Electro [hs]

Five

Five  ♀ 

My dad is an early to bed, early to rise sort of guy so I wait until I'm certain he's asleep before going back to the trailer. The lights are all out but I'm still slightly wary of an ambush in the darkness and we'll pick up the argument right where we left off. But that's always been more my mom's style and I come back to a black home and the faint rumble of Ben's snoring.

Tip-toeing silently, I start my journey in the kitchen, trying to be as quiet as I can as I open up the cabinets. There are more nuts and bolts, screwdrivers and loose wires than there are eating utensils and cooking equipment and to my extreme disappointment there's no alcohol. It just figures that Ben's fallen in with the teetotal set and I can't even find any cooking wine to take the edge off.

I'm about to give up when my fingers find something promising behind a stack of plastic tupperware. It's a sticky glass bottle that looks like it's more than a couple of years old, in the shape of a Palm Tree and filled up with dark rum. Ben hasn't touched it and my guess is that it was a gift from someone, a souvenir from some place abroad that he stashed away and forgot about.

It's perfect.

Taking a few deep glugs, I let the rum burn its way down my throat as I head towards my room and shut the door.

Stripping off the layers of my clothing, t-shirt, sweat pants, hoodie, sports bra, briefs I stand naked in front of the mirror and drink.

My arms are sinewy but strong, I have muscular shoulders from push ups and my stomach is flat and hard. But there are soft parts of me too; no matter what I do, how many miles I run and how many carbs I avoid. Fat collects on my lower half, around my ass and hips, my breasts are puffed up, hanging loosely outside of their usual tight bindings beneath my sport's bras. There are scars outlining them, thin slashes from razor blades that have healed white along with the word carved large into the side of my right thigh,

Slut.

If only I could strip myself away, down to the bones, and start again...

But then, maybe I can...

"Charlie Hogan," I tell the mirror, forcing a low voice, drinking more rum, starting to feel a little lightheaded. I head over to the wardrobe, the contents of my suitcase now filling it.

"Charlie Hogan," I repeat, rifling through baggy jeans on hangers, large sweaters, everything oversized enough to swallow up my body, in dull grays to slip seamlessly into the scenery. "Charlie Hogan has nothing to wear..."

And I'm still none the wiser as to what an Electro actually is. It could be a nightclub, a mini golf course, an S and M dungeon where people attach electric currents to their nipples I have no idea. Not that it matters, I remind myself, it seems unlikely- after earlier, that Ben will let me go anywhere.

***

The rum buzz wears off and leaves behind a carpety taste in my mouth when I wake up the next morning. I stash the bottle inside my suitcase in case I have use for it again and shuffle timidly into the kitchen. My dad is dressed for a day at the repair shop, in a black polo shirt his name in yellow lettering over the breast pocket. At the sight of me, he drops his spoon into his cereal bowl and looks up from the newspaper, lips pressed together.

"Good morning, Charlie," he says coolly.

"Morning," I mumble. I pull my head down as I sit across from him, toying with the bowl he's set out for me. "Sorry, dad."

Ben pulls back and sighs, "that's okay. But it's Pam-Pam you'll have to apologize to as well."

Biting my tongue, I force myself to nod my head.