You have a mind to keep me quiet
And although you can try
Better men have hit their knees
And bigger men have died
Raisin' Hell / Brandi Carlile
Jack left hours ago. I sat on my couch in the dim apartment, surrounded by candles he lit. The romantic air of the room was smothering, and the only respite from the warm aura was the room-temperature bottle I occasionally took long pulls from.
Yet, as unnerved, as disgusted, as uncomfortable as I was, I remained seated on the expensive Bubbly thing while Princess and Baby lay near me, watchful. It was as though I didn't feel I had permission to change my setting- as though I was an intruder in my own life. I shook in my seat, prompting low whines from the dogs as I watched the flames of the candle nearest to me, a single-wick white-pillar soy candle, sitting on a nice glass holder. The flame seemed to taunt me. The way it flickered, the way it swayed, smoothly and sensually. Don't you want to dance, Harley?
I didn't realize I had raised my hand to the flame until the pain started in my fingers, my index and middle fingers, but I didn't flinch; instead, taking another pull from the gin in my other hand and pushed the flesh closer, the skin reddening quickly, then the skin breaking. A thick, nearly black drop of blood sank into the wax, and I jerked my hand back, cursing suddenly.
Staring at the fingers I recognized had a fairly severe second-degree burn, I slid them past my lips to rest on my tongue- reigniting the burn within them with the heat from my closed mouth. Looking down, I studied that lone drop of deep red blood- an imperfection- a glaring example of one more thing being ruined by me. One more thing marred by the thick and viscous sludge of toxic waste that threatened to escape at every inconvenience because I'm such a freak.
Angry tears stung in my eyes, and I slung the candle and the glass it sat on at the wall with a cry. Staring at the candle and the shattered glass on the floor, I trembled for a moment. I hated when I felt like this- when putting on the face gets so heavy that I can't put on any faces. I reached for emotions I knew should be there- but came back empty, finding only anger, only rage in this moment. My breath heaved as I squatted, lowering my head into my hands.
The position brought an image to my mind- My father's mother, weeping shamelessly as she spoke nonsense to the guards. After hearing her rambling about angels, many true-crime podcasts and others would speculate that my father had been born into a cult and raised to be a killer. In fact, in college, I was reached out to by many publications to tell the story of my escape from a cult, but seeing as my grandmother was just a senile old woman, whom I now realize was showing signs of dementia. Not a secret religious leader. But there was an intrigue in us that made that explanation hard to swallow. I always believed it was a fascination with death that did it, but it reminded me of others who would watch my father or my family when we were in public, my prideful father had said that people were drawn to us- that the Quinzel family was simply better, and that was why everyone loved talking about us.
Sadly, he was incorrect about the reasoning. The missing ingredient that could answer all of those questions posed by strangers is simple, and it is a defining characteristic of both Quinzel and Nikolova (My mother's maiden name) DNA.
Mental Illness and Addiction. Though they would never call it that- they would romanticize it- My mother wasn't an addict- she lived life in the moment- my Father wasn't obsessed, he was ambitious. My father said it was a magic we held, something that gave us edge. The "Star power". The obsession we carry is one he carried with pride. Knowing that nothing a Quinzel does is ever done softly. We are not a people of well-won victories. We rape, and pillage, and pirate. And we do it better than anyone.
His mother was not interested in pride or power. She was an old woman who lost too many people to those strong emotions. She told me of the curse that intensity could be. The way I would fall from higher than anyone else could ever imagine, from pedestals little higher than a step stool. She warned me that the lack of sleep, the constant working, and the amazing drive I witnessed in my father was nothing to be proud of, and when I was old enough, she allowed me to witness what the aftermath of those sleepless nights was. The way the paranoia would grip my father, leaving him neurotic, and unsure of who to trust, Pulling a knife on his own mother at the dinner table. We didn't go see Grandma much after that, I think because of my father's shame.
My mother was no better, raised by addicts, not to drugs specifically, but to life- to love- to freedom. My Mother had barely made it to her forties and is an anomaly within her family- that, while once large, has dwindled significantly due to the fact that not many Nikolova make it past the age of Thirty. It crossed my mind, against my will, that I was still within that time frame.
I gotta stop thinking about this shit; it only ever upsets me.
I pulled heavily from the bottle again, feeling out of control, feeling like a marionette, pulled on strings held by a god that wouldn't even look me in the fucking eyes.
At that moment, all I want, all I need in the whole world, to make things bearable enough to keep going- is a sign that this is still my life- that I still can make decisions. I stood, swaying slightly, as I made my way down the hall.
It was like my eyelids were on fire. I rolled over in bed, pulling my pillow over my head as I tried to ignore the alarm going off beside me. I didn't want to face Joker today. I wouldn't give him another inch. He seemed to be of the opinion I could be bullied. I would need to show him that that is not the case.
Standing, I swayed, cursing myself for imbibing as much as I did- I reached out to steady myself on the nightstand, only to yelp and bring my fingers protectively to my chest. What the fuck?
I lowered the hand, studying the fingers to see that my index and middle fingers were burned fairly badly- I made my way to the bathroom, intending to bandage the wound.
Dousing the fingers in peroxide, I hissed through my teeth as Baby and Princess whined next to me.
"Aw, honey, I'm sorry, Mama'll get breakfast as soon as I'm done," I crooned at them before looking up at the mirror- and freezing.
I raised a hand to the bleached blonde, untoned- brassy blonde hair that certainly seemed to be attached to my head, but I didn't believe it until my newly bandaged fingers hit the hair.
"Fuck" I whimpered.
AN: Hi! So, please comment it's the best part of my day! Also thank you so much for reading.