T W O

NEW YORK CITY, NY

          Everything I've kept at bay for the past six years comes flowing right back.

          It's probably a combination of that and the dumb Diet Coke and vodka mix I had that's currently revolting around in my stomach, but I'm so nauseous I can barely stand up straight. There are more than enough walls and pieces of furniture around me I can use to support myself, but then I catch a glimpse of my reflection on one of the tall windows in my living room and decide against it.

          Every time I think about when I left and start getting second thoughts, feeling myself crumble under the heavy weight of remorse and doubt, I force myself to never forget about the whys of my departure. I force myself to never forget what was done to me and every promise that was broken, every part of me that I left behind, every aspect of my girlhood that was ripped apart from me. I force myself to remember all the ways a city broke my heart and continues to ruin me, long after I left; the things it takes away, it never gives back. 

          This phone call breaks me all over again, reminds me of every little piece of myself I had to piece back into place, and reminds me why I need to stay gone.

          I changed my surroundings, my city, my state, my career, my whole life, and it's all been for nothing. This phone call, as shattering as it is, reminds me I'll never be free.

          "How did you get this number?" I repeat, hoping this will be the time I get a proper answer instead of being ignored. It's all they ever did to me when they weren't busy criticizing every single little thing I did—they looked away, pretended the problems weren't there. Even when I left, they still acted blind and oblivious, my suffering being treated as teenage angst, even when I was nearing my twenties.

          "I have my ways," my mother replies. She's three hours behind me, and I don't put it past her forgetting this is my bedtime. Nothing she does is ever a coincidence, not when she plans every single one of her moves and decisions to the millimeter—like she tried to do with me—and her side of the line sounds lively enough, the usual background chatter of a crowded house. "That is also no way to greet your mother."

          "If I wanted to talk to you, I would've reached out. You don't get to complain about the way I greet you when you're invading several levels of my privacy right now."

          "Listen—"

          "No, you listen. I don't want to talk to you. I don't want to see you. I don't want to think about you. In case me being gone wasn't clear enough, let me try to find another way of laying it on you." I switch my phone from one ear to the other, holding it in place with my shoulder as I reach out for my empty glass to pour myself another drink, now that it's settled I won't be headed off to bed anytime soon. My head is buzzing, both from stress and the alcohol, and I know this is no way to live, and yet. "I don't want to think about anything that reminds me of you. I don't want to think about anything that reminds me of that place and the people there. I need you all to leave me alone and understand I want nothing to do with any of you."

          "Your grandmother died."

          "So?"

          "Your father would like to see you. He'd like you to come home for the funeral."

          Everything she does gives me whiplash, so I shouldn't be surprised to have it happen again, but I've never worked well with the shoulds and the shouldn'ts.

          Everything I've done, I've done out of impulse, diving in headfirst, and I never stop to think about what I'm doing or how it will affect me, so I understand why she still catches me off-guard even after all these years. Using my father against me is a premeditated move and nothing she says or does will convince me otherwise, like it's the last straw she's grasping at, like mentioning him will erase the hundreds of reasons I don't want anyone from my past life to stay in touch with me. I keep people on a need-to-know basis by instinct, like what I do with Theo, and my family is no different. Whatever she does, it somehow always breaks me, and she calls me to remind me of that.

          No broken promises ever hurt as much as those your own mother made to you. She calls you in the middle of the night, and breaks you all over again.

          "Don't contact me again," I tell her, but my voice quivers, cracks, like the younger version of myself I left behind, the one I buried underwater.

          "I trust you to do the right thing for your father. You'll know where to find him once you've made a decision." She sighs and the chatter gets louder, like she's just opened a door. "For his sake, I hope you decide to go. If you don't, you'll have to tell him yourself or let your absence speak for itself."

          "You don't get to do this. You don't get to twist my arm and blackmail me into going back to California."

          "And yet . . ."

          And yet.

          Once she hangs up on my face, a gesture that should have been reserved for me—I was the one who was disturbed in the privacy of her new house, new life—I down my drink and toss the phone aside. Though it hits a wall, it falls on the couch without so much as a scratch, thanks to the protective phone case Sadie made me promote to boost my numbers on social media.

          I look around myself, so small and all alone in a huge apartment, and I realize I'll always be that girl, a child, washed away in a city where she knows no one and no one knows her. My entire family and everyone I've ever called a friend are in California, and I have no friends here besides Sadie, though my relationship with her is mostly out of convenience, with the other's existence being beneficial to the other. I am so small and powerless, defenseless, and all it took to remind me of that and shatter the strong front I put up was a phone call from my mother.

          My makeup, smudged underneath my eyes, makes me look far younger than I am, almost as young as I was that night. I'm still wearing my outdoor clothes, the ones I wore to meet Sadie at a bar at The Bowery, and, if I didn't know better, I'd think I'm staring right back at nineteen-year-old me. Her dress is hunched up and I stubbornly pull it down.

          I look away. That girl should have stayed dead.

⊹˚. ♡

          My paternal grandmother was always, to a lack of a better word, a raging bitch.

          When I was younger, she was distant at best, and my sister Michelle has always been the favorite, so it was natural for them to gravitate towards each other. While Michelle had our grandmother, I had our father, the only person I've never doubted loves me unconditionally, so it's never been about me feeling unloved in the household during the most important years of my socio-affective development.

          Realistically, I am okay.

          My father, who has routinely sacrificed his own comfort and happiness for my sake, was the one person who I've never wanted to leave. He's also the one person I'm terrified the most to face if I ever return to California, knowing just how badly it must have devastated him to watch me leave without a single explanation, and I know he'll never forgive me for that. I would never forgive him if the roles were reversed, and we're two halves of the same coin; the main difference is that he has never run away in his life. He faces things head on (except the early stages of the divorce and everything leading up to it), while I packed my bags and moved across the country instead of mending my broken heart.

          Reality isn't nearly as poetic as that. Once the self-blaming subsided, once I was able to look back at everything that happened to me—everything that was done to me—I knew I hadn't caused a damn thing. It was the city's fault, and it was one guy's fault. It was everyone's fault for not believing me, for implying I had it coming, for telling me I should have expected it like it was some sort of twisted rite of passage.

          There are many things in this world I will do for my father. I'll kill for him, I'll die for him, I'll burn the whole world for him.

          I will not go back to that place for him. He's asking me to do the one thing he knows I'm not capable of because he knows I'm not a quitter, but this goes way beyond his sense of belief and the way he's always believed in me. I am his little girl at heart, and that little girl has always been outspoken, maybe a little rash, and he knows she doesn't sit back and wait for things to be solved. Even after I ran away, even after I changed everything about myself, even the color of my hair, there has always been a little voice inside my head, whispering promises of vindication.

          Of revenge. Of everything I could ruin—of everyone I could ruin.

          Just like they ruined me.

⊹˚. ♡

lately she's been dressing for revenge innit

please don't forget to let me know what you think so far. in case this ever goes past 40k it's going into the wattys