Exit Wounds

07 | dead girl walking

          "Clearly not," I retort, stealing another champagne flute from a tray nearby. This really does look more like a cocktail party than a wake, and it makes me sick to my stomach that my mother's pathological need for praise and attention has brought all of us to this point. Somewhere in this manor, where people are actively getting drunk or worse, lies a coffin with my grandmother's body; though I can't say I'll miss her and am suffering through the worst heartache of my life, even I can admit this feels disrespectful. "I really am sorry that my presence here is such an inconvenience for everyone. See you at the funeral, unless you get me kicked out of that, too."

          I don't let him answer. I should, but I don't; instead, I let Sadie and security escort me outside, turning my back on my father for the second time in my life. Somehow, this feels more definite than the first one.

⊹˚. ♡

          Sadie and I don't exchange a word on the drive back to the AirBnb.

          I know she's expecting an apology for my terrible behavior or an explanation about everything that has brought us to this very moment, staring out of our Uber's windows in two different directions, but I don't have it in me right now. My explosive migraine has been worsened by all the drinks I've had tonight and the conflicting feelings and emotions in my brain are ready to battle, so I know I'd just end up screaming at her and saying things I don't necessarily feel and will regret later.

          She has done nothing wrong—even if not enabling toxic behavior feels like a personal attack—and doesn't need to be dragged to the center of the battlefield; after all, this is a clash me and my mother have been postponing for way too long. Sadie is too young to be my mother and I don't think she'd appreciate being put in that position—she's not my friend, either, regardless of how harsh it is to remember that fact—so I can't use her as a proxy.

          The streets all blur together into one, with the ocean in the background serving little comfort. When I was young, I'd spend every car trip attempting to follow the ocean with my eyes, sulking in disappointment the minute it vanished out of sight, then proceeded to move to a city where I don't get to do that. There are, obviously, certain parts of New York City where I can see the ocean, if I choose to do that, but I've been avoiding it like the plague. It's not even the same ocean I see on this side of the country, the eternal war between the East and the West coasts, and it's just not the same thing. It's blue and gray, my past and present life, Rebecca and Harley.

          Abandoning Rebecca in sunny California to fully embrace Harley in lonely New York came with its perks and this is the first time I've ever looked back. It's the first time part of me regretted doing that, especially because of my father, but everyone else has made it clear that, although they resent me from tossing them aside like trash, they don't want Rebecca. They don't want Harley, either.

          I, however, got everything I wanted. Though it's not perfect, though it's not what I expected of my future, it's what I have.

          I decide to head down to the beach once we exit the Uber, even though it's dark out and I can barely see a thing ahead of me. I can, however, hear the crashing of the waves against the shore, rumbling in the distance like a thunderstorm, and I even take off my shoes to make walking on sand a bit easier. It makes breathing easier, too, although I've felt better than I currently do. There's still something clogging my throat, begging me to let it out and let tears freely flow down my cheeks, but I've already shed far too many of those in this city. I can't do that anymore. I'm not that girl anymore—isn't she dead? Haven't I drowned her enough times?

          I'm exhausted when I sit down, unable to bother with thinking about what the scratchy sand will do to the delicate fabric of my dress. My chest could very well explode with how tightly it's denting inward, and I wouldn't be surprised to be left sliced open like a shrimp, bare and exposed to the world. No one would care if that happened, anyway; Nick is too far away to even think about me, and Sadie is in the house pouring herself a drink to diffuse her fury. She could drown me herself if she puts her mind to it.

          Being back in Los Angeles hasn't been nearly as cathartic as part of me hoped it would be. I can't even be mad at myself for believing that, but I do feel stupid and naive for even considering such a possibility; what did I seriously think would happen here? Did I expect to get closure, to hear an apology, to see justice be served? If it didn't happen when I was nineteen, why would it happen now? Why would it happen when the victim of all those heinous acts isn't even real anymore?

          The ruin I promised myself I'd bring to Los Angeles has backfired. I'm the one who's been destroyed all over again, but what's yet another broken promise? Haven't I gotten used to that?

          When I dare to go back inside, makeup ruined and smeared all over my face like a teenager getting drunk for the first time—minus the safe environment to return to at the end of the night and someone to tuck me into bed—Sadie is waiting for me in the kitchen. There's an empty glass next to her and she stares right back at me, arms firmly crossed in front of her chest, but her facial expression is blank, all emotion having been flushed down the drain.

          "We need to talk, Harley," she says, quietly. She could have called me Rebecca, but she didn't. I don't know what to think about that. "I think something bad happened to you in this place. We need to talk about it."

⊹˚. ♡

hi. daily reminder that harley is harley's middle name. officially. her full name is rebecca harley kane. the existence of one of those names doesn't invalidate that of the other, but she still goes by harley exclusively. she doesn't go by rebecca for a reason, so i truly do appreciate that she doesn't get called that in my comments section. thank you.

on a side note: the girlies are talking. are we excited? are we HAPPY that i can write faster now, both for this book AND for gaslighter now that final room is completed? we cheered. i know i did.