1998

When I was little, we had a crucifix hanging in our dilapidated living room. It was the only semblance of decoration in the house, save for the slaughtered posters in my room. I used to sit on our couch, plucking threads from the cushions and staring at it. He made me nervous, like those weird clerks that hassle you in the middle of the mall to buy their knock-off products. I felt like He was watching me. Challenging me to do something better with my life. He was an ever-constant presence, following me with painted eyes as I wandered around our meager house, going through the motions of a less-than-normal childhood. I began to love the silky sheen of his skin, longed to touch the shining surface of the avenging cross. And slowly, surely, I became curious of his story, wanted to hear it straight from his lacquered lips.

When impatience became too much for me, I asked my mom who it was, just to get her talking about it.

I had never seen her eyes freeze like that before. I flinched under her stare, counting the seconds until she'd explode. A cold sweat covered my body; I was old enough to know when to be afraid. But instead, she was wordless as she rose up and plucked the crucifix from the wall, caring it between her fingers like a piece of rotten fruit. She dropped it into the Chinet plate she was using as an ashtray, and sat back down on the couch.

I waited for her the answer to my question, but it never came.

Instead, Mother Dearest dug her scorching cigarette into the glimmering face, squashing my heart with a single flaming ash. His facade melted and burned, and I realized that my shining prince was not fine porcelain, but molded plastic. His gentle smile was twisted into a gape of fear as my world was being dissolved by a smoking Marlboro. I watched in horror, almost sure my features were an identical mask of contortion.

Then she mercifully, jerkingly stopped. She took a long, lazy drag, and finally glanced at my broken body, indifferent to the wounds in my eyes. "That's all you need to know about him," she said in finality, turning her attention back to the flickering TV as I slowly fell apart at the seams.

Day 40, 6:47 p.m.

He nuzzles my tattooed neck feverishly, leaving a mark of his own on the hollow of my throat. I gasp as his hands splay against my back, pressing closer, sliding up to rest beneath the cotton of my t-shirt. Probing fingers play with the catch of my bra, and I break away from the kiss with a start. "Wait—"

He splatters kisses over my collarbone and shoulders, ignoring my protest with another sharp bite that brings not pleasure, but pain. I gasp and shove him away, fists connecting to his jaw with a hard thud.

"I can't do this anymore," I say, grabbing my discarded jacket from the alcohol-stained floor. He wrenches my arm in an iron grasp, bending me down to floor level with him. "Let me go, you basta—"

He slaps a hand over my lips, forcing me into silence. "When did you suddenly become concerned with being faithful? Huh?" I squirm, digging my teeth into the soft flesh of his palm. He ignores me. "You think Jimmy doesn't mess around too? You think he doesn't go to someone else when you're not around to bang?"

I snarl and rip away from his grasp, carving my heels into the floor as I tear from the room. I hear a muffled curse, but instead of following me, he tosses one more dagger at my retreating back: "Next time you're worried about breaking his heart, you fucking think about how he made you feel when you caught him with that cheap slut at Tunny's party. And then you'll know what it is that you really want."

I slam the door behind me, frame rattling like the breath in my chest as his words echo through my weed-fogged brain. What you really want. I'm not sure if I can even figure out what that is anymore.

The knob feels like a gun in my hand as I re-enter the room.