Surreal Ecstasy (2 page)

DO IT!

I gave myself a mental shove.
Suddenly, a stranger took over my body and I jumped up to a standing position.
I took off that god-awful 80's slut shirt and ripped off my black lace bra and
my dark red panties with the skulls all over them. Naked, I walked calmly to
the kitchen trash and threw these pieces of clothing inside. I never wanted to
see them again.

I never wanted to be there again.

Smiling for the first time since—I
don't know when—I made my way back to my bite-sized bathroom so I could jump in
the shower. Just as I turned on the bathroom light, my cell phone rang, and
though a tiny voice inside my head told me not to answer it, in an apparent act
of rebellion I walked over to where my phone sat about three feet from the
mattress. The screen on my phone read 'Mom.'

Shit. This day was not going to get
any better.

"Hi, Mom," I said as soon
as I answered. I did my best to sound chaste and non-Satan worshiping.

Even before she replied, I wondered
why I tried to press my luck in talking to her. I blamed myself for the
obviously unfruitful self-confidence building. Her voice was cold. "Morgan,
you've disgraced yourself to a whole new level now, running with demons in your
heart and inviting evil everywhere you go."

Her tone was icy, unbelievably
bitter, and had 'holier than thou' written all over it. Not too great in
thinking on my feet—and still afraid of her—I simply stammered, "Wh… what?"

"Check your Facebook page. Milton's handling
your
lack of morals quite well, considering." She hung up.

Panic shot through my body,
although I had no idea what she was talking about. I stepped over to where my
laptop sat, on the folding chair near the bigger window. As I booted it up, I
shook my head to myself. My father was an aspiring politician. He had been
planning for some time now to run for a local position (which I knew only
because I check his website frequently). The man my mother mentioned, Milton
Newhall, was the person who considered himself to be my father's manager. Since
there was no political career yet, there was nothing to manage, but my mother
acted as if she'd been the First Lady for years.

First Lady of Bullshit.

A different wave of nausea, one
borne of anxiety and pending doom, began to
fill
my body
as Facebook's home page appeared. By the time I signed
in, I was almost retching, so I suppressed any vomit-related thoughts that
tried to push their way into my brain.

Not wanting to wait a second longer
to come face-to-face with whatever current horror awaited me, I clicked the
link to my profile page and scanned my wall for my friends' postings.

And there it was. Posted almost
half an hour ago by Nailah—a sort of friend of a friend—was a photo of me
wearing an intoxicated expression on my face. The pain in my stomach increased
as I saw that I was surrounded by men in the picture, some of them holding
money in their fists.

I was as naked in that photo as I
was at that moment.

Incredibly, that was not the worst
part. Nailah had written next to the picture,
Morgan earning a few bucks for
the weekend!

Screaming, I hit the folding chair,
knocking it to its side. My laptop dropped to the floor with a thunderous
WHAP!

That picture wasn't real. I'd never
done anything like that. Okay, okay—I have definitely had my wild moments, but
nothing like what the picture suggested.

I paced around my apartment, my
thoughts drifting to almost three months ago. It was the next-to-the-last time
my ex and I broke up, and I'd tried to go bowling by myself. That had been
pathetic enough, never mind the score of 70 I had accumulated. Then I'd moseyed
on over to the bar in the back and hooked up with a guy. Or two.

Groaning with shame, I threw myself
to the wall so hard that it hurt, pulling my hair as I grudgingly recalled that
night. One of the guys in a stall in the men's bathroom, his hands under my
arms, his body pressed against me hard, my jeans and panties wrapped around my
ankles, his legs bent, taking me swiftly as I moaned and encouraged him to give
me more. His friend waited right outside the stall, guarding us and waiting for
his turn…

I wished I could delete those
images and memories away. I wish I was a soulless computer or a robot.

I wish I hadn't taken ecstasy in
the ladies' room before going to the bowling alley bar, making me horny as hell
and willing to do stupid things just to satisfy my urges. Just like I wish I
hadn't taken the rest of it last night.

It was absolutely essential that I
get away from that crutch.

