Fake (A Pretty Pill) (11 page)

“What do you consider are qualities you need in a person
, to let them into your friendship circle?”

Friendship circle?  How Sunday School is that?

“I can’t stand prejudiced and judgmental people.” I suggest and she smiles at that, possibly thinking of Ethan, as am I.  “I like people who don’t care that I have this illness. I like people who have real experience with life; you know, have learned something about reality.  I like people who are funny and can take my sense of humor the way it’s intended.  Loyalty is a clincher.  I also like people who don’t let me push them away.”  I explain.

“So strong and reliable people are people you allow in your inner circle?” she clarifies.

“I guess, but they still need to have that special something. That unquantifiable something that makes me want to hang out with them.  I don’t know what that is, but I know it when I feel it.” I explain.

“When was the last time you felt that?” she asks cocking her head to the side.

I go to say ‘this morning,’ but I stop myself.  It might be true, but I don’t want her to know.  Isi will be my secret and I’m not about to fuck up this new friendship.

“A long time ago.” I lie.

“You’re a gregarious and handsome young man; I find it difficult to believe you don’t have a multitude of friends.” she smiles.

“Believe
it; I can count my friends on one hand.” 

I can
… Ben, Beau and Seb; and then there’s Jade and now Isi, if she wants the fifth spot.  I suddenly realize that I’m replacing the fifth spot.  It used to be occupied by Shae; well actually she occupied the number one spot, but Ben has since been promoted.

Fuck,
she’s the quickest friendship established in my entire history.  She’s a special woman for sure.

“Do you wish that to change?” 
She asks.

“No.”

“Why not?”

“I don’t need extra drama.”  I explain.

“You find friends a drama-filled experience?” she asks laughing.

“Yes.”

“How so?”

“If they’re my friends, I have to be totally loyal to them.  How can I expect loyalty and love if I’m not willing to give it?” I explain.

“So you need to be involved in their lives?” she asks.

“Yes.”

“Wow, so you take on a lot of responsibility when you form friendships.” she nods.

“I get attached.”

“Indeed.  That mightn’t be so healthy.” she argues.

“It is what it is; I have their back.  I’d like to think they have mine.” I counter.

“It’s not a fight out there you know.”

“Yes
it is.” I argue back.  “Life is the biggest fight of them all; everyone out there is trying to win and they fight and demean anyone they can if it means that they will.  I prefer to play in a team… I don’t like to fight solo.  So I need people I can rely on.  People who won’t stab me in the back and run off.” I reason.

“Yet you choo
se to opt out from time to time; at least you try to opt out.” she pushes.

“I take betrayal hard.  I’m not proud of how my illness fractures my thoughts and exacerbates my reactions.  When I’m well I’m totally and utterly embarrassed by those actions.” I explain.

“So if we could manage to keep you stable, you’d be free of your bipolar?” she asks.

“Hardly… that’s just silly.  But at least
when I’m stable I recognize the difference between normal and abnormal behaviors.” I reason.

“Do you think you have insight during times of stability?”

“I know I do.”

“How about now?”

“I’m stable, but I need to work on a few things.” I answer.

“I agree.”

“You agree?”

“Yes.”

“Oh, okay.” I reply softly.

“Now back to the dating aspect.
” She starts.

I groan.

Isi.

I pull up in my parents’ drive at around 4:30pm.  I can’t help
but notice that they’re both in residence, since both of their cars are in the garage, and so I groan.  It’s a 15 minute drive from Laguna Lake to Avila Beach.  I always try to get here before them, but sometimes they beat me.  And when that happens, it will turn into one of those evenings again, ugh.

Generally I like to make it inside the house and to my room before they can am
bush me and ask me about my day; it’s criminal what I have to endure each time when I’m forced to go through this ritual of
‘how was your day’
.  I really hate it; I hate it and want to move out. I really need to move back out, but I can’t seem to do it.  I just keep hoping that my parents will do the right thing and step up to the plate.

I step in through the door and walk to the stairs.

“How was your day honey?” My Dad asks absentmindedly.  He’s sitting on the couch.  He’s not so bad on his own, but he’s slowing me down and preventing me from quietly retreating.

“Good.”
I answer and then scramble to remove myself from the foyer.

“You’re home
.” Mom enters the conversation.  Now here we go, time for the bullshit.  Dad by himself really isn’t so bad.  But Mom is horrible whether it be on her own or in a team.  This is just going to end up in another fight.  And then it will be another night listening to her drunken, pitiful moaning and lamented woe through the walls of my bedroom.

“How was your day today?”

“Fine.” I mumble, in an attempt to retreat.

“Come and tell us all about it
.”

How old am I?  Do I look like I’m 7?

“I’d rather not.”

“Come on Belle,
come and sit in here and comfortably go through your day with us.” Mom begs; saccharine sweet.

I roll my eyes and stomp over to the family room.

Why do I do this?  I’m 25 years old – maybe I’m a masochist.  Secretly, deep down inside I must crave drama and hence engage in destructive behavior.

Dad is s
eated on the leather sofa, and Mom is perched on the edge of a lounge chair.  I dump my ass like a petulant teenager on the other lounge chair opposite and prepare for battle.

“Now, how was your day?” Mom asks.

“Fine.” I grumble.  “I already told you.”  I channel that petulant teenager.

