I start singing loudly and off-key – the best way to sing this song if you ask me.
When I was a teenager, if I had a bad day or if certain things from my twisted past came to the forefront of my mind, I’d use music to combat it all. Back then, Rick was a strong advocate of me medicating my pain. We’d shoot up in his room while his parents were out and listen to music for hours. Then, we’d fuck each other like rabid animals and tire ourselves out so much that we’d sleep the rest of the day away. If I was smarter then, I’d have realized that that relationship was unhealthy; but I was too “in love” to see the truth behind the monster.
Besides, monsters were supposed to be 30 to 40 year old men with a penchant for drugging up little girls and fucking them. Monsters were supposed to be Mommies who sold their daughters to these other monsters for enough money to cover their drug habits. Monsters were supposed to be girls who constantly made bad decisions that made her adoptive parents sick with worry. Monsters were supposed to be gold digging whores. Monsters were me.
The stir-fry was really delicious. Rachel had put her foot in it, I swear. It was absolutely delicious. As I take the empty dish to the kitchen, my intercom buzzes.
“Yello,” I answer, my mood finally picking up.
“Hey, Sully.” It’s Susie at the front desk. “You’ve got a guy out here with a delivery.”
“A delivery?” It must be more cheer-ups from Rachel. “Ok, Susie. You can send the person up.”
I open the door to wait on this delivery and spot my neighbor Mrs. Wade.
“Hello, Sullivan,” Mrs. Wade greets me.
“Hey, Mrs. Wade. How are you?”
Mrs. Wade is a recent divorcee in her mid-fifties, who looks like she has a few more years to offer the world of dating. She is wearing black linen Capri pants with a white sleeveless round-collar linen blouse and black high-heeled thong sandals. She keeps herself in shape and always looks so fresh and well put together. I want to be like her or my adoptive mom when I get older. They age gracefully. My mom is 52 and doesn’t look a day over 40.
“Ah, I’m fine darling. Just heading to the spa,” she answers sweetly, her voice smooth and cultured, obviously once a rich snob.
“Ugh, I’m so jealous.” I lean against the door jam with my ankles crossed and arms folded, wishing I could go, just to get some relaxation and potentially drown my sorrows in a Swedish massage.
“Oh, darling. Come with me. What do you do but sit home all day while you wait for your classes to start?” she coaxes.
“I’m waiting on a delivery,” I tell her.
“Pish tosh, Sullivan. You’ll come with me. It’s on me. Meet me out front in thirty minutes. I will not take no for an answer. Even college students need pampering every now and then,” she implores. How can I turn her down?
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Ma’am? Oh, darling, please don’t send me into depression with that word. I even hate the name Mrs. Wade – and the man who gave it to me – but I’ll take it over ma’am any day.” She hates being called ma’am as it signifies that she ’ s old, when clearly she doesn’t think of herself that way.
I laugh, causing her to laugh also – a rich, wholesome laugh. We are then interrupted by the ding of the elevator and a tall man in a dark suit exits and stalks toward me. I remember seeing him in the Rolls Royce. He’s Ben’s driver. He seems much younger than I had previously thought, maybe his early 30s.
My stomach dips into my legs and I wobble a little knowing Ben sent him, but steel myself as he draws closer with a pretty blue box in his hand and a small gift bag.
“Remember, thirty minutes darling,” Mrs. Wade shouts from the closing elevator. I hadn’t even noticed that she’d left my side.
The man clears his throat then speaks, “Mr. Hayes asked me to drop these off for you. He says they’re yours. The small bag contains the cell phone that you ’d left
When I was a teenager, if I had a bad day or if certain things from my twisted past came to the forefront of my mind, I’d use music to combat it all. Back then, Rick was a strong advocate of me medicating my pain. We’d shoot up in his room while his parents were out and listen to music for hours. Then, we’d fuck each other like rabid animals and tire ourselves out so much that we’d sleep the rest of the day away. If I was smarter then, I’d have realized that that relationship was unhealthy; but I was too “in love” to see the truth behind the monster.
Besides, monsters were supposed to be 30 to 40 year old men with a penchant for drugging up little girls and fucking them. Monsters were supposed to be Mommies who sold their daughters to these other monsters for enough money to cover their drug habits. Monsters were supposed to be girls who constantly made bad decisions that made her adoptive parents sick with worry. Monsters were supposed to be gold digging whores. Monsters were me.
The stir-fry was really delicious. Rachel had put her foot in it, I swear. It was absolutely delicious. As I take the empty dish to the kitchen, my intercom buzzes.
“Yello,” I answer, my mood finally picking up.
“Hey, Sully.” It’s Susie at the front desk. “You’ve got a guy out here with a delivery.”
“A delivery?” It must be more cheer-ups from Rachel. “Ok, Susie. You can send the person up.”
I open the door to wait on this delivery and spot my neighbor Mrs. Wade.
“Hello, Sullivan,” Mrs. Wade greets me.
“Hey, Mrs. Wade. How are you?”
Mrs. Wade is a recent divorcee in her mid-fifties, who looks like she has a few more years to offer the world of dating. She is wearing black linen Capri pants with a white sleeveless round-collar linen blouse and black high-heeled thong sandals. She keeps herself in shape and always looks so fresh and well put together. I want to be like her or my adoptive mom when I get older. They age gracefully. My mom is 52 and doesn’t look a day over 40.
“Ah, I’m fine darling. Just heading to the spa,” she answers sweetly, her voice smooth and cultured, obviously once a rich snob.
“Ugh, I’m so jealous.” I lean against the door jam with my ankles crossed and arms folded, wishing I could go, just to get some relaxation and potentially drown my sorrows in a Swedish massage.
“Oh, darling. Come with me. What do you do but sit home all day while you wait for your classes to start?” she coaxes.
“I’m waiting on a delivery,” I tell her.
“Pish tosh, Sullivan. You’ll come with me. It’s on me. Meet me out front in thirty minutes. I will not take no for an answer. Even college students need pampering every now and then,” she implores. How can I turn her down?
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Ma’am? Oh, darling, please don’t send me into depression with that word. I even hate the name Mrs. Wade – and the man who gave it to me – but I’ll take it over ma’am any day.” She hates being called ma’am as it signifies that she ’ s old, when clearly she doesn’t think of herself that way.
I laugh, causing her to laugh also – a rich, wholesome laugh. We are then interrupted by the ding of the elevator and a tall man in a dark suit exits and stalks toward me. I remember seeing him in the Rolls Royce. He’s Ben’s driver. He seems much younger than I had previously thought, maybe his early 30s.
My stomach dips into my legs and I wobble a little knowing Ben sent him, but steel myself as he draws closer with a pretty blue box in his hand and a small gift bag.
“Remember, thirty minutes darling,” Mrs. Wade shouts from the closing elevator. I hadn’t even noticed that she’d left my side.
The man clears his throat then speaks, “Mr. Hayes asked me to drop these off for you. He says they’re yours. The small bag contains the cell phone that you ’d left
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