I think I love the idea of him. I build this who daydream about who I think he is. But it's too late now. He depends on me to be his second girl when his other is busy with her side piece. I didn't know this is how the music industry works in America, but I don't really care anymore.
I'm there for him. I'm there when he feels bad about himself. And when he wants to take it out on me. I'm there when he calls me fat and dull and talentless. I'm there when he cries because I'm crying and when he hold me and apologizes. I'm there to hug and coddle as I coddle his fragile mind. I don't know what happened to me. I don't know why I drink so much or keep asking for harder drugs. I stopped smiling a long time ago. That started around when I stopped eating three meals a day. And I'm pretty sure I stopped feeling when I dropped to 100 pounds. I think he's right. I am dull. Music isn't an escape anymore. It's my own hell when teenage girls praise me on how skinny I am and how they want to look just like me. And what's my secret? Parents shake their heads at their daughters awful role model. They know what coke and anorexia looks like.
But this is my life and there is no running. I'm trapped. It's sick and twisted how easy it all was to begin by life just crumbles under you in a second.
"Want to smoke?" He asks.
I shrug. "Not really."
"God, you're so fucking boring." He lights up. "And you're fucking letting yourself go. What happened to when you actually put on make up?"
"Why don't you spend two hours every day putting on make up."
"Fuck off you think you're so fucking funny!"
"I like to think so."
He lets out a sarcastic chortle. "That's it."
In one fluid movement He's up from his spot on the sofa and He drags me up to my feet. Without hesitation he slaps me across the face. "You're not funny."
I clutch my cheek and he lets me go. For once, I felt something. I felt fear and pain and anger and sadness. But I wasn't shocked. "Fuck you."
I should have kept my mouth shut because in an instant, his fist came in contact with my left eye. I crumbled onto the hardwood floor just in time for his foot to come in contact with my ribcage. I begged him to stop, but he was merciless. The words he spewed hurt worse, I think, than the broken rib and the black eye that followed the emotional flare up. I slept on the floor that night and went to the hospital the next morning.
"I fell down the stairs. I had a bit too much to drink."
He came by that night and cried. I apologized.
