Hadn't her mother lined them all up once? In the living room? She faintly remembered seeing dozens of the icy bottles, with the picture of the ocean and the seagulls and the French flag. She remembered her father going on about "how fucking smooth" it was…and Hattie believed it. It was amazing; but unlike her father, Hattie wasn't a violent drunk. A slutty drunk, yes, but not at all a violent one.
So she had decided.
Sex would be her daytime drug, and alcohol would be her sleep aid. She felt lightheaded again; free, almost, because now, she had addictions to fall back on, compulsions that would be there for her when her skin could take no more abuse.
She had options, and that was enough to get her through another session with Dr. Edith.
