trapped in place.
I’m not depressed. Enough therapy visits have confirmed that. I’m not hollow. It’s the opposite, in fact.
I’m large.
I’m electric.
I have worlds colliding inside my head, but I have to keep it all tucked away to be polite.
I have to stay hidden so people won’t think I’m insane.
Nobody sees me because the world demands I wear a mask.
And I wore it. For sixteen years, at least. I’d strap it on every morning and rip it away at night. I walked the walk and talked the talk. I’m gifted when it comes to being someone I’m not.
People complimented me on the strangest things as I grew up, on expected things, while the real me was staring out at them with a grin on her face thinking Oh, you dumb fuck, you have no idea about me.
That was when my parents were alive, when they lectured me about reputation, decorum and feminine grace. I loved them dearly, it destroyed me when they died, but when their bodies last breathed and their ghosts were given up, they took my pretty wrappings with them.
Now, I’m just Poor Little Adeline, a girl with a reason to be sad, a girl with an excuse to spin wildly out of control because she is running from the pain.
Nobody knows that I’ve always been out of control. This is just the first time I’ve shown it.
I like the freedom. The excuse. I’ve done drugs when I felt like experimenting. I can drink most people under the table. I have sex with people I shouldn’t, in places I shouldn’t, and I don’t care when they leave.
There’s no reason to hold on to them. They never see me in the first place. They never pull back the curtain to see how badly I need something else.
It’s constant, that yearning. Overbearing at times. A drive for something that’s just out of reach, and the most frustrating part is I don’t know what I need.
I just know that I need it.
It’s what led me to this moment, the night of my eighteenth birthday. I’m alone in a club, lost to the driving beat of Marilyn Manson’s Sweet Dreams cover, surrounded by black walls and scary cages. I’m dancing with myself because I don’t need a partner, I’m dreaming of that which I crave.
It’s a given I’ve had too much to drink, especially after Jason decided to be a possessive ass and pull me by my hair. Had he just asked me to stop kissing another man, I would have. But instead he became aggressive. Like he owned me.
Like anybody as weak as him could own me.
I think somebody could own me if they were stronger than me. Not just physically, but mentally, too. Someone I could admit all my secrets to, and they wouldn’t run. Somebody who knows me and accepts I only want to be free.
Needless to say, I haven’t met that person yet, so when Jason took off, I didn’t get upset. I decided to enjoy my birthday with the only person I can trust:
Me.
It was going great until Mr. White Van skipped the part where he twiddled candy to lure me over and decided to put his hands on me instead.
The jerk has my wrists locked in his hold and his other hand on my hip. He thinks he can trap me when I try to jerk away. He believes he can ignore me when I tell him to fuck off. He smiles when he leans down to kiss me as if I don’t have sharp teeth and a temper that sees red.
I’m not a squeamish little girl that worries about hurting things.
I’m a righteous bitch who doesn’t appreciate guys who won’t take no for an answer.
The meathead hasn’t accounted for my knee, not until I catch him between the legs. And while the move would have toppled a normal man, would have sent him off holding his junk and limping badly, this asshole merely winces for a split second and grins.
My eyes round to realize I’m as good as fucked.
His fingers tighten on my wrist, and I can feel the bones crunch together, his hand that previously held my hip now slipping down to lift my skirt.
This son of a bitch has every intention of taking what he wants right here without concern for the crowd around us, and sadly I’m not sure I can scream louder than the music.
Not good.
Maybe I shouldn’t have drank so much. The room is spinning around me and there are three