Chapter 2: Alone As Ever

I pulled my knees back up to my chest, and rested my hands on the hood of the car for support. Was this all there was to life? Life was a bitch.

I just moved to Maine with my aunt, who happened to be the only one who hadn’t died yet, and she was the oldest of them. I came from a fucked up family. Mom killed herself three weeks after I was born. Uncle Eddie and Uncle Tom died of drug overdose. Aunt Hailey died in a drunk driving accident, and Cousin Matthew hung himself when mom died. Finally, dad killed Aunt Rebecca.

Dad was in jail. Again. This time, for good. This time, I was out in Maine. It was hard to say that I missed New York, New York, but it was easy to say that I hated the city of Saco, Maine. I hated it’s 18,400-some residents. I hated it’s stench. I hated the way the city breathed, and lived. I hated being away from my friends back at home. I loved them.

Not saying I hung out with angels, because I didn’t. They were, actually, some of the worst people I could hang out with, but I loved them. They were funny, and they loved me. Plus, they had drugs. If there’s something I love more than a good beer, it’s drugs. Not even a certain drug. Heroin, marijuana, cocaine, LSD, morphine, shrooms, I’d try them all if I had the chance. They felt so good in a world like this.

I took Aunt Tracy’s car, and a six pack of beer, and parked by a beach about thirty miles south of Saco. There was a tall lighthouse off to the left, and it flashed around in a circle, as day was finally ending.

It had been a long day of un-packing. We arrived at the house at about four in the morning, and started getting everything into the house as soon as possible. My muscles still ached from the weight of the boxes, dressers, and sofas, but I had survived. Now, I was sitting at a beach watching the sunset with a bottle of beer.

“Ida!” my aunt would call.

“Ida, come help me with this chair!”

Shut up you old bitch. I’ve never met you before, and now I’m living with you. Don’t think just because I’m under your wing doesn’t mean that I like you.

“Alright, Tracy.”

“It’s aunt. Or Aunt Tracy. I don’t care which, just not ‘Tracy.’”

I took a big gulp from the bottle, and finished the last of it off. Beer filled my nostrils, and drowned out the salty ocean smell. The sky was filled with purples and reds, and it truly was beautiful. Yet I resented it. I was torn away from my home.

The night summer air was chilly, and I wrapped both my arms around over my legs for warmth. I looked down at myself.

God, I was pale. I was so pale, I looked like a peeled banana. My skin texture looked the same. Repulsive. My dreads went down to my small breasts, and I twirled them in my fingers. They had taken so long to develop, but it was worth it. My black tank-top was too big, but it was the smallest one I could find. The cut off shorts went, as my family and teachers always told me, “halfway up my ass.” Down lower I had knee-high black socks with white stripes, and tall work boots on. This was my usual dress.

Though I couldn’t see my face, I could imagine it. Repulsive. The un-trimmed eyebrows, bright blonde, while my hair was a dark brown. It looked like I didn’t have eyebrows. I looked like a snake. A snake with an eyebrow peircing. Disgusting.

Three weeks ago it was my 17th birthday. Tomorrow was the anniversary of when my mom killed herself. Not like that was important, she didn’t even care enough to see me grow up. Though no one had ever said it, she died because of me. I killed her. She was just 15 when she had me. Of course, my dad was nearly 30 years older. I was almost sure he raped her. The fucking dick.

No matter, because he was in jail now. Forever. I never had to deal with the fights again. I never had to get slapped across the face for being such a “fucking slut.” I was still a virgin. The stupid fucking dick.

Life was... well, it was going anyway. It drug on and on, as I sat here. Why? Why was I here? Often times, I had thought about killing myself. I even knew how I would do it. I would jump off of a cliff. Or maybe overdose on something. But then you might survive, and they’d have to pump your stomach, which I head is the worst pain imaginable. Or shoot myself. I could shoot myself in the temple. Or slit my wrists.

The latter would probably be the most likely besides the cliff. I had cut myself so many times it was mundane. I looked down at my forearms where the flesh was torn and scarred. Now that looked like a peeled banana in texture. So many cuts, they were impossible to count now.

Why shouldn’t I have just killed myself. Why not? It would be so easy. I would just fall over and die. No one would care. It was just so simple. Why not. Life sucked. Why not just end it all? Things were never going to get better. I’d grow up in Saco. I’d never go to college. I’d spend the rest of my life selling drugs or working the street corner.