That night at the bowling alley bar
had been the lowest moment of my life, sexually and morally speaking. But I
hadn't been prostituting myself, not on that night or on any other.

I am not going to cry
, I
told myself.
I am going to remain strong.

Yet even as I tried to encourage
myself, I could feel my strength faltering, could sense the underlying despair
reaching up to grasp my heart and pull me down to hell, where I knew I had
always belonged.

Later—seconds or hours later, I
didn't know—I gave in and collapsed on the floor. My body curled up in a fetal
position as I cried and screamed at the same time. I cried about my own
stupidity, and my shallow life that was devoid of morals. I cried about the
unfairness of the world. I screamed because my life just got more complicated
than I ever thought possible, and trying to overcome all this would be like trying
to walk up the side of a cliff. My best, as always, was never enough.

In a move that somewhat paralleled
last night's, I crawled across my apartment floor to my kitchen. I raised
myself on my knees to reach inside the small, rickety drawer.

I stared intently at the sleek
knife I pulled out and slowly kissed the side of the blade. Freedom from pain
is coming, I thought. The only way out.

I had no thoughts as I passed out
from blood loss. My brain was a blank slate, as empty as my heart.

Chapter 2

I woke up, determined to continue
my sad inner monologue.

Proving I can never win, a street
light glared in my eyes, temporarily blinding me. I shut my eyes and turned my
head, my face sinking in the surprising softness of my pillow.

My pillow?

I opened my eyes again quickly,
shielding them with my left hand. An ugly plastic curtain hung to my left side.
Suffocating bed rails surrounded me.

I groaned. I was in a hospital. As
I sat there for several more useless moments, I briefly wondered who cared
enough to send me here, or how anyone could have known what had happened to me.

Sighing, I shifted my body a
little, trying to get comfortable in that cardboard-like hospital bed. On
television shows, when a victim wakes up in a hospital bed, a doctor or a loved
one magically waltzes in the door and explains how the victim had gotten there.

Well, this wasn't a TV show, and
craning my neck to the right to peer through the window, there weren't any
signs of hospital staff in the brightly-lit hallway. Also, I was a little short
of loved ones at the moment, so I was hopeless as far as updates were
concerned.

On the other side of me, behind the
plastic curtain, there was a light gray wall with a small window in the middle,
leading to the outside world. I blinked a few times, defying the tears that
threatened to come out. I realized I felt drowsy, and upon straightening my
left arm I could see why. There was an IV needle wedged in the crook of it. I
wondered what they were giving me. Cringing, I also wondered if they did a tox
screen like they did on TV hospital shows. If so, they'd already discovered the
alcohol and ecstasy.

Sighing quietly, I realized there
was nothing to do but sleep. The mystery fluid in the IV probably made sure of
that. The tiniest glimmer of hope flickered in my mind, hoping I'd have a
naughty dream consisting of chocolate truffles and male models. I didn't want
to think about myself anymore.

Unfortunately, I was apparently
still feeling rebellious against myself.

I would have five dreams during my
stay at Virginia Mason Lynnwood Hospital, each with different consequences and
reactions.

The first one came to me in the
form of a memory. Looking back, I supposed having this particular dream made
sense, considering how deeply I'd been thinking about my ex and debating with
myself about what the right thing was to do about him.

Adim and I were in his beautiful
2-bedroom apartment in Edmonds, Washington. He was in the advertising business
and did moderately well. He was charming and funny, and everyone liked him. He
had Irish blood, and it showed, both in his hospitality and in his alcoholic
habits. His hair was brown and always kept in a crew cut, making his large
facial features seem even bigger on a ruddy complexion. His body was somewhat
stocky with the slightest hint of a beer belly, standing
at about 5'11" and usually dressed for
the office—slacks, button-up shirt, and tie.

Reliving this memory, I woke up to
find him putting together what seemed to be an elaborate breakfast. A small,
observant part of me realized this was about a year and a half ago, not too
long after we started dating.

I did a double-take when I saw what
he was doing. I was tempted to go a step further and sneak outside his front
door to check the apartment number. Adim's idea of making breakfast was telling
the waiter he preferred his eggs over-medium.