“Just fine?  Surely there’s something interesting you can tell us about your day.”

“I found mold in the corner of room seventeen’s bathroom.  I had to get straight bleach from the storage room to get rid of it.” I offer.

Mom scrunches up her nose.  She hasn’t cleaned a house a day in her life
, as far as I’m aware.  My father is an obstetrician, and she’s his wife and social handbag.  They have servants; though they like to call them ‘help’.  I don’t try to get to know any of them anymore; they change so often.

“I really wish you wouldn’t work there.” she begins.
  “It’s such a degrading job.”

“I like working there.”

“But you could work at the Country Club, if you want a hobby.  Stacey is always asking about you.  She manages the restaurant now you know.” she offers, mentioning one of my old school
‘friends’
.

Wow, what happened to the hubby?

“I would have to talk to people.” I grumble.

“But you used to be so good around people.” she offers.

“Things change.”

“They don’t have to, you chose to change them.” she begins.

My Dad groans and leaves the room.  I go to leave too; because this is going precisely where I expect it to.

“Don’t go.  I need to tell you news.”

I watch Dad leave and despise his ability to effortlessly leave.  I can do it too, but it’s far from effortless; she’ll follow me and begin shouting out like a banshee.

“What news.”
I grumble.

“Katherine had a little girl yesterday.”

Katherine was my dearest childhood friend.  Her dismissal of me when I left for an Army career was the hardest to stomach of them all.  She had quite literally stopped acting like I existed.

“Well hooray for her.” I reply, barely keeping my snide side intact.

“She now has little Denim and Ariel at home to entertain her.  She’s so happy apparently.  I saw Sonia today.”  Mom enthuses.  “She showed me photos.”

I begin to sneer.
  I can’t have children, not anymore.  And it’s a sore point, because I had wanted one of my own; I had always wanted to raise my own child with the love and care that I felt I never really had.  The kind of love money can’t buy.  Not that I would tell anyone that.

“You could marry well you know.  You’re still attractive.”

‘Still’
, like
‘kind of’
, or
‘not like you used to be’
.

“I don’t want to get married.”

“But you could do so much better.  You’re wasting your potential as a, a lowly cleaner.” she shudders.

“You were an air hostess working for a budget airline.” I point out.

“I was the top hostess, I’ll have you know.”

“Whatever, I’m happy doing something
routine for now.” I argue.

“You could have a privileged life.”

“I grew up in one.  It’s over-rated.”

“I just don’t understand you.  You could be living in luxury in your own house, married to some handsome man who would take care of you; and raise a couple of kids.  You could do anything you want
.” she whines.

“I am doing what I want.” I growl.  Here we go… she’s
building up.

“But where’s the husband?  Where’s the children?”

Oh… I hate this.  I really, really, strongly detest this.

“I can’t have kids, and I don’t need a husband to be happy.
  A husband doesn’t define success!” I sneer.

And watch as the
situation rapidly deteriorates. 1… 2… 3…

“You could’ve had it all you know, and then you went and made that stupid decision to enlist.  You didn’t take into consideration any of mine or your father’s protests.  You just went ahead and did it; leavi
ng us to pick up the pieces and ruining the way you looked, ruining yourself.” she cries.

“Go a
nd drink a bottle of wine Darla and leave me alone.” I growl, barely containing the sudden rage that burns to erupt from within.

“Don’t you take that condescending tone with me young lady.”

“Then stop being a bitch.” I shout, my anger spewing forth.

“How dare you
.  How dare you stand there in my house and criticize me for trying to help you realize you could do better.” she squeals.

“Criticize you?  What about you criticizing me?” I shout back.

“You made your bed, you did what you did and the consequences are what they are.”

“I served my
fellow countrymen; you know, those boys and girls doing what the God damn Government tells them to do?  I fucking went over there, not as a soldier but to assist in saving lives.  And I don’t regret doing it at all.” I scream.

“You
don’t regret ruining your body at all?  You’re selfish Belle; you only ever think about yourself.  What about me, what about being a grandmother and having photos to show to my friends?  What about that.” she screams.  “What man is going to be able to look at your body and be with you unless the lights are out and the sheets are up?” she screams.

Fucking
motherfucking bitch.

I’
m seething and I’m shaking all over.  My inability to coherently cease the shaking of my body is completely and disturbingly interfering with my cognitive abilities; I’m going to either spasm sharply or black out.  I have to get my brain to kick back into thought.  I briefly spasm and jerk.

And then I strip,
I strip off my shirt and throw it down; I kick off my shoes and undo my jeans, peeling them back before kicking them to the side.  My mother’s face is horrified, and then she turns away.

The right side of my stomach
looks like a melted twisted mess.  The melted flesh seeps down onto the very top of my right thigh.  It’s hideous.  It looks like Freddy Kruger’s face.  Dirty bombs are extremely unfriendly devices.  After they stitch you up, you still get septicemia from the dog shit, human waste and garbage they pack in there too.  The worst of my damage is centered on the right lower corner of my abdomen.  They saved almost all of my intestines and my bladder; I lost my right ovary and the usefulness of my uterus in the aftermath of infection.  The skin grafts over the saved but damaged muscle mightn’t be very pretty – but it’s functional and I’ve seen worse; I really have.

“What are you doing?” My mother screams.

“Look at me.” I scream back.