My teachers and father had told me that so many times that it must be true. I was destined to be a failure. It was all so simple. I’d grow up, and become infested with diseases and drugs. Then I’d die. That’s all that happens. We live. We make a mistake. We die. What was the point of all of it? Nothing. There was no point. So why not end it early? Why should I even have been here if I was destined to be a prostitute? No one wanted to give themselves for money. Why would I even bother to grow up?

I took a long swig from the bottle, and finished the last up. A loud burp escaped my lips, and it tasted like beer and cheese. I looked down at my fingernails. They were torn apart and yellow. Maybe I’d get something done to them. But why bother? There was no point to any of this. There was nothing to work for. There was nothing to live for.

Nothing. Cool, dark nothing.

Why was I here, at the beach? Why wasn’t I back in New York? Because my father had killed my aunt while he was drunk. Why was he a drunk? He had been a drunk for as long as I could remember. Why couldn’t my mom save me? She had killed herself when she was fifteen. Why did she kill herself? She didn’t want a child. Why did she get pregnant, then? Because she was fucking raped. Why was she raped? Because she allowed it to happen. She was probably a prostitute, too. Just like I was going to be. Like mother, like daughter.

That was the story that I had figured out on my own, because there was no one else to tell me what had happened. I still felt like I was in the dark. All I knew was things were as they were because they were that way. My past was still basically a mystery. Why was I here? Why? Why the fuck was I even born? I was the unlucky sperm who had gotten to the egg. Why couldn’t I have been a fucking blowjob? Or anything. Why couldn’t I have been masturbated out? Why couldn’t a condom have been used?

What ever had happened, because it had happened, I was here. What a series of unfortunate events. How unlucky I was! Just fucking great. Now I was stuck here, in Maine, with my aunt that I had never met before, and no one else that I knew. Everyone was a stranger. No one knew me, and so no one was attached to me. So who would care if I killed myself? It wouldn’t leave a mark on a single person. It was just a cliff drop away. Death. What peace. What beautiful peace.

I opened another bottle of beer, and began to chug. It numbed my throat. Now, I was dizzy. I threw it at a rock, and it shattered, leaving the rock wet and foamy. Suddenly, I was hurling bottle after bottle at the rock, through gritted teeth. Tears formed in my eyes, and I let them drop down.

I’m fucking alone.

One bottle was thrown.

I hate my life.

Another was thrown.

Fuck this. Fuck everything.

A total of four bottles were now thrown.

Fuck everyone. I didn’t need them.

Five bottles.

Tears streamed down my face, and my cries came out short and choked.

Six bottles.

I jumped down from the hood of the car, and lost my footing. I laid down in the sand, and let it get caught in my dreadlocks. It poured down into the front of my shirt, and got stuck in my shoes. I began to sob hysterically, and the sand stuck in two line running down my face, and connected at the chin.

I pulled myself up, and sat there, looking at the horizon, thinking about death, and what was on the other side. I thought about life, and possible reasons why I was stuck in this hell hole, and I thought about concepts I had never known. Family. Love. Friendship. I was always alone. Whenever I saw those big happy families with 13 kids, while they were pregnant with another, it made me want to vomit. I didn’t even have parents anymore. At least, I had one, and he didn’t give a single fuck about me. He was too busy thinking about beer and being a complete asshole. I never had “love.” Fuck that. I had an asshole father. I had some people I hung out with because they always had the best of drugs. I didn’t have love. I guess I had friendship, but not the friendship like those people in the movies always had. The movies must have been fake. No one could ever like another human being that much. Not in this world. In this world, it was every man for himself. Fuck friendship. Fuck the one that I had. What was the point of having friends if they were just going to be ripped away from you?

I thought about death. Sweet death. I was terrified to kill myself. It would probably hurt. It would hurt, it would hurt bad. And what if I lived? Then I’d be put into a looney bin with a bunch of people who sit around and talk to the walls all day. Life would be even worse if I survived a fall, or survived a gunshot, or I had my stomach pumped, or I didn’t cut deep enough. I was such a fucking pussy. I couldn’t even end something that didn’t deserve to be. I couldn’t even end my own life. What was wrong with me?