I laughed and surprised him from
behind, circling his waist with my arms. I leaned against his back and closed
my eyes, enjoying the feel of his cotton t-shirt-covered back next to my cheek.

He turned around briefly to kiss my
cheek. "Hey, babe.  Are you ready to eat the best breakfast of your life?"
He turned back around to give the stovetop his undivided attention.

I let go of him and stood beside
him to observe the action. I ached to reach over, turn the heat down, and flip
the eggs over so they would cook evenly. "I am, but what are we really
going to eat?"

He let a little
whoosh
sound
escape his lips as he shook his head. "That was pretty cold. You're going
to regret saying that."

I began to flinch, but saw that he
was smiling. I decided to do my share and set up the table, so I took out the
plates and silverware. "It does smell good," I said gently, hoping to
take the bite out of my remark.

Saying nothing, he disbursed the
food to the plates and returned the pan to its original place, forgetting to
turn the heat off. I opened my mouth to tell him to turn off his oven, but I
closed my mouth promptly, afraid of what might happen if I corrected him, so I
said nothing, figuring I'd sneak over to the oven later to turn it off without
him noticing a thing.

I retrieved a plastic cup from the
dish rack and headed over to the fridge to pour myself some juice. Suddenly, I
heard him sniffle very softly. I froze and looked at him without turning my
head. I breathed quietly and considered the following things:  He was awake
early, in a good mood, and not quite acting like himself.

And now came the sniffling. I
unfroze and proceeded to pour my orange juice, sending out an invisible antenna
to listen for anything else. Just when I was putting the juice back in the
fridge, I heard it. Another sniffle.

Suddenly afraid and hearing my
heart pound in my ears, I put my cup on the table and headed toward the
bedroom, calling over my shoulder, "I just gotta pee real quick."

"Better hurry before all the
food is gone!" was his singsong reply.

Once inside the bedroom, I dashed
over to his dresser and opened up the sock drawer as quietly as possible. I
found what I was looking for right away—a black sock stuck in one corner by
itself. I picked it up and stuck my arm inside the sock, my fingers soon
closing around Adim's little folded-up plastic baggie. I pulled it out and held
it up to my eyes for closer inspection. I had looked at it secretly last night,
only to see how much of it was left. My fear grew to monstrous proportions as I
saw that half of the coke was gone.

He must have done it this morning
as I slept, since we passed out together the night before. That was a hell of a
lot of coke to do in one shot, especially so early in the morning.

"What the fuck?"

I jumped in the air and dropped the
sock and baggie. I immediately started backing away.

"I'm sorry, Adim, I just
wanted to—"

"To steal my stuff and get
fucked up without asking me? What are you, a thief now?" His eyes got
bigger every moment, a prominent vein showing on his forehead.

"No… you don't understand. I
could tell that you, uh, that you might have done a little coke in the morning
and I was worried about you… and, uh—" I stumbled over something,
continuing to back away, although I knew it was fruitless. There was nothing
behind me except a corner.

He sighed—a loud, angry, impatient
sigh. "God, I don't know what to do with you anymore. I mean, I let you
stay here so much it's like we're living together. I get up extra early to make
you breakfast. I even take the time to supervise your friends and internet
activity, just to protect you and keep you safe. I take care of you. I'm a good
person, you know?" He put his hands together over his chest as if making a
plea. "But then you do stupid shit like this. You know how expensive this
stuff is, Morgan. Jesus, if you wanted some, why didn't you just ask? What the
fuck is wrong with you?"

"I think I'll just go home
now, Adim." I tried to walk past him to the door.

Tried.

He shoved me with both hands on my
shoulders, and I landed on the floor with an angry slam. His hands felt more
like two battering rams running into my body. Pain overcame my thought
processes as I took a moment to recover from what felt like being hit by a
small car. Suddenly, fury exploded in my brain when I realized that he'd hit me
again, breaking his promise to me that he'd stop. My rage dominated all other
emotions. Screaming, I got up and ran toward him, my arms outstretched, and at the
last millisecond, knowing there was no way I'd be able to knock him over like
he did to me, I kneed him between the legs.