Exit Wounds

06 | bad girl

S I X

LOS ANGELES, CA

          There are plenty of things I'd rather be doing at the moment, including self-immolation, and none of those include speaking to Michelle, the dearest daughter.

           It's a strange position to find myself in, considering I used to adore Michelle back when we were younger and I wasn't furious at the world, but we've never been particularly close. After I left California, I knew that also included severing all ties with my sister, a clear reminder of the sacrifices I'd have to make for the sake of my long-term happiness and mental stability. I also found solace in the belief I would never have to set foot here again or see her, but now that I'm looking her in the eye, everything comes rushing back like a tsunami.

          I don't want to talk to her. I don't want to have a heart to heart with her or hear about all she's been up to while I've been gone. I came to California for my father, not for anyone else, and I don't want Michelle to think everything is fixed and fine and perfect just because we're standing in front of each other. If anything, I feel nauseous just by staring at her and realizing how much she has changed, how much of her life I've missed out on.

          That's why I can't allow myself to care. I can't allow myself to get emotional over that, and force myself to remember that no good amount of family memories will ever get to make me feel guilty for choosing myself for once in my life. Had I stayed, I would've ruined my life even further, and I couldn't bear the thought of destroying myself over something that realistically wasn't even my fault.

          It's not deflection of guilt. It's not unwillingness to admit responsibility. Nothing about what happened to me, about what was done to me was ever my fault, and it took me years to get to this point mentally. Being in California only threatens to destroy every wall I've put up, every good fight I got involved in while trying to get better, and I refuse to let my own family jeopardize all my hard work.

          "So you're not even going to talk to me, huh?" Michelle spits, still blocking my path. She's a lot fitter and more muscular than I am, so I doubt I'd be able to shove her out of the way, but I've slipped down similar stairs and know just how badly they can hurt someone. As much as I despise having to spend time with her, I wouldn't purposefully hurt her. Physically, that is. "You have some nerve, I'll have to hand it to you. You disappear without a word, no one hears from you except when you're on TV, and then you come back without letting anyone know."

          "Thank you for reminding me exactly why I didn't want to come," I dryly retort, fingers clenched around my tote bag's strap. "I was asked to come by the woman who gave birth to both of us, though it's really none of your business. Last time I checked, this is a free country. I'm free to come to Los Angeles anytime I want."

          "Yeah, but you didn't want to come, did you? Los Angeles must be too small compared to New York and your career."

          "Fuck you, Michelle."

          It's not exactly what I want to tell her, but it beats stressing out over how she knows about New York. I suppose it doesn't take much effort to figure it out with a simple Google search and two brain cells, but it also reminds me of how easy it was for my mother to get a hold of my new phone number—my personal phone number, at that. If it was that easy, there's no telling how many other people can get access to that information, no matter how private, and who those people are.